In memoriam

Col. Harold Joseph O'Grady, USAF
Col. Harold Joseph O’Grady, USAF

I wonder what my old man would think about today’s United States of America, the descendant of the country he fought for in World War II. Would he even recognize the place?

Harold Joseph O’Grady was born in 1918, at the end of World War I — “The War to End All Wars” — so, having found himself suiting up for another one just a quarter century later, he might not be surprised to find the nation still embroiled in its longest war ever, in Afghanistan.

The nation asked a lot of the old man back when he was still a young fella — 668 hours of combat time, flying out of New Guinea with the 65th Squadron, 433rd Troop Carrier Group — but it paid him back, too, with a 30-year gig, a generous pension and free health care.

As a career Air Force officer with a reputation for caring about and giving credit to his subordinates, he would’ve been seriously pissed that so many of today’s troops can’t make ends meet on what Uncle Sammy pays, that the VA has been jerking his people around, cooking the books to make paper-shufflers look good and veterans look dead, and that Congress only takes notice when the cameras (and the cash) are rolling.

As a conservative Southerner, he would’ve been appalled that there is so little attention devoted to actual conservation — not of the constitutional rights to shoot off your mouth or your machine gun, but of the basics — life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness, along with optional upgrades like serviceable roads and bridges, functional public schools, and a government that wouldn’t embarrass Albania.

As a guy with a sense of humor he might have asked, “Why did we fight a world war to save this country so you could treat it like a rental car?”

Shit, dude, we still can’t believe you gave us the keys.

 

 

 

Meanwhile, back at the ranch

Pikes Peak has a dusting of snow, though the 'hood seems clear ... for now.
Pikes Peak has a dusting of snow, though the ‘hood seems clear … for now.

After five hours of drifting along with the tumbling tumbleweeds, I’m back in Bibleburg, where the winds have been knocking down trees, launching trash cans into low-earth orbit and generally annoying the mortal shit out of people. With more of the same on tap today it looks like fine weather for a hike, wearing ski goggles and a respirator.

I felt guilty about giving our old hometown of Santa Fe a miss on the way to Albuquerque, so on the return trip I stopped by Ten Thousand Waves for a much-needed soak and grabbed lunch at La Choza, primo to The Shed. Both places were nuts, it being a federal holiday, and I didn’t get home until 7 p.m. or thereabouts.

Training camp was a qualified success — I added miles, but didn’t subtract any weight, thanks to meals at Scalo Northern Italian Grill, Mary & Tito’s Cafe, Satellite Coffee and Zacatecas Tacos & Tequila.

Speaking of vittles, I don’t expect to be shopping at Reid’s Fine Food in Charlotte when I visit the 2014 North American Handmade Bicycle Show in North Carolina next month. It probably wasn’t smart of cook Drew Swope to lip off to a customer, even a punk-ass bitch like Gov. Pat McCrory — hey, Pat, I’ve got a gourmet snack option for you right here — but it wasn’t exactly brilliant of owner Tom Coker to sack Swope for speaking his mind, either.

Hot plate, señores!

Pikes Peak
It was 50-something down here on Nov. 30, but slightly chillier up there.

December? December? Whose idea was this? Wasn’t it July just a couple of days ago? Why do I suddenly have to wear socks all the time? And pants? Who’s in charge around here, anyway?

Thanksgiving went nicely around Chez Dog, thanks for asking. We had the sis and bro-in-law in for the afternoon, neighbors in for the day after, and an old friend in for a quick visit on Saturday. And by the time we’d finally eaten the last of the leftovers on Sunday I was ready for a bit of peace and quiet, some casual cycling, and something to eat other than norteño New Mexican food.

For some reason I had been off New Mexican cookery for a while. And then the cooler weather hit, and before you could say “¡Hijo, madre!” it was chile and beans and posole and what have you.

For Thanksgiving I prepared some pico de gallo salsa and guacamole; posole; roasted potatoes in red chile; pintos in chipotle; and chicken enchiladas smothered in green chile. Herself kicked in a pitcher of sangria and a piñon pie, two recipes we’d never tackled before (they were excellent).

I should’ve taken some pix, but dammit, everything was just too good to let cool while I fiddled with the Canon. Sorry ’bout that. Here’s hoping your holiday was as enjoyable as ours.