About Me

My photo

Husband, father, grandfather, friend...a few of the roles acquired in 62 years of living.  I keep an upbeat attitude, loving humor and the singular freedom of a perfect laugh.  I don't let curmudgeons ruin my day; that only gives them power over me.  Having experienced death once, I no longer fear it, although I am still frightened by the process of dying.  I love to write because it allows me the freedom to vent those complex feelings that bounce restlessly off the walls of my mind; and express the beauty that can only be found within the human heart.

Friday, June 08, 2018

Facing Life's Consistency of Change


"If you fall off of a cliff without a parachute,
there's nothing left to do but enjoy the breeze 
and admire the view on the way down."
--Ralph F. Couey

Copyright © 2018
by Ralph F. Couey 

I've been retired now for about a year and a half, and looking back, I can see what a significant time of transition it has been.  Northern Virginia had been home for about five years as I finished out my career.  While we hated the traffic and the incessant political miasma that permeated everything, I did find for myself a certain kind of peace.

We had family close by, in fact sharing our home for over three years.  It was never anything but a joy to have them around, especially the golden hours spent bonding with three of our grandchildren.  My work, while difficult and challenging, was a source of great satisfaction.  I was privileged to work around some of the finest and most intelligent, dedicated, and committed professionals it's ever been my honor to know.  So when it became apparent that in terms of ending that profession, the moment had arrived, it was accompanied by a certain sadness and the feeling of leaving something important undone.

The time between then and now has been filled by a whole new set of experiences.  Accompanying my wife on her travel nurse assignments to the biting cold of a Colorado winter, the incredible heat of a summer in southern Arizona, to a delightful sojourn in Southern California.  I've returned to the workforce, donning the red and khaki for Target.  My body rebelled at the long hours spent on my feet, but eventually adjusted to a certain level of tolerance.  The best part of that experience, alongside the extra income, has been the opportunity to converse with people; listen to them tell of their lives.  I have with great interest spoken to high school graduates who were ending their childhood and preparing to embark on the first real adventure of their lives, and their first years as adults standing on their own.  I've also seen the joy of their parents as they revel in their children's accomplishments, yet feeling the wistful sadness of the knowledge that they've done all they could do to prepare their offspring and must now let go.  They will no longer be under their constant supervision, care, and protection and must rely on their faith in these new adults to get them through the coming challenges.

It is time of transition for many, reminding us that as much as we resist it, change really is the only constant in life.

For us, another change is in the offing.  Cheryl is in the final stages of landing the contract she has always wanted, an OR assignment in Honolulu.  This won't be the standard 13-week job but a one-year commitment, renewable for the next four years.  She will finish up her working career in the place she has always called home, alongside her beloved mother.

I have been very much "along for the ride" so the change in scenery will be just another facet of the largely nomadic life we've led.  There will be challenges.  For one, it will be necessary for me to find employment in a place where jobs are not easily found.  Also, my love for the changing seasons will be set aside for the monotonous, yet lovely weather in the islands.  

We lived there once before, during my first five years in the Navy, so living on an island is far from a unique experience.  But many other things have changed, both in the locale and in us, so while the location is familiar, the experiences will be new.  Our adaptability will be put to the test.

There is a sense of finality in this situation, as if we both know that the trail of our working lives will be coming to an end over the next two to four years.  We can't stay in Hawai'i; it's simply too expensive, as is our other favorite place, California.  Denver, with the large influx of equity refugees from LA and San Francisco, will also be beyond our financial limits.  I think the hardest part of this whole deal is realizing that we will be forced by circumstances to finally pick a place to settle down.

We've lived in a lot of places, and found things to love about all of them.  But the decision  of picking one place and not moving around anymore is essentially unmake-able right now, so we are relieved to put that one off for at least a couple of years.  The only decision hanging in the air right now is the disposition of that 6,000 pounds of household goods sitting in storage right now.

Financially, we're in decent shape.  Our hard work and discipline over ten years of eliminating debt has put us in a great position, where nearly every penny we earn can be flexibly applied to reinforcing our retirement accounts and rebuilding our savings.  If Cheryl succeeds in keeping me out of Costco for the next four years, we should be fully ready to fund our golden years.  There are no mansions in our future, but I think we'll do better than a single-wide in Arkansas.

Of course, as all generals know, no battle plan survives first contact with the enemy, and there is still a lot of unknowns and unexpecteds to be dealt with, but we've faced and faced down some near-disasters  in the past and survived.  We are confident in our ability to handle whatever comes up in the near future.

Are there things we would have done different?  Sure.  But we don't carry the baggage of regrets about the past, because the past is...well...past, and can't be changed.  We always look forward.  It is a far better view.

"Once more into the breach, dear friends," as the Bard wrote.  Regardless of what happens, we're still going to enjoy the ride. 


Tuesday, May 29, 2018

It's All About the Hate

© 2018 Phil Mislinski/Getty

Copyright © 2018
by Ralph F. Couey
Written content only

"We become slaves the moment we hand the keys
to the definition of reality entirely over to someone else."
--B. W. Powe
"Towards a Canada of Light"

We are seeing here in 2018 an unprecedented surge in school shootings.  As of May 25th, there have been 23 shooting incidents.  This is week 21 of 2018, thus they are happening at a rate of more than one per week.  Forty-four people have been killed and sixty-six wounded, a total of 110 casualties.  To call this a tragedy is a vast understatement.  The threats to children from abuse, drugs, terroristic bullying and other less easily definable causes are bad enough.  To take away what once was the sanctuary of the schoolhouse makes their lives harder by an order of magnitude.  The reaction of the public, fueled by activist media and agenda-driven politicians and pundits, has been one of shock, horror, and despair.  The political left has unleashed a wave of anti-gun activism.  By all accounts, the National Rifle Association and its political allies are under siege to an unprecedented degree.

But in the space of time in the city of Chicago, 1,012 people have been shot, including nearly 40 victims over the three days of the Memorial Day holiday.  That is 50 shootings per week, or more than seven per day.  If you go back to the beginning of 2016, the number of shooting victims is now over 8,000.  That is, on average, 64 victims per week; over nine per day.  According to Chicago PD stats, over two-thirds of those incidents have been cases of African Americans shooting other African Americans.  Gun laws have proven ineffective because many of those shooters are already legally banned from owning or possessing weapons.  Yet, they still are able to arm themselves.

The media and public response?  Dead, cold silence.

Where are the activists?  Where is the gun control lobby?  Where is the national outrage?  

Why don't those Black Lives Matter?

A climate of hate has been created by the adults in this country.  Anger is expressed, sometimes irrationally towards political figures, people of other races or nationalities, or just those who don't agree with a certain viewpoint.  The thing we must remember is that while we have been spewing this anger and hate on television, on radio, in the newspapers, and in our own homes, our children have been listening.

We have taught them how to hate.  We have taught them how to be angry.  We have allowed them to view movies, television, and video games where the only resolution to any problem is violence.  And our children have been watching.  

How can we expect them to learn tolerance when the only thing they hear from us is utter intolerance?

People who hate will find a way to do violence.  Take away the guns, there's always rocks and sticks.  Take away those and tie them into chairs, and they will still hurl vile words at each other.  The hate fuels the violence.  Part of the solution is clear:  End the hate, end the violence.

The most egregious part of this tragedy is how political activists have been using these incidents for fodder.  They are fundraising over the graves of dead children, and nobody seems to mind.

As with anything else in 21st century America, the stench of partisan politics has clouded the facts, and has prevented any real rational solutions from even being considered.  

The NRA still refuses to take a stand on those technologies that turn single-shot weapons into tools of mass-murder.  Bump stocks, large-capacity magazines, an institutional resistance to background checks, and one can still find online kits to convert a single-shot weapon to fully automatic.  NRA members say that any attempt to regulate guns is the beginning of legislative creep that will lead to the eventual repeal of the 2nd Amendment.  Their blind allegiance to that cause leads them into positions that defy rational thought, even a sense of public responsibility.  That none of the many mass shooters have ever been proven to be NRA members doesn't seem to matter.

The right is not alone in this.  As the situation in Chicago has demonstrated, the left selectively applies their activism.  They virtually ignore incidents where mass shootings have been stopped or prevented through the use of guns by private citizens or law enforcement.  They are loathe to criticize incidents or situations where their party comes under scrutiny.  Chicago has been solidly Democrat for more than two centuries.  The current mayor is a former Clinton Administration official.  And yet he has been given a free pass on the violence in his city.  In the city of Denver, one can walk by homes bearing yard signs, one which says "Hate has no home here," alongside another that states "End Trump."  It can only be assumed that hate is okay with these people as long as it is directed at Republicans.

The shooting at Marjorie Stoneman Douglas in Florida could have been prevented.  In the months prior to that terrible day, Nikolas Cruz's violent tendencies had been brought to the attention of school officials, local law enforcement, and the FBI some 44 different times.  This egregious failure to act proactively was, in this writer's opinion, politically motivated.  

The school officials who could have acted are Democrats.  The Broward County Sheriff is a Democrat.  In both cases those parties escaped any blame or responsibility.  The FBI failed to act, and they were not criticized because Democrats were unwilling to upset the still-empty evidentiary applecart of the investigation into alleged collusion between the Russians and the Trump campaign.  Democrats have shown that the only time their activism shows is when something can be blamed on the other side.  This puts them into the irrational situation of decrying mass shootings in schools while ignoring the slaughter of people in Chicago, Detroit, Los Angeles, Baltimore, New York, and other major cities.

Adding to the problem of prevention is that if someone is suffering from a mental disease or defect and has not been referred for evaluation and treatment, whose obvious problems have been ignored by those around them, then there is no legal way to prevent them from obtaining a gun and ammunition.  Nikolas Cruz is an easy and obvious example.  That few of his classmates were surprised or shocked when his identity was released speaks volumes about the willful blindness of school and law enforcement officials who had plenty of warning.

Violence is a tool of hate.  Unless we stop the hate, the violence will continue to increase.  If we continue to demonstrate to our children that selective hate is acceptable; that the only way to resolve disputes is through violence, and that the extent of someone's culpability is limited by their political affiliation, that support of a constitutional amendment overrides public safety, then we sow the seeds of their distorted view of life.  As long as we blindly accept what the leaders of our political movements tell us is absolute truth, we feed the lies, and propagate the hate.  And if politicians and pundits are not held accountable for the truth by their own constituencies (read: us), then they will lie, and will do so with enthusiasm and without conscience.

If we truly want to end the violence, then it cannot start with activism; it cannot start with legislation; it cannot be left to politicians.  It must...repeat must...begin with us; you and me.

Let us act together, not as political lemmings, but as We the People, independent of activists, acting on our own sense of unity and a mutual desire to bring peace to this torn and tattered landscape.

Let us all work together to return schools to the sanctuary of peace and safety they were always meant to be.

Wednesday, May 23, 2018

Another Year Older, Another Year...

From Pinterest.com

"There's still no cure
for the common birthday."
--John Glenn


Today was my birthday, number sixty-three to be exact.  It was a quiet, mostly ordinary day.  I got up, went to work, came home and went out for Chinese, my favorite cuisine.  I had some gifts, had "Happy Birthday" sung to me by my grandkids, and now in the waning hour of this day, I am doing what I like to do when searching for thoughts that would provide context:  writing.

As kids, birthdays are a huge deal.  Parties, cake, presents, a fun day to celebrate.  As time goes on, however, those days begin to be less than a big deal, particularly when one reaches the time when adding one more day means there are fewer to come.  Everyone is mortal, or as was once said of life, "Nobody's gettin' outta here alive!"  Between birth and death, lie a few thousand days, for most of us.  We grow, we age, we gain a certain amount of wisdom and hopefully not too many regrets.  This is the essence and rhythm of life, a cycle played out billions of times.  A few people will gain great notoriety, even fame.  Most of the rest of us will lead lives that could only be described as "ordinary."  But we are all loved by somebody, a person who will feel the pain of loss at the time of our demise.  So in a sense, we are all made famous, all will be remembered even by just a few.

Knowledge grows over time, and when salted by the pain of adversity, morphs into that curiously nebulous thing called wisdom.  Old people always have opinions on everything.  We feel that if only the rest of the world would listen, all the problems will be eliminated.  But such entreaties fall on the deaf ears of those youngsters who, alas, are just as we were back then.  Arrogant, cocky, and absolutely sure that they know more than anyone else.  It is a cruel trick of time that at the point when we've gained enough information and understanding to make everything work, nothing else does.

But today I spent some time thinking about where I've gone and what I've done.

Tuesday, May 15, 2018

Mom's and Mother's Day

 © Breezy Brookshire
Breezy Tulip Studio

Strength and dignity are her clothing,
and she laughs at the time to come.
She opens her mouth with wisdom,
and the teaching of kindness is on her tongue.
She looks well to the ways of her household
and does not eat the bread of idleness.
Her children rise up and call her blessed;
her husband also, and he praises her:
"Many women have done excellently,
but you surpass them all."
--Proverbs 31:25-29

Have we ever wondered a mother's silent cries?
Her struggles, her fears, her worries?
Have we ever thought of the sacrifices
she has done to make our lives happier,
and her dreams cut short
to make our dreams come true?
--Ama H. Vanniarachchy

Copyright © 2018
by Ralph F. Couey

As Mother's Day was approaching, I had time to speak with the moms that came through my check lane at Target.  I was amazed to hear of the number of them who had given birth either on Mother's Day or a few days either side.  I counted 26 of them over the three days prior to the holiday.  As we talked, they told me how special that day had been, the ultimate Mom's Day present.  But they also talked about how those birthdays began to overwhelm the holiday, and I could sense that they felt a little left out.  But they were all quick to add "But, that's okay.  It's a treat to see my kid having fun."

The life of a mother is one of endless sacrifice.  It is a tribute to their selfless nature, but also a reminder to the rest of us to look, really look, at what they do day in and day out.  A mother's love is one of those rare and beautiful things that will always be there as sure as the sun in the morning, and the stars at night.  

It starts at the very beginning.  Most women will tell you that pregnancy ruins their body.  Multiple pregnancies do even more damage over time.  Some will suffer ailments related to various vitamin and mineral deficiencies because their body's resources are being diverted to the tiny life they carry within.  Once the baby is born, the real sprint begins.  Most of the rest of us expect them to be up and around after a few days and back to taking care of the rest of us.  I suspect there is a kind of guilt in the mom herself, knowing that even as she recovers, the house still needs to be cleaned, dinners still need to be made, other kids (and husbands) to care for, and then there's their jobs -- the paying ones.

The vital Perspective of the Long View


It is not the present from which 
we will learn the truth of right or wrong.
It is rather from the verdict of history
which lies beyond the influence 
of passion and familiarity.
-- Ralph F. Couey

Copyright © 2018
by Ralph F. Couey

One of my favorite books has always been Michael Crichton's Andromeda Strain, his bio-science thriller from 1969.  Crichton has a way of weaving science fact into very entertaining story telling, leaving the reader (at least in this book) wondering if it really happened.  In the story, one of the characters, Dr. Peter Leavitt, formulated the Rule of 48.  It refers to the discoveries of the number of chromosomes in a human cell. Since 1923, that number had always been 48. There were a number of careful studies, backed up by photographs.  Then in 1956, another geneticist announced to the world that the number was actually 46, again backed up by studies and photographs.  But when researchers went back to the original 1923 studies and counted, they found not 48, but 46 chromosomes.  Dr. Leavitt's Rule of 48 thus became "All scientists are blind."

This is only one example of a multitude of historical facts once believed to be unassailable truth, which the passage of time has proven to be completely wrong.

The difference between right and wrong is far from absolute.  In the moment, judgement is impaired by emotion, politics, personal bias, and situational elements.  The passage of time puts distance between the event and pragmatic analysis.  Absent those powerful influences, a far more correct conclusion can be rendered.

Thursday, May 10, 2018

My Re-Discovery of Life

Faces in a crowd,
all with stories to tell.

Copyright © 2018
by Ralph F. Couey

In the past month I've made a couple of changes in my life.  Until recently, my days consisted of that curious state known as "being retired."  Each day was pretty much a blank slate, punctuated by the odd appointment or commitment.   I floated from one day to the next, the only regular activity being walking/hiking, and my continued efforts at writing.  But my wife, who knows me better than I know myself, saw that I was stagnating.  And she was right.  I was drained of ideas for writing subjects, and the three books I am working on had shown efforts that could be kindly referred to as desultory.

And truthfully, I was getting bored.

Clearly it was time to pep things up.  Cheryl "suggested" that I go get a job.  The reason I put that word in quotations is that her suggestions are usually synonymous with the force of law.  But she had a good point, so I complied.  In person and online, I submitted about a dozen or so applications, carefully chosen.  One of them was a Target store nearby.  I had gone there several times before, since the pharmacy I use is contained therein.  I remembered, however, that on my visits how impressed I was with the staff.  They all seemed uniformly happy, not only with each other, but to be working there.  Also, I noted that without exception, they all worked hard; nobody was merely going through the motions.  This is one of the clear signs of a positive and supportive management philosophy.  If I was going to have to re-join the workforce, I wanted it to be a good experience.

So one day, while picking up some prescriptions, I went to the computer terminal displaying the sign, "apply here" and filled out the job application.  About a week later, I received a call asking me to come in for an interview.  I showed up wearing slacks, dress shirt, and coat (but no tie), possibly a tad overdressed for a retail job.  Nevertheless, I was warmly welcomed and introduced to a few people.  The interview, really a canned question and answer session, went well.  A week later, I was invited back for another interview, which also went well.  Three days later, they called and offered me the job.

Thursday, May 03, 2018

Speech: The Legacy of the Uniform



Copyright © 2018
by Ralph F. Couey

It would be easy for someone like me to stand here and recite platitudes of "Duty, Honor, Country."  It would be just as easy for you to completely ignore or forget those words.  You see, I'm not here as some distant personage.  I'm here as one of you.  I once stood where you are standing today.  I felt then what you are likely feeling today, impatience to get this thing over with, your anxiousness to see your loved ones who have traveled so far to be with you and see how far you have come in the arduous nine-week journey you have just completed.  I also have no doubt that many of you are imagining in great detail the marvelous taste of the first cold beer you've had in over two months.  Hoist 'em high, shipmates!  You've earned it.

As I indicated, I won't speak in soaring language today.  Instead, I will speak of the realities that await you as you leave for the fleet.

I offer you my congratulations upon your graduation from Recruit Training.  As you may have seen not everyone who arrived here back then is still standing here today.  I know that the pride you feel in your hearts is shared by your family and friends who are here, and those who could not make the trip.  I'd like you to look back for a moment at the tough moments.  Those PT tests, damage control training, fire fighting, all the long days and short nights.  Remember the frustration, the anger, the bouts of loneliness and homesickness.  Today, all that is behind you.  Your Company Commander won't yell at you or correct you, because they are standing here today, bursting with pride at your accomplishment.  The strangers who you were thrown in with have survived this all with you, sharing the hardship and the joy.  You are strangers no longer.  You are more than friends.  You are shipmates now, and will be for life.

Wednesday, April 25, 2018

A Nudge to the National Anthem




Copyright © 2018
by Ralph F. Couey

The "Star Spangled Banner" has been the officially designated National Anthem of the United States since resolved by Congress in 1931. It was authored by a young lawyer, Francis Scott Key during a night-long bombardment of Fort McHenry.  The barrage was the prelude to an assault on the Port of Baltimore, and an attack on the city itself.  Key and a friend had been detained aboard the British flagship after pleading for the release of an American Doctor on the strength that he had treated British soldiers and sailors as well as Americans.  While aboard, the two Americans were present during the pre-invasion staff conference where they heard the complete plans for the operation, hence the detention.

Rain and fog moved in, but the barrage was conducted despite the lowering weather.  As daylight faded, the last thing Key saw was the small "storm flag" stars and stripes fluttering from the converted ship's mast over the fort.  All night long, the British cannons thundered away.  Estimates of the number of rounds expended run into the thousands.  At times, air bursts allowed brief glimpses of that tattered flag still flying above the fort, signifying that it was still in American hands.  

As dawn approached, the bombardment tapered off.  The smoke from the shelling and the fog began to clear.  In that lull, the soldiers defending the fort (miraculously, none were killed) hoisted the huge ceremonial flag.  When dawn revealed the large flag flying defiantly over the embattled fort.  Key was overcome with emotion and penned the inspired poem.

There are four verses, five if you count the one added by Oliver Wendell Holmes during the Civil War.  The first verse is the one always sung, and the only one anybody really knows.  It is unusual in that it is the only Nation Anthem that ends with a question.  My favorite verse is the fourth one, which goes...

Wednesday, April 11, 2018

Keeping Human Interaction Involved With Tech Communications

Communicating while communing.

Copyright © 2018
by Ralph F. Couey

About a half a million years ago, humans began communicating through speech, and for the first time were able to communicate ideas and concepts.  It took another 470,000 years before humans began using symbols in cave paintings to record events.  About 10,000 years later, humans began carving into stone instead of just painting, inventing petroglyphs.  Eleven thousand years after that, around 9,000 BCE, pictograms were invented.  These symbols were pictures designed to communicate through drawing.  This developed into cuneiform and hieroglyphs, and then evolved into logographics, where a symbol represented a word or phrase, as in Japanese or Chinese writing, around 5,000 BCE.  

From 1700 BCE through about 1200 BCE, the first alphabets were invented, allowing much more detailed and complex ways to communicate.  Books were first printed during the Tang Dynasty in China, and the oldest known such work is the "Diamond Sutra," which dates to around 868 CE.  Papyrus had been used in Egypt since 2400 BCE, and was used in Greece and Rome.  During the third century BCE, animal skins, known as parchment, was developed as the written medium of choice.  The final copy of America's Declaration of Independence was written on parchment, and as any visitor to the National Archives in Washington DC can attest, such a material has great staying power.

Paper had been made in China as early as 105 CE, but it was the mechanized production of paper in Europe, beginning in the 11th century that made a writing medium cheaper and much more available.  That was followed in 1440 by the invention of the Gutenberg Press, using movable type.  This enabled the first mass-produced best seller, the Gutenberg Bible in 1455.

Monday, April 09, 2018

How Quickly Days Pass, and How Quickly Children Grow

"The Days are long,
but the years are short."
--Unknown

Copyright © 2018
by Ralph F. Couey

They enter our lives in the most amazing and miraculous way, and in that moment when you first hold them in your arms, you realize that the very context and meaning of your life has irrevocably changed. At first it was all about you.  Your desires, wishes, plans, were all more important than anyone else.  Then you found the love of your life and you learned how to share, how to prioritize their needs above your own.  But the day you held that tiny, fragile human in your arms, you realized that this brand-new human being was going to be in charge of your life.

Your career ceased to be about your own promotion, and became the tool for providing a home and the accoutrements of life for your kids.  Almost everything you want to do for yourself now takes a backseat to them.  You deal with changing diapers, cleaning up vomit, and that sudden red alert in your brain that tells you that they've been quiet for too long.

Going anyplace now involves the logistics of diaper bags, toys, and putting them in and taking them out of car seats.  The stroller now lives permanently in the back of your car because their tiny little legs get tired so quickly, and when nap time comes, they go to sleep, no matter where you are or what you're doing.  You recognize a little secret about the laws of gravity.  When kids are asleep, they gain about 15 pounds.  They don't know patience, so when their little lives go awry, the announce their displeasure not only to you, but to anyone within a half-mile, especially on an airliner.

At some point, they discover that they have a will, and begin to exercise it.  There will be those tough moments when you have to teach, and they have to learn just who is in charge around here.  

But even through all that, there are those other times.  Their first smile.  That joyous little laugh.  Those innumerable little cute things they do and say that are engraved forever on your heart.  There are those trips to the park on those perfect, sunny days when your toddler is introduced for the first time to the swing, or the jungle gym, and you watch with happiness tinged with that ever-present protectiveness.  

Then suddenly, years have passed, and it's the first day of school.  Now you have to send them away, and this still small, fragile child will be out of your sight and away from your protective arms for hours every day.  While you like to think you may enjoy these few hours of freedom (usually spent cleaning up the house after them), you still look anxiously towards the clock that tells you the moment when your little scholar steps carefully off the bus and into your care once again.  Eagerly you ply them with questions, anxious to know what transpired in those hours away, and disappointed by the responses so lacking in the details you are so desperate to know.

Sunday, April 08, 2018

Ready for Roots? Maybe...

Chantilly, VA

Somerset, PA

Columbia, MO

Some of the places we've called home.

Copyright © 2018
by Ralph F. Couey

"This entire time I've been thinking about where my home was.  
But in truth, home isn't necessarily where you sleep at night.
It's where you feel like yourself, where you're most comfortable.
Where you don't have to pretend.
Where you can just be you."
--Elizabeth Eulberg


Late in December 2016, we sold our home in Chantilly, Virginia in anticipation of my pending retirement the following month.  Northern Virginia is an expensive place to live and I was concerned about continuing to make the mortgage payment.  Plus, we had been considering for several years the possibility of Cheryl becoming a travel nurse.  Essentially that means she would work a series of 13 week contracts as we hopped across the country.  Part of the motivation was that we really didn't know where we wanted to plant our feet in retirement.  Las Vegas had been our default choice for a while, but problems in the housing market along with rising rates of violent crime in Sin City pushed it to the less-than-desirable side of the list.  By doing this contract work, we could visit various places and..."try them on for size," hoping that one would emerge as a good fit.

Now, fifteen months later, we still don't know where we want to live.  Our daughter and her husband graciously allowed us to use their home in the 'burbs of Denver between jobs.  Here, we have family, and we found a congregation that felt like home from the first day we walked through the doors.  Central Colorado is a pretty place, and while the home prices are at the near tip of our affordability index, there are other considerations.  We haven't adapted all that well to the altitude.  Whenever we go to a doctor, we are told that our O2 sats are low and we are chronically dehydrated.  It seems that for all this sky out here, there just isn't enough air in it for us.

Tuesday, March 27, 2018

Baseball: The Game and the Spirit

From Shutterstock.com

"There are only two seasons:
Winter and Baseball."
--Bill Veeck


In February, most places in this country are in the throes of winter.  The air is cold, the days are short, and for some reason, the most ferocious snowstorms usually start rolling in about then.  We are fed up with winter and wish it would just go away.  Then one day, we here on the television or on the radio we hear the first real hopeful words:  Spring Training.

Our minds start to drift to sun-splashed fields in Arizona and Florida where the sun shines warm on the shoulders of young men as they stretch winter-weary muscles and minds, living for what is many others, the dream.  Gradually across the rest of the country, winter begins its final retreat.  The days are getting longer, the air warmer.  In parks, back yards, and in streets people once again fall in love with the intoxicating smell of horsehide and cow leather.  You can begin to hear the crack of wood bats and the plink of aluminum.  The grass is turning green under the feet of players racing across its surface.  And as spring rescues hope from winter, the game of baseball brings joy to the soul.

It's hard to quantify or to articulate that feeling, the realization that baseball is not just a game, but a spiritual experience as well.  The days are long and warm, and a game only ends when somebody wins.  There are over a dozen games in history that have lasted over 20 innings and seven hours, and every season, there will be two teams who will lock up in such a marathon, neither side giving in.  The opposite is true of football, played in the time of year when days are growing shorter.  That game is controlled by a clock, and the tension of that passage of seconds is felt throughout the contest.  Football does have overtime, but only one quarter.  If things are not resolved by then, it goes into the books as a tie.

There are no ties in baseball.  It is an eternal contest.

Monday, March 12, 2018

The Word "Cute" As a Foreign Language

From JustFab.com
So, I Googled "Cute Shoes."  
This is what I got back.

Copyright © 2018
by Ralph F. Couey


It's always been apparent that men and women spoke different languages, even before the ground-breaking book "Men are from Mars, Women are from Venus" by Dr. John Gray.  It's not just individual words, but entire sentences or paragraphs that can mean one thing to one party, and something completely different to the other.  Our brains are wired in completely different ways and the failure to understand that can result in some very uncomfortable situations.  

Every husband has been through this conversation:  

"Honey, are you okay?"
"Fine." (A word more spat than spoken)
"Okay, what did I do this time?"
"Nothing."  (Same delivery.)

What she has said is this:

"There is very definitely something very wrong here, and it's your fault.  That this situation has completely escaped your attention means you are in even deeper trouble."

What follows is a version of 20 questions (or more) until the evil deed has been uncovered.  

Saturday, February 24, 2018

Turn the Page

From Quotefancy.com

We go through good times and bad, but nothing ever really lasts.  No matter how joyous or how sad a period of time has been, there will come a day when we have to recognize that a chapter has closed and it's time to turn the page.

Nobody feels this more acutely right now than fans of the Kansas City Royals.  Over the past eight years, we watched as a priceless crop of rookies climbed through the ranks into the major leagues.  The experts told us that this group would make the Royals competitive again, really good news after so many years of just really bad baseball.  The Royals went to the World Series in 2014, ending just 90 feet from an improbable win.  That shortfall provided the motivation for that team in 2015.  For most of the year, they were the best team in baseball, along with the Cardinals.  And on a cold November night in the Big Apple, they brought home the trophy.  A million fans turned out for the parade and the celebration, and in a perfect demonstration of the class of that midwestern city, there were only two arrests that day, both of young men who had imbibed a bit too much celebratory alcohol.  There was no violence, no riots, no stores were trashed, no police cars were rolled and burned.  It was just a massive surge of shared joy and pride.

Saturday, February 17, 2018

No Words, No Understanding...Just Grief


"Sometimes, there are just no words."
--Unknown

Since the news came across last Wednesday of yet another school shooting, I have been struggling; struggling to understand or even find some kind of context. I cannot find either. 

Writing is, for me, a form of coping.  When incomprehensible things happen, I try to find words that may lead to some kind of understanding of what happened.  But there is no understanding this kind of tragedy.  In a flurry of violence at a high school in Parkland, Florida, 17 lives were ended, 14 teenagers and three adults.  And in like so many other mass shootings since Columbine, the country grieves.

The killer was a young adult with a troubled history.  When he was identified as the shooter, nobody who knew him or knew of him was surprised.  In the days since, we've learned that the FBI knew about him, the Broward County Sheriff's Office had been to his home multiple times.  He had been expelled because of violent acts in school.  So...the students knew he was a threat; faculty knew he was a threat; staff and administration knew he was a threat; and law enforcement knew he was a threat.  The "why" of how nobody thought it was important to bring him in, at least for a discussion or even a court-ordered psych eval will eventually be revealed, and we will know how he slipped through this multitude of cracks.

Meanwhile in Parkland, the burials have begun.  Families and friends have been submerged in grief, a sense of loss that will never truly go away.  And the rest of us will again realize that even in a place where children play and learn, they are not safe.

Thursday, February 08, 2018

The Utter Waste of Time That is Anger


Copyright © 2018
by Ralph F. Couey

Going to the Doctor's is something that is almost routine for most folks.  I know that for most of my life it certainly was.  But past a certain age, things begin to go wrong, as they do with any piece of equipment with an expired warranty.  At that point, the attitude is, "what's he gonna find wrong this time?"  As it happened to me the other day, I walked out with a clean bill of health.  I found my mood turning celebratory, and yet at the same time reflective.

Aging is inevitable and unavoidable, certainly there is nothing that can stop or even slow the inexorable march of time.  Life changes from an unlimited horizon to an end that is suddenly tangible.  Our mental attitudes change as well, some just waiting out the time, others choosing to squeeze as much living as possible into what little time is left.  But time...the one thing that always takes and never gives, hovers over us, diminishing just a little bit more every day.

One of my favorite Star Trek quotes is by Jean-Luc Picard:

"Someone once told me that time was a predator that stalked us all our lives.
But, I rather believe that time is a companion who goes with us on the journey
and reminds us to cherish every moment because they'll never come again.
What we leave behind is not as important as how we've lived.
After all, we're only mortal."

Friday, February 02, 2018

Putting Passion Into Practice

Three Generations, Crystal is in the middle.

Copyright © 2018
by Ralph F. Couey

Almost exactly seven years ago, I wrote a blog post about our middle daughter Crystal.  She was approaching graduation, with a degree in Mathematics and Education, and as the months ticked down towards the end, one day she sent me an email.  It was one of those messages that becomes immortalized within that magnificent treasure chest that is the human heart.  In it, she stated that she didn't just want to be a good teacher, she wanted to be a great teacher.  She then asked me for advice on how she could make that happen.

At the time, I worked with people in the Intelligence Community who had come from the education field.  I asked them to send her emails with their advice, which they graciously did.  I contributed my own snippets of fatherly wisdom, and sent it on its way.

For her to get to that graduation moment was a tough road.  In the last year just before she was to start her practice teaching, she had a snowboarding accident which resulted in a severe concussion.  A lesser person would have set things aside and taken time to heal.  But that's just not Crystal.

She's one tough cookie.

Thursday, February 01, 2018

Am I Worth It?


Dear Lord,
Lest I continue my complacent way,
Help me to remember that somehow out there,
A man died for me today.
As long as there be war,
I then must ask and answer:
Am I worth dying for?
--Eleanor Roosevelt
Kept in her wallet during World War II

Copyright © 2018
By Ralph F. Couey

In the history of the United States, there have been times when unfortunately we were forced in undertake war as the last means of defense. When that has happened, our young men and women have courageously stepped forward to serve, many of whom paid the ultimate sacrifice. We have erected monuments to honor them, both the living and the dead not only here, but around the world. It is an established fact that no nation on earth has sacrificed so much of it’s own blood in defense of other people’s freedom.

After decades of benign neglect, it has become fashionable to honor them in other ways. Uniforms that in the not so distant past produced contempt now inspire respect and admiration. The pendulum of that respect has swung fully back from the Vietnam era, and that is a good thing. Serving in the military has never been an easy job, even in peace time. The work is hard, the stress high, the hours seemingly unending, and the responsibilities daunting. And there is the risk to life and limb as well. If one stops to consider all those things, it can be amazing that there are those out there who are willing to enlist at all. There are plenty of inducements offered to enlistees, but when they’re asked, almost all of them will tell you, quite honestly, that the reason they do what they do is that they love America.

Sunday, January 28, 2018

Leaving Fantasy Island



Copyright © 2018
By Ralph F. Couey

In a few days, we'll be on the road again.  Our three-week sojourn in Hawai'i is ending and the time has come for us to return to the real world, however reluctantly.

It's been an eventful time.  We spent time with family again, people we just don't see often enough.  I had several helpings of shave ice (can never have too much of that), many meals of local delicacies, and shopping.  I visited my old ship, twice as it turns out, walked hand-in-hand with my wife in the magnificent glow of a Waikiki sunset...oh yeah, and almost experienced the end of the world.

Friday, January 26, 2018

Standing on Land's End



Copyright © 2018
By Ralph F. Couey

About five million years ago, a volcano on the island that would eventually be called O'ahu, began to erupt.  The outflow would form most of the island, along with contributions from several smaller volcanoes, including the iconic Diamond Head.  The shield eventually collapsed leaving the spine of a mountain range we now know as the Ko'olaus.  O'ahu's shape resembles either a ship or a odd-looking pelican, depending on your own perceptions.  The part of the island that would be either the bow of the ship or the bill of the bird narrows down to a point of land called Ka'ena Point.

Ka'ena in the Hawai'ian language translates to "heat," and is named after a brother or cousin of the volcano goddess Pele.  Exposed to storm-driven northern swells, the area has been the sight of some of the largest waves ever seen on this planet.  In January 1998, professional surfer Ken Bradshaw was photographed speeding down the face of an 85-foot wave.  Even on calm days, big rollers routinely crash on the volcanic rocks that mark the area around the point.  

Sunday, January 21, 2018

The Occasional Seedy Underbelly of History


Copyright © 2018
By Ralph F. Couey

Honolulu is one of those places where history points in many different directions, all of them colorful. King Kamehameha, after consolidating his rule over all of the Hawai'ian islands in 1804, located his royal court here on two separate occasions, as did his descendant, Kamehameha III. The first European, British Captain William Brown made port here in 1794. Many other ships followed, and soon Honolulu was the focal point for shipping between North American and Asia. With the expansion of trade came the people. Almost every Asian culture is represented here, and Honolulu is one of those rare places where white people are a distinct minority, totaling less than 20% of the population.

The Hawai'ian Monarchy was overthrown in 1893, and the entire island chain was annexed as a territory by the United States in 1898. Most people when they come here flock to the popular tourist destinations, particularly Waikiki and Ala Moana. But located near downtown is what for most of its history was considered the seedy part of Honolulu. The area now known as Chinatown encompasses a street named Hotel, a place when mentioned to military veterans will almost always return a smile and a chuckle.

Saturday, January 20, 2018

The Voices of Fear

Blast and fallout map, 150kt weapon.
Hawaii Emergency Management Agency

Copyright © 2018
By Ralph F. Couey

By now, everyone knows what happened herein Hawai'i a week ago.  At 8:07 in the morning, a massive text push from the Hawai'i Emergency Management Agency (HEMA) lit up cell phones all over the 50th state, warning of an inbound missile and ending with the words, "This is no drill."  Although not backed up by any other authoritative source, and lacking the obvious confirming sirens, police cars, fire trucks, and scrambling military jets, most people took the text at its word, and panicked.  38 minutes later, another text push announced that the alert was a false alarm, but the damage had been done.

In the days since, the incident has been explored by the media and the legislature.  The Federal Communications Commission is also performing its own investigation.  And if the federal government wasn't in shutdown right now, there's no doubt that congress would be throwing its collective hat into the ring.  So far, it is what HEMA said it was all along, a mis-click on a computer monitor that instead of running a test, launched the state-wide alert.  The identity of the staffer who made the mistake is being protected by his agency, and thankfully so, since HEMA has received a lot of death threats aimed at him and his family.

The Happy Heartache of the Past

The Old Grey Lady

Copyright © 2018
By Ralph F. Couey

We accumulate memories on our trek through life, some bad, some good, most neutral.  Some of those recollections can be triggered by sounds, smells, or sight. When the emotionalism of nostalgia becomes intertwined with those memories, they can become far more selective than objective.  But nothing brings those thoughts into focus like visiting a place of significance from the past.

I spent 10 years in the Navy, serving on two ships and a shore duty assignment.  By the end of that span, I was a Chief Petty Officer, and facing a life-changing decision.  My kids were about to become teenagers, and they needed me at home a lot more often than my duty commitments allowed.  With my priorities properly aligned, I turned my back on the sea and headed home.

I left behind a decade's worth of remembrances of 28 foreign countries visited, friendships that have stayed strong across the intervening decades, and a warm recollection of a time when my life had a mission.

Sunday, January 14, 2018

Paradise (Almost) Lost



Copyright © 2018
By Ralph F. Couey

It was a calm, quiet morning, a cool breeze drifting through the windows and in a tree just outside a dove was calling.  I had just finished dressing and was ruminating over the possibilities for breakfast when that instantly identifiable tone issued from my cell phone.  I didn't react immediately, assuming it was a high surf warning for the forecasted 50-foot waves pounding the north and west shores of O'ahu.  Eventually, I picked it up and there in front of me was this message:

"BALLISTIC MISSILE THREAT
INBOUND TO HAWAII.
SEEK IMMEDIATE SHELTER.
THIS IS NOT A DRILL."

As wakeup calls go, it was certainly an eye-opener.  

I grew up during the worst part of the Cold War and am old enough to clearly remember regular 'Duck and Cover" drills in school, so the idea of a pending nuclear attack is not unfamiliar to me.  But even  with the recent nerves over North Korea, this seemed to come clean out of the blue, very out of place on such a calm and peaceful morning.  For about 30 seconds I was frozen in place, then the analyst part of my brain woke up and began to function.

Outside the window, all was still quiet.  I should have been hearing warning sirens spooling up and the sounds of HPD cars racing to critical traffic control points.  There should have been the sound of fire trucks and ambulances racing to clear the primary target area.  I should have been hearing the roar of jet engines as the fighters of the Hawaii Air National Guard and U.S. Air Force were scrambled from Hickam and Honolulu International Airport.  I should also have been hearing the strident sound of ship's whistles from Pearl Harbor signaling emergency recall to their crews.  Something was wrong.  If the alert was genuine, there should have been a lot more going on.

Wednesday, January 10, 2018

Time, Distance, and Linearity

From Humans are free.com

Copyright © 2018
By Ralph F. Couey

Time.

We live with it every day.  In many ways, it defines our existence.  And yet as familiar as it is to us, time remains one of the things we least understand.

Our existence is linear.  In every way we perceive, it is to us a straight line with a beginning, a middle, and an end.  That is the context in which we understand life.  We are born -- the beginning.  We die -- the end.  At any point on the line between those two points, we define as the middle.  We understand that line.  It organizes things in a way easy to understand.  But the length of that line is as individual as the people who exist upon it, from less than ten minutes to more than ten decades.  Our line is but one of billions of other lines coexisting in the same space.  Stretching into the past are lines that started and ended long before us.  Other lines extend on into a future that remains a mystery.

We believe those lines are fixed, that they cannot be edited.  To get from Monday to Friday, we must pass through the intervening days.  In order to travel from Kansas City to St. Louis, you have to pass through Columbia.  This is the essence of the three dimensional universe we inhabit.  The linearity of time for us is the same as physical distance.  

The Difference Between Confidence and Hope

Shot themselves in the foot once again.
And us in the heart.

Copyright © 2018
by Ralph F. Couey

A few days have passed and the sharp pain has faded to a dull ache.  The shock of seeing the Chiefs lose yet another playoff game has given way to a kind of fatalistic sense of an expectation fulfilled.

I know we attach way too much importance to sports and their outcomes, especially when there are so many more vital issues to be concerned about.  But having said that, there's no denying the sense of ownership, identity, and belonging that arises from our loyalties to a team.  And the angst that hits home when that team fails.

If you're going to be a fan of the Kansas City Chiefs, the first requirement is to grow a callous around your heart.  The record of the Chiefs in the postseason requires it.  Crushing futility is a good term, but doesn't come close to describing how it feels.  Since their victory in Super Bowl IV just short of a half-century ago, the Chiefs have played in 16 playoff games and lost 15.  It's not just the losses, but the character of those losses.  Way too many of them were games where things seemed well in hand, only to see them slip away at the end.