Summer of '11 Already?

Look another post!

How not to make this blog into one of those dreadful Christmas letters? Little Timmy just lost his front teeth and mom caught him beating off in the bathtub? That would certainly be different. . . Christmas letter writers: no offense intended. I do appreciate catching up on the latest family news. Maybe I just get too many of them and of course, all at Christmas.

When my Marine daughter, now a Lance Corporal, was in boot camp she, like all armed forces members in basic training, needed encouragement. Or maybe it is the parents who need encouragement? Write to them all you can, so you can continue your feelings of being needed and having some purpose? Well write I did, and nearly everyday. And I did feel needed and I did have a purpose. Humm . . . But I did take Sundays off. My twisted logic was that there is no mail delivery on Sundays, so why write a letter? Of course, any letter send on Sunday, would probably start it's journey on Monday, albeit early, and would certainly make it's way there eventually. But writing everyday is not as easy as it may sound. The cat coughed up another fur ball? How exciting. Oh and the dog died. Tragically, our dog did die, but for obvious reasons, I didn't tell her until she had graduated from boot camp. Supposed to be upbeat, happy letters after all. Unlike this blog.

But it is really hard to write upbeat letters everyday. So I improvised. I found comics on the web, and told her how great we were doing. I scanned old (and new) family photos, and surrounded them with news of the incredible progress of my latest home remodeling project. And I tried not to think about a discussion I had with a friend. He attempted to explain to me what boot camp is like. He said, every time you think of her, know that she is being yelled at that very moment. On the head? Getting yelled at. Trying to sleep? Not for long.

At her basic training graduation, the then USMC Private, told us the story of one of her rack-mates who was caught looking at herself in the mirror by a drill instructor. The poor girl spent the next couple of hours, staring in the mirror, brushing her hair with her scus brush (which I think is a cleaning brush), and reciting "this recruit is so pretty, drill instructor", over and over again. Quite a sense of humor, on those drill instructors, no?

Anyway, the cat coughed up another fur ball and oh, the dog did in fact die. No American formula here!