Hagiazo
“My prayer is not that you take them out of the world, but that you protect them from the evil one.”
-John 17:17
The dust here gets all over everything. We go through canned air like nobody’s business, blowing dust out of our computers, printers, tools and other appliances. You can wipe off a clean space on your TV or computer, and if you sit there for an hour or two, you can actually watch the dust settle back over it until you can’t tell where you wiped. It’s amazing.
The desert smells different. Not like American soil. Down in Kuwait you could smell the oil in the sand, especially when it got up around 110. Up here in the north, you can’t smell the oil, but you can smell the desert. I can’t describe it. Like an abandoned house or an old fire pit, maybe.
Certain important and defining periods of my life are associated very strongly in my mind with smells. I catch a whiff of perfume in a movie theater and suddenly I can’t stop thinking of a girl I was stupidly, headlong-desperately in love with when I was sixteen. The smell when I take my flak jacket and helmet off after sweating profusely in them all day reminds me very much of the smell of the locker room after football practice, and recalls delightfully obscene jokes told by the other players. I walk into any old barracks or office building on an Army base, and it smells exactly like the Corps dorms, and makes me miss school, and parties, and having no responsibility.
I’m sure when I leave here I’ll take the desert smell with me too, subconsciously. The next time I smell hot sand I’ll think of Iraq. More likely, the next time I’m deployed, I’ll get off the plane and think, “Oh, there’s that smell again.” Assuming we’re still coming here by then. What does Syria smell like, I wonder?
It’s too bad we keep getting into wars in these godawful hellholes. Bosnia, Iraq, Afghanistan. We should find some reason to invade Jamaica or Cozumel. That would be a sweet war, right there:
ME: “Sir, we took the beach resort with no KIA or WIA, although my entire platoon was then taken prisoner by a vacationing cheerleading squad with a margarita machine.”
MY COMMANDER: “A margarita machine? Tell my driver to warm up the humvee. We can’t leave those men to suffer alone.”
I ran into a one-star today. Didn’t catch his name, but I was coming out of the TOC and up walks this general. I was so surprised I almost forgot to salute. I wonder if anybody inside knew he was coming—usually it’s all anybody’s talking about when the brass is coming for a visit. Hope nobody is in trouble.
It’s been very quiet here lately. I’m really hoping it stays that way.
-John 17:17
The dust here gets all over everything. We go through canned air like nobody’s business, blowing dust out of our computers, printers, tools and other appliances. You can wipe off a clean space on your TV or computer, and if you sit there for an hour or two, you can actually watch the dust settle back over it until you can’t tell where you wiped. It’s amazing.
The desert smells different. Not like American soil. Down in Kuwait you could smell the oil in the sand, especially when it got up around 110. Up here in the north, you can’t smell the oil, but you can smell the desert. I can’t describe it. Like an abandoned house or an old fire pit, maybe.
Certain important and defining periods of my life are associated very strongly in my mind with smells. I catch a whiff of perfume in a movie theater and suddenly I can’t stop thinking of a girl I was stupidly, headlong-desperately in love with when I was sixteen. The smell when I take my flak jacket and helmet off after sweating profusely in them all day reminds me very much of the smell of the locker room after football practice, and recalls delightfully obscene jokes told by the other players. I walk into any old barracks or office building on an Army base, and it smells exactly like the Corps dorms, and makes me miss school, and parties, and having no responsibility.
I’m sure when I leave here I’ll take the desert smell with me too, subconsciously. The next time I smell hot sand I’ll think of Iraq. More likely, the next time I’m deployed, I’ll get off the plane and think, “Oh, there’s that smell again.” Assuming we’re still coming here by then. What does Syria smell like, I wonder?
It’s too bad we keep getting into wars in these godawful hellholes. Bosnia, Iraq, Afghanistan. We should find some reason to invade Jamaica or Cozumel. That would be a sweet war, right there:
ME: “Sir, we took the beach resort with no KIA or WIA, although my entire platoon was then taken prisoner by a vacationing cheerleading squad with a margarita machine.”
MY COMMANDER: “A margarita machine? Tell my driver to warm up the humvee. We can’t leave those men to suffer alone.”
I ran into a one-star today. Didn’t catch his name, but I was coming out of the TOC and up walks this general. I was so surprised I almost forgot to salute. I wonder if anybody inside knew he was coming—usually it’s all anybody’s talking about when the brass is coming for a visit. Hope nobody is in trouble.
It’s been very quiet here lately. I’m really hoping it stays that way.
posted by Battler03 at 3:59 PM
1 Comments:
Nicky,
This blog stuff is pretty good. Reminds me of "talk about it." Remember? You wouldn't go to sleep without "talk about it."
Read Ephesians 2:4-10 and you will find out how to fill up the hours. Look around and see if you can find some project that Adult 4 Sunday School can take on, like school supplies or books for a destroyed library, etc.
I think Heidi feels the same way you do about the dust. That beautiful but OLDER house you grew up in sure gets full of dust fast. Pretty funny about the war to secure the beautiful, lush resort!
I love you, old man. Take care of yourself. Pray for me-it is hard to have your firstborn gone so far...
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