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The Right To Brag

In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Right to Brag.”

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My Grandson, A Member of the City Color Guard,

Bearing the United States Flag

Tell us about something you (or a person close to you) have done recently (or not so recently) that has made you really, unabashedly proud.

One of my grandsons has earned the right to hear his grandfather rave on his accomplishments.

Because of an interest in law enforcement during his high school years, and accompanied officers on weekends, he managed to hire on as the city jailer. Being a city employee qualified him to attend the University of Texas at the city’s expense.

Five years later he earned his degree, and then graduated the Texas Police Academy at Dallas. After a year as a city police officer he was selected to train for the K-9 unit, issued a special dog and a vehicle.

He’s now 29, with a bright future.

<a href=”https://dailypost.wordpress.com/dp_prompt/right-to-brag/”>Right to Brag</a>

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Take Me To The Moon (The Definition of love)

In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Take Me to the Moon.”

How many times have I heard people say they love to fish, or I love their new car, or I love my weekends? When it’s referenced so many ways the definition is somewhat illusive, in my opinion.

But how about when love defines a human relationship – brotherly love, parental love, love of someone else’s spouse, or love of one’s own spouse? There are several stages of emotion here. People never stop growing. The definition of love between a newly married couple is quite different from a union that has survived a half-century. It eclipses Webster’s definition.

<a href=”https://dailypost.wordpress.com/dp_prompt/take-me-to-the-moon/”>Take Me to the Moon</a>

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Handwritten

In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Handwritten.”

When was the last time you wrote something by hand? What was it?

When? This morning. Before dawn. I wrote in my journal on the patio where I was alone and it was quiet.

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I’ve been keeping a handwritten daily journal for the past twenty plus years. It’s my method for staving off overload. I generally start a new journal the first day each month. Why? Because I have a lot of paper that needs to have a purpose, and it is getting in the way. Besides, it makes this entire journaling business as personal as a handcrafted cup for my morning coffee. I own it.

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This paper business began nearly thirty years ago when I started publishing QNC! The CW Journal as a Quarterly Forum, hardcopy.

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It was a place to share ideas, blow our own horns, pound our chests, and learn. A Commodore 64, a dot matrix printer, a membership to a worldwide telephone message relay system called FIDO, a membership to the American Morse Club, and the United States Postal Service made up the physical core of this endeavor. Everything else was words and hand-drawn illustrations reproduced on paper at a nearby Kinko store. Long story short, $7.75 bought a membership to this one-man show that was represented in Africa, Europe, UK, Australia, Canada, and of course, most states in the USA.

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There was no Internet when this project was started, but ten years down the road Yahoo and Yahoo Groups became a reality. But because “!” was reserved, a pro-word in the radio world, I had to drop the explanation point and it became QNC, which created a new problem. QNC in Morse code portion of ham radio is an official Q-Signal used to announce the transmission of a bulletin, meaning All Stations Copy. This new name was frowned upon by the powers that be…so what else is new? But back to cursive writing.

Tractor paper fell out of favor a few years back and I’m still stumbling over nearly ten thousand sheets. Anyone in their right mind would probably cart them off to some recycling center. Me? I decided I should use them in some more creative manner – creating personal journals. Separating fifteen sheets each month, and using my long-John stapler, and a 80 pound sheet for a cover provides me with a fresh, 60-page journal each month.

But it’s like some of the meds I see advertised on television. This isn’t for everyone.

<a href=”https://dailypost.wordpress.com/dp_prompt/handwritten/”>Handwritten</a&gt;

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Worlds Colliding (three generations)

In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Worlds Colliding.”

I don’t know how long ago I read a National Geographic article of which the jest of the story has long since been lost on me except for three sentences.

The scene is in Alexander Graham Bell’s home. His daughter is a young woman, and his granddaughter is about four years old.

Paraphrasing: The granddaughter disturbs her mother with a question.

“WHAT DID GRANDFATHER DO?”

“Your grandfather invented the telephone.”

“oh.”

<a href=”https://dailypost.wordpress.com/dp_prompt/worlds-colliding/”>Worlds Colliding</a>

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Peace-of-Mind

In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “The Young and the Rested.”

I have no metals, or ribbons of valor to show my kids and grands that I served bravely for more than a decade in the U.S. Air Force, the Strategic Air Command (SAC) to be specific. The powers that be don’t like their aircraft, nor the grunts who fix them, being shot at unnecessarily. Therefore, I returned to civilian life unscathed.

Barb and I were married in June 1962. I was disappointed that no leave was granted me for such an important event. The shop chief offered a three-day-pass as an alternative, so I grabbed it. The day after Barb and I moved into a small apartment in a tiny, mountain hamlet called Rough and Ready, California I received military orders reflecting the fact that was one of a six-member mobility team – part of a war readiness plan.

I was good at my job, fixing airplanes, that was one reason for the assignment, but perhaps the greater reason I was selected, I think, was because being married would make me easier to locate, should an act of war occur. The callouts began soon thereafter.

Our rendezvous times and places were everywhere and at any hour. Each time I arrived – 2 AM, or whatever hour – our leader, a Major was checking his watch, seeing how long it took us to assemble, and he was always frowning.

Rarely did I work daylight hours, but the morning in question the shop chief met me at the door. Something was afoot. It was written all over him.

“Go” he shouted.

“Where?”

“We’re going to war. Your team has been activated.”

I was stunned, but I grabbed my tool box and headed for our secret assembly point, a cafe parking lot in Nevada City where I found an Air Force bus waiting.

We were to drive to a hangar in the Nevada desert, a location that only the driver knew. Upon arrival we were to load a KC-135 tanker with spare B-52 parts and then head for a south sea island. Our mission was to refuel, repair as needed, load more bombs and missiles, and then launch those few surviving bombers on a second mission.

The driver started the engine, but before we moved an Army Sergeant Major, a stranger to me, darted from the back door of the cafe, and told the driver to wait. We waited. In less than a quarter-hour he returned and ordered us back to our normal duty stations.

The following day when I realized the USA and the USSR were not going to drop H-bombs on each other, was the day of my greatest peace-of-mind, ever.

<a href=”https://dailypost.wordpress.com/dp_prompt/the-young-and-the-rested/”>The Young and the Rested</a>