Another update.
I persist in my pledge that there will be plenty o' pics in this space soon. Mrs. Doclee has promised to send a new thumb drive, so that the necessary images will be at hand, but she is at this moment cruising high above the USA en route from the Golden State. The abbreviated gathering of many of the females of her clan, along with Mrs. Nautifish, Gramma Tudi, and Miss Crabgrass must have been an event to remember, but I doubt that any of them end up remembering much about it. I am also confident that my tearful begging that they enter the Peterson museum to obtain photos of the Ed Roth display fell upon deaf ears. In an all female gathering, the concept of paying homage to Mr. Roth and Rat-Fink must be as alien as a Three Stooges Marathon. I should have my answer shortly.
For my part, there are photos available of the recent Brassfield-Mora Open golf tournament and fashion show. The Dumb Vee was, of course, the bell of the ball, but as the organizer, I could not very well award myself the selection of lovely handmade cigars designated, so they went instead to SGT Ray for his creative use of cardboard. I will save the rest for later.
Since we are in Iraq, where by law everything is required to be at least a little messed up, building a 9 hole golf course was no easy task. For one thing, the interminible dust is only about an inch deep in most places, and below that is a very hard material that most closely resembles hard clay. That meant that your humble correspondent was required to dig the holes with a pick. The pins were constructed of used radio antennas, flags were cut up emergency panels, and the whole thing supported by empty green bean cans and secured by locally acquired concrete (basically dusty gravel) and placed in the holes. The entire course is of course, gravel, except for the tee boxes which were constructed of plywood pried from shipping crates and surrounded by white cotton engineer's tape, so they could be located by eye. All this because I asked SGT Major Smurf permission to hit golf balls (more on that later) instead of just hitting the golf balls and making excuses in case it was not the right course of action. Lesson? As always, it is easier to obtain forgiveness than permission.
Life here goes on as usual, wake up, go into town, visit with the locals, get lied to, hear explosions (continually glad these insurgents don't know how to aim RPG's!), return to FOB, repeat. I don't mind reporting that I am growing tired of the routine. The upside is that there are just a few weeks of it left before we get to hand off to a new team soon. Yay.
Then of course, the excitement of returning to lovely Northwest Arkansas and the long uphill climb to rebuild my business, which has been closed for the duration of this little trip. Not looking for pity, but if you know anyone in Northwest Arkansas who needs a good Chiropractor....
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