LEGACY

Grandma Jolley

It has been nearly a month since I last posted anything on this blog.  I wanted to make sure I had given everyone that reads this amazing piece of literature an opportunity to send me fan mail, care packages or if nothing else, cries to stop posting pictures of my mustache and/or links to songs that revolve around Poo Ponds.  Oddly enough, I have not received a single letter or care package, and the only cries came from my wife and children...and let's be honest, I've become immune to their complaints of my efforts to be humorous.  So I decided to take a few minutes and write a few thoughts that have been bouncing around my cranium.

Grandpa Jolley

Two weeks ago my dear, sweet Grandma Jolley passed away.  She was 89 years old, and still just as vibrant and fun as could be.  Last year I posted a story of one of my favorite memories of her.  If you missed it, I highly recommend reading it, as I still think I am one of the funniest people I know.  The long and short of that story is that I ended up in a KMART free-balling for at least a good half-hour while my Grandma found me some new Underroos (seriously mother...how did you let a 5 year old pack his own suitcase for a week-long visit with his grandparents?!).  I cherrish those memories.  I have vivid memories of making the drive to Burley, Idaho and staying with Frank and Shirley.  My parents would sit playing Rook and drinking Tab or Diet Pepsi while all seven of the Shepherd kids quietly watched.  My Grandma reminded us often that "Children are to be seen and not heard!"  We would play croquet in the backyard, walk down to the park or to the A&W Rootbeer and simply enjoy being kids.  Grandma always had a freezer downstairs full of ice cream sandwiches and fudge cycles.  You had to be brave enough to venture into the pantry to get one, but it was always worth it.  I remember sitting with my Grandpa watching Dale Murphy and the Braves.  I remember my Grandpa becoming sick with cancer.



Shirley Jolley and a fraction of her posterity

Frank Jolley was a giant of a man!  He was in the Army Air Force and fought in the war as a radio-gunner.  He would later go on to deliver mail in Burley.  When I was 14, he died after a long battle with skin and bone cancer.  I still remember the school nurse calling me out of class so that we could make an emergency trip to Burley.  We drove all night and ultimately made it in time to say goodbye.  I remember standing beside his bed in his den and having my own opportunity to say goodbye.  The giant that I had remembered had given way to the cancer that had eaten away at his body.  I remember telling him that I had just finished my Eagle requirements.  Grandpa died just a few days later...and Grandma was left alone.  After 27 years, they were finally reunited.

Grandma and Grandpa Jolley

I could fill pages with memories of my Grandparents.  They would mean very little to most people, but are treasures to me.  Rather than putting those memories to paper, I thought I would focus on the legacy that they have left behind.  I was unable to attend the funeral.  For some reason Southwest Airlines did not have a quick conncection between Afghanistan and Idaho.  It was a tough thing for me to deal with, as I was the only grandchild that was not in attendance.  However, I was able to participate long enough via Facetime to witness what this woman has meant to her posterity.  Shirley will be remembered more for what she taught than for what she did...and that is saying a lot considering how much she did!  She not only taught her children the gospel, she LIVED the gospel.  She expressed her faith through service.  She showed her gratitude in the same way.  She loved the Lord and she loved her family.  I am grateful for her influence in my life, but more importantly in my own mother's life.  So much of who we become is based on what we have learned within the walls of our own homes.  I could not ask for a better scenario than the one I grew up in.  Loving parents that loved each other, loved their kids, and loved God.  I owe so much to both of my Grandparents for molding my Mom into the person she is today.

Wings

I don't have many pictures of my Grandparents...far fewer than I should.  I do have one treasure that my Grandma gave me on the day I earned my pilot wings.  Hanging on our wall at home is a picture of my graduation certificate with two sets of wings...mine and my Grandpa's.  It is a treasure.  Not so much for what it is as much as what it represents.  To me it represents both of my Grandparents...the one that wore those wings and the one that parted with them.  I love and miss them both, but have no doubt I will see them again one day.  I only hope they can get a glimps of my mustache as they smile down upon me now!  Even they could use the laugh!

PULL MY FINGER

There is little doubt that in general, men enjoy things that smell.  Jeff Foxworthy spent an entire sketch discussing just how sick in the mind we are.   He argues that we are willing to smell things that are bad because we know there will come a day in which we will cash that moment in and require someone else to smell something even worse.  I get it…farts are funny!  One of the only things funnier than a fart is when it’s your fart!  As a father, one of the most pure joys I’ve experienced is trying to melt my kids’ faces while I alone control the power windows!  Shortly after Jen and I were married, I made the mistake of hoping the term “silent but deadly” was not going to apply to me that day…I was wrong!  On the corner of Tramway and Indian School, I nearly lost my one true love!  Bless her heart for staying with me.  It was literally so bad that the resale value on that Toyota Celica went down $450, and the carpets were never the same!  But was it worth it?  Of course!  Who doesn’t enjoy a small game of covered wagon/dutch oven?!  Needless to say I married a saint!

So why am I airing my dirty laundry? (that is funny)  Why would I take the time to admit that on 4 different occasions I passed gas and nearly killed someone?  I suppose the biggest reason is to establish the fact that I can handle things that smell…or so I thought.  There is nothing that could prepare me for what I was about to face here in Afghanistan.

I’m not going to say that Afghanistan is the smelliest place on Earth, but I’m certainly not going to argue that it’s not either!  Kandahar is home to over 30,000 people.  Nearly 1 in every 1 people have to use the bathroom while they are here.  While I never attended medical school (although I did trick Jen into marrying me under the assumption that I would), I do know that human waste is

inherently smelly.  I live with a daughter that can single-handedly clear out the entire downstairs living space in our relatively big house  with just one visit to the bathroom (I won’t say which daughter, only that it isn’t Kaylea).  She is just one small girl.  Now imagine if you will that kind of power multiplied by 30,000 people!  Now I realize that there are some of you at this point that are either scoffing this post, grossed out, or are thanking your lucky stars that they didn’t buy my 1988 Toyota Celica.  However, keep this in mind: THERE MUST NEEDS BE A PLACE FOR ALL THAT POO TO GO!  Ladies and gentlemen…I give to you the military solution, reverently known as the POO POND.

The Poo Pond sits smack dab in the middle of Kandahar Air Base, and it is made up of the waste from 30,000 individuals.  It stinks.  It stinks a lot.  It stinks about 30,000 times as bad as Emma on a bad day (oops, forget I mentioned her name).  It stinks ALL the time!  When you leave your room, it is there.  When you go to eat, it is there.  When you brush your teeth, yep, it’s there!  It is pretty much inescapable.  Luckily there is some reprieve.  Every morning they do us a favor and burn all of the trash from the base.  There is nothing quite like the smell of burning plastic bottles to get your blood flowing.  Plus they are telling us that burnt plastic is actually good for you too!  It’s a win-win situation around here!

So my friends…when you think of what to send me in the next care package that I know everyone is getting ready to send, please include some air fresheners…or maybe just a gas mask!  I promise to give it to Jen when I get home.

The Poo Pond Song  (No kidding here...it's famous enough to have a song about it)

 

THEY CALL ME MAGNUM

THE COMBAT MUSTACHE

As a seasoned fighter pilot, I am very much aware that there are many traditions that can easily be perceived as childish and silly.  We avoid words like "Box" and "Head" and replace them with the far more acceptable "Container" and "Cranium".  We give each other cool names like "Huge" Johnson, "Cheetah" Petz and "Frosty" Shepherd (that one really is cool).  I've often said that our organization is nothing more than a big fraternity...and I've enjoyed every minute of it.  While I have been exposed to some juvenile traditions, I also have to admit that some of the things we do quite simply save lives!  Perhaps the greatest example of this is the combat mustache.

 

I was first exposed to the Combat Mustache (I will continue to capitalize these words based on the fact that Combat Mustache is a proper noun)

AMERICAN HERO

when I deployed to Iraq in 2005.  My Director of Operations was one of my mentors and good friends, Lt Col Mark "Calvin" Cline (seriously...the names we give each other are AWESOME).  There are two things that Calvin taught me on that deployment that have always stuck with me.  The first was simple..."Embrace the Suck".  That motto came in handy as rockets were shot into the base on a daily basis and insurgents were shooting small arms at my jet.  All the while the most important thing on the base revolved around my wearing of a reflective belt and tucking in my shirt!  The second lesson was far more important..."There is protection in the growing of facial hair below the upper lip!"  You heard me right.  The Combat Mustache provides a soldier protection whilst he or she (I say that to be politically correct, although few females can pull off the Combat Mustache) is deployed in a combat arena.  As such, Calvin declared that all members of the Rude Rams were to grow a quality Combat Mustache...and so it began!  We had been in Iraq for nearly 3 weeks...just enough time for the average male to have a fairly good deal of hair follicle stimulated growth, and an equal amount of protection.  Sadly, yours truly was struggling.  I'm not sure if it was poor genes, stubborn hair, or that I simply didn't need protecting, but I was quickly learning that I was not cut out to grow a mustache.  I was growing used to the snide remarks from my squadron members, but I was also growing insanely jealous of their ability to so quickly look like my boyhood hero Burt Reynolds!  That guy was simply legendary.  To make a long story short, I finally approached Calvin in total desperation.  I wanted to follow his command, but was also tired of looking like a young Asian boy with a few hairs struggling to find a purpose.  Calvin conceded.  He agreed that my "mustache" was not only NOT providing me protection, but that it was also creeping out most of the squadron.  In return for his permission to shave, I made a pledge that I would attempt another Combat Mustache the next time I flew in the war.  Calvin remains a hero to the men and women of the Rams for allowing me to shave.

A PROMISE KEPT

I've now been here in Afghanistan for nearly 3 weeks, and I'm thrilled to report that I have been true to my word about growing an AMAZING Combat Mustache (I alone get to define AMAZING).  I personally have been proud of my mustache.  In my mind I was beginning to take on the appearance of the man of men in the mustache world...Mr. Tom Selleck!

THE LEGEND

Now it could be the fact that I'm a Lieutenant Colonel on this deployment, but it seemed to me that everyone in my squadron agreed.  They've even posted pictures on our refrigerator discussing my amazing mustache.  I was convinced...I had become Tom Selleck...Magnum PI had nothing on me.  Ron Burgundy was calling me for tips...and then something happened...my family saw me.  Technology has come a long way since I deployed in 2005.  Jenny and the kids were never cursed enough to see my terrible mustache from Iraq.  However, in the world of Skype and FaceTime, I've been able to keep my loved ones up to date with almost daily progress of  "Mr Mustache".  I'm not saying that they thought my mustache was less than AMAZING, I'm just saying that my children cried.  Jen has trouble sleeping at night.  Our house trained dogs have taken to pooping on my pillow.  Clearly there is a difference between my perception and reality. 



So here's my parting thoughts.  Maybe I'm not destined to grow an AMAZING Combat Mustache.  Maybe I'll never look like Burt, Tom or Ron.  But there are two things that I will take away from this experience.  First, I have protection.  I know that as long as I don't shave this pathetic excuse for a mustache I will be protected.  Second...I have integrity.  I made a promise to Calvin, and it's one that I intend to keep.  And who knows...maybe in 6 months I will look like Burt.  Wouldn't that be sexy?!



LESSONS LEARNED...SLOWLY!

Did I ever mention I fly F-16's?

 As a fighter pilot, we take a certain amount of pride in making sure that we get the most out of every mission we fly.  For every hour that we are in the air, there are at least three on the ground that go into briefing and debriefing the mission.  At the end of each mission, we then find the “lessons learned” from that mission.  The idea is simple…don’t make the same mistakes the next time.

It would benefit me to apply that idea in my personal life!

When Jenny and I were first married, we lived with her parents while I tried to hurry and finish my degree.  Jen was about to celebrate her big 21^st birthday and I had the grand idea of throwing her a surprise party.  I invited all of her friends, bought a delicious ice cream cake and even had a piñata filled with lots of quality (cheap) candy.  The stage was set for an unforgettable birthday party.  Well…it WAS unforgettable.  Sadly it was for all the wrong reasons.  For those of you that know my wife well, you know that she is up for just about anything…as long as she is not at the center of attention.  She does not like that one bit.  In fairness, I’m pretty sure she had told me that she didn’t want a surprise party.  As one that does not mind being at the center of attention (I know that comes as a shock to many of you), I could only assume she was kidding.  Without diving into all the details, I’ll just summarize with two lessons learned.  First, don’t put Jen at the center of attention.  Second, listen to your wife when she says she really doesn’t want a surprise party!

I am a slow learner!

Still on sale...check out my website!

Several years later, we were living in Arizona and it was time for one of Mike’s famous Christmas letters.  I’m really not that good at recapping the events that happened throughout the year, but I am good at using my imagination.  In reality, who really wants to know how many hours I flew that year?  But tell them I invented the Snuggie blanket and BAM…people are very interested in reading (as a note…I really did invent the Sunggie blanket.  I just wanted to remind those that didn’t receive that letter).  In an effort to make Jen’s life sound totally unusual, I may have gotten carried away and said that she had made a ton of money as a freelance stripper.  Trust me…it was HILLARIOUS when I was writing it down.  After I sent it out to the millions of loyal friends (14), I learned that Jen really didn’t find it nearly as funny as I did.  I learned a few more important lessons.  First, let Jen proofread any material that has her name in it (yep…she read this one before I hit send).  Second, just because I find something funny, it doesn’t mean Jen will.

Best Pole Dancer EVER!

Seriously…I am not a quick learner!

Just recently I came up with a VERY clever idea for April Fools’ Day.  Keep in mind that I have never attempted to pull off a clever prank on Jen of this nature.  About a month earlier we had received the news that the guy that was set to replace me here in Morocco had been disqualified.  A second person had just recently been identified.  Jen’s biggest fear was that he too would somehow be disqualified and that the Air Force would make me stay longer.  I had told Jen that while this was feasible, it was not probable.  With that in mind, I decided to draft a letter to my boss and have him e-mail it back to me.  Jen and I share an e-mail account, so I knew that she would read any news from my boss.  Here is the letter that I sent…

Frosty-

Don't shoot the messenger.  I found out last night that your would be replacement will not be coming to replace you.  He has some impending disciplinary actions after a huge ordeal that I'm not at liberty to delve into (and honestly don't have all the details).  The bottom line is that we are now scrambling to try and find yet another person to replace you in August.  I have not yet talked to AFPC, but I know that they struggled to fill the position when the first person fell out.  I realize that you signed up for a one year assignment, and under normal circumstances there is nothing the Air Force could do to make you stay longer.  While we hope that won't be the case, I'm writing to let you know that it is a very strong possibility.  I don't need to tell you about how "the needs of the Air Force" come before our personal desires.

The bottom line is that you should not make plans for your return back to the States until you hear more from us.  I feel your pain.  I was supposed to leave in May and clearly that is not going to happen.  I apologize for the inconvenience this might cause and the stress it will place on you and your family.  I'll try and get a definitive answer as soon as I can.

Let me know if you have any questions,

Bolt

Now my plan was to have her read this…stress for 6.9 minutes, and then break the news to her very gently.  As it turned out, 6.9 minutes was WAY too long to leave her in the dark.  Almost as soon as she read the e-mail I received an instant message via Google Chat.  It went like this:

Jen:  What do you think of the email?

Mike: I can't stress over something I can't control.  What did you think?

Jen: It just made me sad, I guess.  I worried that it would happen anyway.

Mike: Then I should tell you to please check the date that it was sent.

Jen: Why?

Mike: And also that it may sound like something a jerk of a husband might write and have Kevin send as a funny April Fool's prank.  (5 minutes pass)  Your silence would lead me to believe that I am in hot water!

Jen: That was cruel.

Mike: But clever!

Jen: Seriously not nice.

There might be some of you out there that are laughing a bit.  For a few minutes I did too.  In fact, for a few minutes I thought I was the funniest guy that walked this planet…for a few minutes.  It didn’t take too long to realize that I had made a HUGE mistake!  So what all important lessons did I take from this experience?  First…there are some things that you DO NOT joke about!  I knew this was Jen’s biggest fear.  I guess that is what made it so effective!  Second…if you are going to pull an April Fool’s Day prank…do it when you will be separated for no less than a year.  It might take that long to gain forgiveness!

Grooviest Girl I know...and Hillarious husband.

As I look back on some of the dumb things I’ve done over the course of 18 ½ years with the coolest gal I know, I realize that I really am blessed to have my best friend as my Eternal Sweetheart!  She loves me unconditionally (and I obviously have given plenty of good reasons to do otherwise).  I am not complete when I am not with her!  I feel blessed to call her my wife and best friend!

Now…If you are reading this, I am planning to throw her a surprise birthday party in March.  Try and keep it on the down low, I don’t want her to find out!

FISH EYE SOUP

I consider myself a lucky man. When it comes to food, I have very little to complain about. Growing up I had a wonderful mother who was an excellent cook. My friends would always want to come over because my mom regularly cooked chocolate chip cookies that were out of this world good! When I left my mother’s cooking, I scored a wife that is not only smokin’ hot, but also a wonderful cook (and added mint chips to a cookie that I thought could not be beat…sorry mom). Even when I served a mission in Chile, I was lucky enough to have someone cook my meals for me. While they were never up to the standards of my mom’s cooking, I never went hungry and I never had to live on Top Ramen.

There are only two meals that I can remember being so bad that they will forever remain on my palate and mind. Ironically, one of those meals was made by the hands of my dear, sweet wife (editor’s note: Dear Sweet Wife…don’t forget that I just said what an amazing cook you are and that you make better cookies than my mother). We had been married for less than a year and were living in our first apartment. We had survived on Chicken Helper and other fancy meals that come out of a box. One day Jen decided she would go outside the box (yes that is a pun…you see I just mentioned we had been eating meals out of a box…get it?). She decided to make us some homemade Chinese food. Well, long story short, it called for corn starch…she added baking soda. Now I will be honest, I’m not sure if I could have told you the difference between the two powders. If we had of been up to speed with the internet back then (thank you Al Gore), we could have easily found answers like this on Answers.com… “Can you use corn starch instead of baking soda or powder?” “No! They are not even close to the same thing (are you trying to poison your husband?!). Baking Soda and Baking Powder are chemical leavening agents. Corn Starch is starch and is used as a thickener.” Sadly, we were not up to speed with the internet, and we had a fairly bad meal that night. As a newlywed, I ate as much as I could with a smile on my face. Jen finally caved and admitted it was not good (bless you my love). I’m not sure what we ended up eating that night, but I know it was not Chinese food (editor’s note: Jen is the best cook EVER. She has not made a bad meal since…all while maintaining super model looks and a wonderful sense of humor).

The second bad meal was served to me on my mission. It was my first Thanksgiving away from home. I remember walking the streets of Chile talking to my American companion about the wonderful things our families were eating that day. We managed to make each other fairly homesick and finally headed back to our home for lunch. We lived with a member of our Stake Presidency and his wife cooked us all of our meals (I did mention I never had to eat Top Ramen as a way of life). Well, you can only imagine the feeling of sweet joy that radiated throughout my entire being as I entered a house permeated with the smell of fish-eye soup. Yep…that is not a type-o, I had fish-eye soup for my first Thanksgiving meal away from home. As a side note, when we returned to live in Chile years later, my amazing, forgiving wife made sure to invite the missionaries over to our house each Thanksgiving to make sure that they had a perfectly cooked meal. In spite of my pleading to serve them fish-eye soup, she always made them turkey with all of the fixin’s.

As you can see, two bad meals over the course of 28 years (I am so not looking forward to next year where I will finally be “29 and holding”) is a fairly good record. When I returned from my mission, I got married as soon as possible in order to have someone who could continue providing me healthy, nutritious meals. Jen and I were married just 8 months after I got home, and aside from the one rare incident mentioned above, she has kept me well fed for over 18 years. On the many occasions that the Air Force has taken me away from home, I’ve still enjoyed some pretty good vittles (thank you, tax payers for making sure that I had crab legs at least once a week). Well…for all of the luck that I have had, it all came to a crashing halt when I was sent to Morocco for an entire year…with no cook!!

When I first got to Morocco and finally settled in to my lavish apartment (that should be read with a touch of sarcasm), I kept waiting for someone to bring me my dinner. After eating at McDonalds for 3 days straight, I realized that I was actually going to be required to make my own meals (I wish that had been explained to me prior to accepting the assignment). I immediately called McDonalds to see if they delivered. When I found out they didn’t, I then made my way to the local grocery store.

It has been well documented that French and Arabic are not my strongest skills (for those wondering, hunting Wolverines with my freakin’ 12-gauge is one of my stronger skills). As a result, shopping was not an easy task for me. It’s bad enough that they use the darn metric system (like every other country except the United States does) and I have to figure out how much 200 grams equates to in our superior system, but then I had to ask for it in a different language. I found myself sticking to the very basics when I first started out shopping. One of the easiest things I could get was a simple carton of eggs. I’ve always liked eggs…they are easy to make and relatively good for you too. I also stocked up on tuna fish, another easy meal with some muscle building protein to boot. I subjected myself to the ridicule in the deli department and got some cheese and turkey too (for some reason I could not find ham). Anyway…that was about the extent of my shopping. Along with some butter and bread, I basically had everything I need for a week’s worth of meals. It turned out I was going to make it after all.

I overestimated my love of eggs. I thought I could eat eggs for 365 days straight…I was wrong. I can eat them for at least 30 days straight. For the first month here, I ate eggs every night. I tried to put some variety in the way I prepared them. One night I would scramble them with the cheese and turkey. One night I would make an “egg in the hole” sandwich (thank you, mother for teaching me that). I had fried eggs, omelets, turkey and egg sandwiches…you name it, I tried it. I forgot about the tuna fish…that stuff would keep, I needed eggs! It made my shopping experience so easy. My only decision was if I would buy 12, 18 or 24 eggs for the week. I’m not ashamed to say that I was addicted to eggs…until I wasn’t. Yep, there came a point where I went to prepare my dinner and thought that if I had to eat another egg I might literally go crazy…I was grateful to have a can of tuna waiting for my breakdown moment.

Since my breakdown, I’m happy to report that I have become a lot more open to cooking new things. Jen was instrumental in my recovery. She has stood by me every step of the way. She has sent me turkey peperoni (ironic…yes) so that I have been able to make homemade pizza. She sent me a crockpot and gravy mix so I could make amazing things like roast beef and Hawaiian/Shorty’s Chicken. I even managed to make a pot of Moroccan Chili. I still revert to the occasional egg every once in a while, but only because I want to…not because I have to! I feel lucky to have overcome such a low time in my life. Now if I could just get that recipe for some delicious fish-eye soup!

Happy eating everyone.

AUSFAHRT

I will be 100% honest. I did not plan on writing another entry again so soon. After my last entry received a grand total of 2 comments, I got the message that there are even fewer people following this Blog than I had originally suspected. Nevertheless, I had a fairly cool experience that was worthy of posting to the both of you. The fact that this entry deals with the same topic as my last entry might simply be a coincidence. It is more likely that it is because this adventure was in such stark contrast to the other that it had that much more of an impact on me. Either way…here it is.

Before sharing my great experience, I thought it was worthwhile to share one more story of driving in Morocco that happened on Friday. I am thankful to say that I was traveling separately than the guys that defied death. We had some visitors from the US here all last week teaching academics on some of the systems in the F-16 (LINK 16 reps for my Viper savvy friends…if you are my Mother, that last sentence might as well have been written in Greek). Anyway, they followed me to work the first day so I could show them how to get to the base (I also taught them the secret to not waiting for over an hour). We met up at the Shell station on the way out of town and started our trek to Ben Gureir Air Base. I took it easy on them and did my best to supress my Mario Andretti instincts. At one point I got behind a guy that felt 50 kph was way better than the limit of 100 kph. It did not take much effort (even in my crappy clown car) to pass this guy. I checked my rearview mirror to see if my entourage had followed and found that they had not. I immediately knew the problem…they were new to Morocco. There was a solid white line and the foolishly thought that meant that they couldn’t pass (silly Americans). After they had gone about 5 minutes, on a straight road with no dashed line in sight, they finally passed with amazing success. By the time Friday came around, they felt they had mastered the driving in Morocco (silly Americans). They once again found themselves behind a slow mover. They checked for oncoming traffic and did not find anyone there…except for a single car a ¼ mile ahead that was parked on the side of the road (this is foreshadowing). Well to no one’s surprise (except the 4 Yankees in the car), just as they began to pass, the car on the side of the road thought it would be a good time to play chicken. The Moroccan won. My colleagues slammed on the brakes and pulled aggressively back behind the car they were trying to pass. Sadly they still had too much overtake. With the brakes firmly applied, they began to turn sideways…still gaining on the car in front of them. With no other options available, they swerved to the right and started to pass the car on the right side. I’m happy to say that they made it work…they passed the car on the right…while their car was literally turned sideways…narrowly avoiding the ditch on the right. I could not have been more proud than if that was my own son driving…they were the first graduates of Frosty’s Moroccan driving school. Anyway…it was a cool enough story to share here, and applicable to my driving this week.

I am currently in Germany. I had to come to Ramstein Air Base to accomplish my flight physical. I also have always really liked the German outfits and wanted to get my hands on some of those cool threads! I flew into Frankfurt on Sunday and rented a car (that could be a post all by itself, but I’m sure I would lose one of the two people that reads this). I saw on my orders that I was once again going to be stuck with an “economy car” (you can be happy to know your tax dollars are not renting me luxury cars). What I didn’t know is that “economy car” in German still means BMW!! I have wanted a BMW for years, so this was my big opportunity to see if it lived up to all of the hype. I won’t ramble as much as I normally do. I will simply say that it most certainly does! The fact that I was free to see what this car could do in the country of its birth (and no speed restrictions) was quite a blessing. It is worth saying that I had no real knowledge of where the heck I was going. It is also worth saying that I didn’t care because where ever I was going…I was getting there fast! I decided to take things “slow” at first. By slow, I realized that I was soon going 150 kph. That is nearly the top speed in my POS Peugeot. That’s right, I was almost running at 100 mph and I still had 2 gears to go. Anxious to see what the BMW could do, I continued to accelerate. Two things happened…first, I topped out at 210 kph (130 mph). It’s important to note that I topped out…the car still had much more to give. Why did I top out before the car you might ask? That was due to the second thing that happened. I’m not sure if it is an actual BMW feature, but at exactly 210 kph, a vision of my wife appears in the passenger’s seat and begins to yell at me to slow down. In spite of her majestic appearance that forced me to slow down, I still felt like I had given that car a good run…until I realized that I was still getting passed as if I was standing still. Seriously!! These Germans would never survive in Morocco.

As I slowed things down, I was able to take in a little more of the amazing scenery on my way to the base. The drive was great, but I struggled to keep my bearing as I tried to read the names of the towns that I was passing thru…Kaiserslautern, Saarbruecken and Einsiedlerhof. Needless to say that I began to tune out the names of the towns and chose to focus on the drive. That all changed when I passed a sign that I assumed was the name of another town. AUSFAHRT. I about died. It took me a second or two to register what I had just read. I got a good kick out of my childlike sense of humor and continued on. I soon realized that either every city in Germany was named AUSFAHRT, or that it meant something else. It didn’t take me too much longer to realize that AUSFAHRT means EXIT. That inspired another round of laughing as I couldn’t help but agree that if life has taught me one thing…AUSFAHRT is indeed an EXIT! I can only imagine that my friends that nearly killed themselves passing a slow moving Moroccan on the right…sideways…near a ditch, had a few AUSFAHRTS in their own car!

Happy driving everyone!

MOPEDS AND DONKEYS AND SHEEP... OH MY

I’ll be the first to admit that it has been far too long since I have written in this blog. One of the 4 faithful followers told me that I had started to become very predictable in my writing style. They observed that I would always start with a story of my childhood and then somehow try and relate that to my adventures here. Well…after an amazing trip back to the United States of America, I decided to recommit myself to writing more often, and to try and be less predictable. Instead of opening with my normal childhood story, I decided to share a story of my dad when he was younger.

It was nearly 25 years ago. My dad was teaching early morning seminary. Class started at 6:00, so he would have to leave the house around 5:30 in order to get there in time to set things up (earlier if he was buying donuts for all of his students). One can only imagine that the streets of Albuquerque were not extremely busy at that time of day, and so he decided to teach his favorite son, who was nearing his 15th birthday, how to drive. I’m certain he will never forget what an amazing driver his son was. He was a natural with not only a great personality and handsome good looks, but also a keen awareness of everything around him. He was destined to become a great driver and potentially save the world as he knew it. However…his near-perfect son did have one small chink in his armor…he had a hard time sticking to just one lane. The truck my dad was teaching him to drive was HUGE and so he couldn’t quite get a handle on visualizing how to stick to the center of his lane. As a result, he often drove right down the middle of the two. I’m sure my dad has fond memories of helping him to correct that small problem. If only my dad was available to give some lessons to the people here in Morocco. (I have to admit that it was nice to tell a story about my dad instead of about me…it felt refreshing).

I have driven in some crazy places throughout the world. Chilean driving taught me that the best defense is a good offense. I also learned that it is never impossible to squeeze one more lane out of a two lane road. My short time in Brazil taught me more of the same while adding a lesson on drive-by shootings (no joke…saw my first one 10 minutes after checking into my hotel). The driving lessons I learned in Indonesia mainly involved mopeds and the amount of things you can carry on it if you simply use your imagination…how do you get a spare car tire home while driving a moped you ask? That my friends is easy…wear it around your waist (why do you think they have a hole in it anyway). In spite of the global lessons I had gathered, I felt like they were all in preparation for my PHD on driving here in Morocco. I feel as though I could write volumes about my experiences here. For the sake of time, I’ll briefly share just a few of the lessons/frustrations I deal with on a daily basis here.

Those of you living inside the glorious United States of America have been spoiled without really even knowing it. You have lived the secluded life of 4 lane interstate roads that span across the entire country. You have lived with only 3 options on a stop light: red, yellow and green (even though I have on more than one occasion told my kids that the light was “orange”). Perhaps most importantly, you have traveled to and from work without fear of pulverizing countless sheep along the way. Yes, you have been spoiled…as I once was.

But mine eyes have been opened. They see with a new purpose when I am behind the wheel. Driving in Morocco has quite simply changed me in ways from which I may never be able to recover. I am quite certain that I won’t be able to fully capture with words just how greatly these experiences have affected me. I begin with the insane. To fully illustrate this point, I will share a story (sorry…this one is not about my dad). When Jen and I were new parents living in Texas, we owned two cars, a Ford Mustang and a Ford Contour. Neither of those cars has a great capacity for hauling things. One day we decided to do a project around the house that required buying some long 2 x 4’s. I remember going to Home Depot and buying those boards and then being faced with the dilemma of how to bring those home. My idea was to simply hold them to the roof of the car and drive slowly. However, in the end Jen’s reason won out and we waited for some help hauling them with a truck. I digress…the people here do not have a “Jen” to help them reason. Nope…they simply act upon the first idea that pops into their head. Of all of those ideas, the most popular is to simply stack it as high as you possibly can and pray that gravity is taking a nap that day. The very first day I arrived to Marrakech, I had the great opportunity to get stuck behind a guy that was hauling hay. I was so impressed that I had to take a picture (yes, I did it while I was driving…totally eliminating my credibility about unsafe drivers, but so worth it to capture it for the official record). If I had a nickel for every car I have passed that determined to maximize their moving capacity via bungee cords and tarps, I would not need to ask you to pay me for these blogs (seriously…still waiting on the money). Murphy has been fairly good to me so far, and I have not had one of those trucks tip over and crush me…but clearly the odds are stacked against me.

One of the biggest challenges with driving in Morocco is that there are so many different kinds of “things” on the road. From my ever powerful 1.2L Peugeot 206+ (that surprisingly is able to reach 100 MPH), to the mopeds that don’t have working lights and thus sneak up on you just as you are about to hit them, to the greatly popular donkey carts, there are a ton of different rides on the road. Consequently, you can never really be sure what will be lurking around the next turn. All too often I have sped around a blind turn to find the luck of the draw dealt me the donkey cart. I have found that I am much less impressed with how fast a car can go from 0 to 60, but rather how fast it can slow down from 100 to 10! As a guy that flies jets for a living, I generally do not care to drive fast on the ground. However, I have a 45 minute drive to work each day, and the only thing keeping me from getting to the golf course after work are those dreaded 45 minutes. Throw in my type “A” personality and it gives me a good reason to try and make a new record every time I return home each day. In spite of the dangers that exist while driving here, the most frustrating part of driving here has nothing to do with speed.

I like to think that I am a guy that is somewhat decisive. I only dated Jen for 2 months before we were engaged. Once I tricked her into thinking I was going to be a doctor, we were married 6 months later. Once I was certain that she was in for the long haul, I decided to join the Air Force and never looked back. Bottom line…I like to make a decision and then go after it with all my heart. How does that apply to driving in Morocco?! It really doesn’t, I just wanted to pat myself on the back for tricking Jen into marrying me. Actually…it really does apply. In the most simple of forms, one of the easier things associated with driving is deciding which lane to drive in. There are those that will only drive in the fast lane, and those that feel more secure in the slow lane. Which is better? I guess they both have their value, and I am not one to judge. I don’t even mind those that change it up and go back and forth…more power to them! However, there is another category that drives me insane. 97.69% of Moroccan drivers have yet to decide which lane they prefer. As a result, they drive right down the middle of both lanes (my Dad could go to town with giving some lessons down here)! I will not lie; there is a small chance that I have wanted to share some choice English words with the people of Morocco. Instead, I generally settle for saying things like “RETARD!! PLEASE CHOOSE A LANE!” I am not proud of my actions, but the drivers here will literally drive me crazy before this year is over.

Before I close (I am sure I’ve lost most of you by now), I thought I would end on a positive note. Not everything about driving here is bad. What you ask could possibly compensate for the dial-a-death driving that I do each day? The answer my friends is simple…it is called a Diplomatic Passport. In short, the black passport acts like a Monopoly Get Out of Jail Free Card. All I will say is that the 1.2L Peugeot 206+ may only go 100 MPH, but that is still about 30 MPH faster than I should legally go. I’m fairly certain that somewhere there is a Moroccan writing a blog about the retarded American that passes them like a madman as he ditches a sheep, a donkey cart, and a moped. In my defense...I do all of that while staying in one lane!

PS- If you are my wife or mother…none of this is true! I drive 30 MPH to and from work each day with my hands at 10 and 2.