To celebrate my promotion, Mrs. Smash and I had dinner at one of my favorite local restaurants: The Mission Hills Café.

When we were first married we had an apartment a few blocks away from this little bistro, and we would frequently walk over for breakfast or lunch on the weekends. Several duty stations later we found ourselves back in San Diego, but discovered that rents had gone up so much in the old neighborhood that we could no longer afford to live there.

But we still come back every now and again, and have discovered that their dinners are even better than breakfast or lunch. The head chef, François Goedhuys, brought not only culinary expertise from his native Belgium, but also a European "price fixe" model: all dinner entrées include an appetizer and dessert in the price, typically $12-18—and worth every penny.

What is it that brings us back? Reasonable prices, friendly service, a casual atmosphere, and good food. Favorite entrées include Salmon with Mango Sauce, “Duck Mission Hills,” and lamb shank, although they have excellent entrée salads and even some vegetarian dishes. If I’m in the mood for something different, François always has several creative specials to choose from, and while I’ve often been surprised by his dishes, I’ve never been disappointed. They also have an excellent (but not too expensive) wine list, heavy on California, Washington, and Australian vineyards—and they sell most of them by the glass as well as the bottle.

What I find myself craving the most, however, are François’ legendary crêpes. I always get the lemon butter crêpe, wrapped around a scoop of vanilla ice cream, and Mrs. Smash goes for the crêpe with fresh strawberries. I’m told they have other desserts, but I’m not sure why.

I’ve recommended this place to several friends, none of whom have reported any complaints. Even so, we’ve never had a problem getting a seat without a reservation, except on major holidays.

Not every neighborhood has a restaurant like this, but they should.

Reported back to the unit today for demobilization processing. We mustered outside the Base Dental Clinic—the same location where we began this journey a little over eight months ago.

After formation, one of my fellow LTs came up to me with a big grin on his face. “Congratulations,” he said, shaking my hand.

“Thanks,” I replied, a bit puzzled. “So, what are you congratulating me for, exactly?”

“The list came out. We both made Lieutenant Commander!”

This was great news—my package went before the O-4 promotion board for the first time this spring. There was some concern at the time that due to some admin glitches, our mobilization and deployment orders might not have made it to the board in time for review. In fact, we were technically listed not as active duty but as non-drilling reservists—typically the last in line for promotion. Imagine—I might have been penalized by the military for going to war!

I called Mrs. Smash and reported the good news a few minutes later. The changes to the web site title bar were her handiwork.

The only downside is that my promotion won't be effective for several more months, so it will only affect my pocketbook for that one weekend a month and two weeks a year when I'm drilling (yeah, right).

We’re going out to dinner tonight to celebrate. I’m (mostly) recovered from my long flight home, so hopefully I should be able to stay awake through dessert.

Drove my parents to the airport yesterday morning—Dad has to attend a meeting in Colorado, and he’s taking Mom along for the weekend.

Dad sat in the front seat of the car, so we could talk. We have quite a few common interests—in fact, we’re so alike that Mom refers to me as Dad’s Clone. We had one of our typical, lightning fast conversations, jumping between current events, sports, technology, and politics. Mom sat in the back seat, just soaking it all in.

When we arrived at the airport, Mom finally spoke up. “I just love listening to you two talk to each other… I really missed that while you were gone!”

Yeah.

On the drive home, I passed by downtown San Diego—it’s amazing how much this place changes in just a few months.

The County Administration Center, a 1930’s landmark on the Bayfront, was sporting a huge yellow ribbon tied around the upper levels—reminding me of all my brothers in arms who are still sweltering in the Sandbox…

The new W Hotel was recently completed.

These four high-rise condominium projects were near completion before I left, but I hadn’t seen them often enough to absorb them into my mental image of downtown.

But the biggest change that caught my eye was PETCO Park, future home of the San Diego Padres. This project has been delayed so many times by scandal and litigation, that seeing the almost-completed ballpark was a real surprise. When I left town in December, it was just a bunch of pylons, and didn’t even have a named sponsor yet.

For lunch, I treated Mrs. Smash to burritos at El Indio’s, a San Diego institution. They opened as a tortilla factory and Mexican Restaurant on India Street (thus the name) in 1940, and aside from expanding into the shop next door and opening a few satellite locations, not much has changed since then.

It’s nice that some things remain constant in this ever-changing world…

Mrs. Smash and I would like to thank everyone who hit the new “Buy Me Beer” button over the past two days. Your contributions have already exceeded our modest annual budget for alcohol, and will most likely go to pay for the Welcome Home Party that Mom and Mrs. Smash are throwing for me.

If there’s any left over, it will help to defray the cost of our plane tickets for the East Coast Victory Tour.

Thanks again!

Took Mrs. Smash out for lunch today at Pickup Stix, a local chain of "fast casual" Chinese restaurants. There are other items on the menu, but House Special Chicken is what they do best.

I'm whiling away the afternoon on my back deck, sipping on a Corona and surfing the net on my new laptop with wireless networking. It's very nice outside today...

I hear my wife laughing as she walks through the house, coming towards me.

'What's so funny?" I ask.

She appears at the back door, holding up a letter. "This is for you." She's grinning.

It's a summons for Jury Duty.

Clearly, I'm not one to shirk from my civic responsibilities, but haven't I done enough this year?

Fortunately, I have a bulletproof escape clause. The summons is for a date less than a month away--I'll still be on Active Duty. But it's a near thing. Just a few days after my summons date, I'll be a civilian again.

But they don't have to know that, do they?

Nephew Jack was predictably shy at the airport. I bought him a toy cellphone shaped like one of the Teletubbies at a shop in Kuwait. When you press the buttons, he says different things in Arabic. He accepted it very warily--I think he was a bit overwhelmed by the crowds and the noise.

My cats, on the other hand, recognized me right away, and scolded me from the moment I walked in the door. "Where have you been?" They seemed to say. A few kitty treats and a scratch under the chin later, all was forgiven.

I remarked to my wife and Mom how green San Diego looks after eight months in Kuwait, and they laughed, saying we were in the middle of a drought, and everything looked brown to them.

Had lunch yesterday at a 50's style diner, and our waiter picked a poor topic for small talk.

"Can you believe how HOT it is? I was waiting tables outside yesterday and I thought I would DIE of heat exhaustion!" It was about 80F outside.

I smiled and replied, "I just got back from Kuwait. It was 115 degrees there yesterday."

"Oh." He paused, looking awkward. "Uh, welcome home!"

"Thanks!"

Took Mrs. Smash to the movies yesterday. Seabiscuit was playing, and it was well worth the price of admission. It's not just about a racehorse--Seabiscuit is a story about adversity, second chances, and redemption. Excellent performances by Tobey McGuire and Jeff Bridges.

If you take the kids to see it, be prepared to explain some touchy issues, like the Great Depression, divorce, prostitution, death, "putting down" horses, gambling, and bullfighting. There's some minor profanity and violent scenes, but no nudity. This isn't Black Beauty, but it is a great movie for adults and older kids who can handle some adult themes. (Rated PG-13)

Like the title character, the film Seabiscuit is a winner--expect it to be nominated for several Academy Awards.

I give it an A.

Still haven't adjusted to the time zone--I woke up yesterday at about 2:00 AM, and this morning at 3:00. I guess that's progress, but I'm falling asleep at 7:00 PM, which makes it difficult to take the wife out to a romantic dinner...

I have a couple more days off, then I have to report back for medical examinations and demobilization. After that, it's three weeks of paid vacation, baby!

There’s no daylight savings time in Kuwait. On August 22, 2003 the sun rose at 0520.

I stood on a concrete barrier, facing east as the sky turned from gray to orange. An impossibly huge crimson sun broke through the horizon, silhouetting the large gantry cranes and casting long shadows behind the towering cement factory. It became smaller and brighter as it rose above the haze, its brilliance outshining the long flames flickering atop the oil refinery stacks. I could feel its warm rays kissing my face. It was pleasant for the moment, but before too long it would become painfully hot.

I had arrived in Kuwait almost eight months earlier, on New Year’s Eve 2002, amidst an atmosphere of anticipation, uncertainty, and fear. Detachment Two of Naval Coastal Warfare Group One was assigned to provide security for Coalition ships unloading military cargo in the Port of Shuaiba. War in Iraq appeared to be all but inevitable, and this was the port through which most of the war materiel would flow. Huge ships, some of the largest roll on/roll off cargo carriers ever built, would sail into this port, discharge their cargo, and return to Europe or the United States for another load. They would all come through here: V Corps, I MEF, Third Infantry, Fourth Infantry, 101st Airborne, 82nd Airborne, 1st ACR, 3rd ACR, the British Army, the Royal Marines, the Poles, the Danes, the Norwegians, the Romanians, the Czechs, the Italians, the Spanish, and countless others. Shuaiba was what the logistics types like to call a “critical node.” But this was the Mother of all Critical Nodes—if it should fail, our alternatives would be very limited.

To make matters even more complicated, Shuaiba, with its deep water and proximity to the major oil refineries, is a critical port for Kuwaiti industry. We couldn’t close the harbor to non-military vessels, or the Kuwaiti economy would go into a tailspin. The port would have to remain open—for military and commercial traffic.

We flooded the zone. Working hand-in-hand with the Kuwaiti authorities, we built a protective bubble around the port and its approaches, establishing around-the-clock armed patrols on the water and the land. We utilized radar, sonar, visual and thermal sensors to provide surveillance and early warning of any suspicious or unauthorized vessels in the area. We erected fortified gun mounts near the land and sea approaches to the port, and constantly shifted and re-configured our security to foil enemy planning.

Out security measures were so impressive that shipping insurance rates were actually lowered for the Port of Shuaiba after we arrived. We safely escorted and protected over 300 Coalition vessels. Despite the fact that this was of the biggest, fattest target in the war, no attack against the port was ever attempted (aside from one or two poorly aimed Iraqi missiles). It wasn’t exciting or glamorous duty, but it was absolutely critical to the war effort.

But I wasn’t contemplating any of this as I watched the sunrise that morning. This would be my last day in Kuwait, and all I could think about was that magic moment, only hours away, when I would step off that plane and into the loving arms of my wife. I was so excited that I couldn’t sleep, so I decided to go out and watch the sunrise one last time.

Our flight wasn’t scheduled to leave until late in the evening. It was going to be a very long day.

Morning is the best time to take a shower—the water is stored in bladders that are exposed to the desert sun, and a few hours after sunrise it becomes hot enough to inflict burns. As usual, the water pressure was so low that I had to stand almost directly underneath the faucet in order to wash myself. But even low water pressure couldn’t affect my buoyant mood—I knew that my days of showering under a hot, dripping faucet were almost over.

After one last (forgettable) breakfast in the chow tent, I headed to our morning meeting. Unlike most mornings, there was no new tasking from the Commanding Officer. No last minute schedule changes. We were going home.

At our unit formation, we had an awards ceremony, followed by a brief speech by the CO. He congratulated us on completing our mission, and wrapped it up with a “Hoorah!”

“HOORAH!” we shouted, waking the night shift.

And then it was time to finish packing. I had mailed two boxes home, in order to eliminate one of my bags, but I was surprised to discover yet another bag of clothing that I had planned to mail home. It was hidden deep under my cot, and stuffed with sweat pants and cold weather clothing—stuff I hadn’t worn since early February. Fortunately, it was a small bag, and I was still well under my baggage allowance.

I cleared out my footlocker, throwing most of my accumulated junk away, but depositing some “gifts,” (like a tin of Altoids, and a couple dozen unused batteries) on Ed’s and Jorge’s cots. No sense in letting that stuff go to waste.

It was 1000, my bags were packed, and I had nothing left to do. I pulled out my camping chair and sat down with a book.

Lunch started at 1100, and I was one of the first people in line. The choice was between greaseburgers and overcooked fish. I took the fish. That turned out to be a mistake. The news was on the TV in the chow tent, but I paid no attention. What could be bigger news than going home?

Noon in Kuwait is 0200 on the West Coast, so I thought I’d try to take a nap after lunch, to help readjust to the time zone. No such luck—I couldn’t sleep. So I read some more. But the book couldn’t hold my attention, either, so I chatted with my tent mates for a while then went outside.

It was hot, of course, but that didn’t bother me. Several dozen people were gathered around one of the concrete barriers, where we had painted our unit logo, and everyone had signed their names and wrote witty quotes, just like in a high school yearbook.

My favorite:

When we came here, this was all just dirt… but now, it’s dirt with tents on it!

We crammed into the buses like sardines, holding our carry-on bags in our laps. The air conditioning was weak, and the atmosphere became stale very quickly. It seemed to take forever for the buses to get started. Finally, we pulled out of the dirt parking lot.

Standing in formation, right before the final turn out of camp, was the unit that relieved us. They saluted us, and we waved back.

“So long, suckers!” Someone shouted out the window, inappropriately.

As we left Camp Spearhead for the last time, not a single one of us grew teary-eyed, and no one looked back. The rotten-egg sulfur smell of the Al Ahmadi refinery that had assaulted our noses for months faded away as we pulled onto the highway.

The convoy moved far too slowly…

Camp Champion, on the fringe of Kuwait International Airport, is the last stop for service members heading home from Iraq and Kuwait. Our first station was the “welcome tent,” where we filled out our customs declarations, received a brief lecture on our veterans’ benefits and re-employment rights, and answered a medical questionnaire.

One of the many questions:

Did you see anyone wounded, killed, or dead during this deployment?

Realizing that these forms might be used as the basis for any future disability claims, I was careful to note all of my medical concerns—including the possible long-term effects of living downwind from an oil refinery. Army medical personnel spent about one minute looking over each questionnaire, hardly enough time to make a serious evaluation—but this was just a preliminary screening for major problems, they assured us.

The next stop was the “Amnesty Brief.” An MP went over the list of prohibited items to take back to the States, including Iraqi weapons, unexploded ordnance, body parts, etc.—same drill as before. After the brief, we were sent, one at a time, past an “amnesty box,” where we could turn in any illegal items without consequences.

They inspected every one of our bags. I had to completely empty out my carefully-packed bags on a table in front of an MP, who sorted through my T-shirts and underwear, and even squeezed my socks. Then I had to repack my bags. But I didn’t mind, really. I could put up with just about anything, as long as I could get on that plane at the end of the day.

Satisfied that I had no contraband, the MP directed me to the final table, where a clerk swiped my ID card, putting my name on the final manifest for the flight home. Hallelujah.

I left the inspection tent, and lugged my bags another 50 meters to a waiting cargo truck. They took my bags, and directed me into the “lounge,” which was yet another tent, this one with MREs, sodas, and a TV.

It was 1830, and our flight wasn’t scheduled to leave for another four and a half hours. I grabbed an MRE, Pasta with Vegetables, and claimed a spot in front of the idiot box. Star Trek: Nemesis was playing. I made an effort to watch, but my mind kept wandering…

An interminable two hours later, we put on the second movie, Die Hard 3.

We were only about forty-five minutes into the second flick when the announcement was made: our plane was ready, and we would be leaving early. A cheer went up in the tent.

It was a 757 chartered from the lowest bidder, American Travel Airways. All of the seats were coach, and they were crammed together even tighter than I had previously believed possible. I claimed an aisle seat, and Paul took the window. Fortunately for everyone, the middle seats remained empty.

The flight attendants were exceptionally friendly and accommodating. As I was adjusting the time zone on my PDA, when a cute blonde woman hugged me from behind and said “I’m very, very sorry, sir, but we need you to turn that off for now.” She even gave me a little squeeze for emphasis.

“Oh, er, sorry. I forgot.”

“No problem, sir,” she beamed at me, “Thank you!”

The plane started rolling down the runway shortly before 2200, over an hour ahead of schedule. As the wheels lifted off the tarmac, a spontaneous cheer erupted throughout the plane.

Goodbye, Kuwait!

I didn’t even try to sleep on the first leg of the flight, from Kuwait to Cyprus. I listened to the in-flight music service, and read a book. For once, the music service wasn’t that bad. They were playing some tunes that were among my favorites a few years back, and I was really enjoying it—until the emcee came on and announced that I was listening to “Oldies but Goodies.” Am I that old?

Miss Squeezy interrupted my train of thought by whispering in my ear. “You want something to drink?”

“Sure. Whatcha got?”

She paused. “Alcohol,” she whispered, as if it were a national secret.

I hadn’t had a drop of booze since December. I ordered a beer—it didn’t matter what brand. It only took me a few sips to get a nice buzz. I would have to remember to be careful, I thought; my tolerance for alcohol was unusually low…

We landed in Cyprus at about 0200, where we refueled and swapped out our flight crew. We weren’t allowed off the plane.

The second leg of our flight was from Cyprus to Shannon, Ireland. I caught a few winks after we reached cruising altitude, but the sun rose somewhere over France, and I was awake again. At this rate, I was going to be a zombie by the time I got home.

There couldn’t be two places on Earth more dissimilar than Kuwait and Ireland. From the air, Ireland is everything that Kuwait is not: cool, wet, green, hilly, beautiful. If I had seen it in a photo instead of with my own eyes, I would have sworn that the image was doctored to look greener than would otherwise be possible. But it was real.

Unlike in Cyprus, they did allow us to leave the aircraft in Shannon—but we were prohibited from visiting Shannon’s famous international lounge, with the large duty free shop and Irish pub. Instead, a makeshift duty free outlet and a five-tap bar had been erected for our benefit adjacent to the gate.

Although it was only 0700 in the morning in Ireland, the bar was open, and I was near the front of the line. A major disappointment: they had no Guinness on tap. I settled for a Beamish Stout, with a nice, thick head. It had a rich, chocolate flavor, much like Guinness, but not quite as bitter.

With beer in hand, I perused the duty-free shop. Several people were raiding the liquor shelves, but I was looking for gifts for my family. I found a Cadbury Fruit and Nut bar, Mrs. Smash’s favorite. I also purchased an inflatable neck pillow, with the hope that it would help me to sleep on the plane. Most of the other stuff was typical tourist junk.

I finished my beer, then made my way to the pay phones. I had one last pre-paid calling card with a few remaining minutes to burn, so I thought I’d give Mrs. Smash a ring, to let her know that I was safely on my way. It was shortly before midnight back home, but I didn’t expect she would mind hearing from me.

“Hello, lass!”

“Hi! Let me guess, you’re in Ireland?”

“Right you are! Bought you something…”

“Oh? What’d you get?”

“Come pick me up tomorrow afternoon and I’ll show you.”

“Sounds like you’re having a good time there—is the bar open?”

“Yes indeed, and I just had my first coupla beers of 2003 (urp).”

She laughed. “Well, you’ve earned ‘em, sailor. Now come home and have a drink or two with me!”

“I miss you!”

“Me too. But not for much longer!”

“I love you!”

“Hmmph. Probably the beer talking. You just want to get me into bed…”

“Aw, come on…”

“I love you too, Sweetie.”

“Shucks.”

We went on like this until I ran out of time on my calling card. Then I went back to the bar, and bought another round of beers for a few members of my old watch team.

Just a few sips into my second beer (a Beamish Red, not as heavy as the stout, very thick head, tasty), the announcement was made that the plane was refueled and it was time to board. Should I leave the unfinished beer behind, or down it?

I chose the second option.

The beers helped me to calm down and get an hour or two of sleep over the Atlantic, but as soon as the buzz wore off, I was awake again. From my seat, I could see that a little gaggle of flight attendants and sailors had formed up by the cockpit door—it appeared the normal FAA security regulations didn’t apply on this particular flight.

I made my way up to the front. Everyone had a drink in their hand. “Is this cocktail hour?”

One of the flight attendants smiled. “Can I get you something?”

I was feeling a little bit depleted after all that Irish beer, so I thought about getting something healthy, you know, with vitamins and stuff. “How ‘bout some tomato juice?”

“You want a Bloody Mary?”

Close enough. “Sure, thanks!”

A couple of the single guys were hitting on the flight attendants, with varying degrees of success. The co-pilot joined in the conversation (but not the drinking), and even offered tours of the cockpit. No danger of hijacking on this flight. I noticed that one of the flight attendants had rank insignia from every branch of the Armed Forces pinned on her apron. Apparently, she made this run pretty frequently.

I spent an hour or so at the cocktail party, then made my way back to my seat to take a nap. When I woke up, we were over Canada. A few hours later, the captain announced that we had crossed over into US airspace over Lake Erie. A cheer went up throughout the plane, even louder than when we left Kuwait.

Our final stopover was in Indianapolis, the hub for ATA. We were directed off the plane to a customs waiting area. I immediately went to the restroom, where I washed my face and hair, shaved, brushed my teeth, and changed my socks and underwear. I felt like a human being again, albeit a very drowsy one.

It was scheduled to be a two and a half hour layover—but after an hour or so, they told us our plane was ready. This was a cause for some worry, as it would have us arrive at home about two hours ahead of our scheduled time, and there was some concern that not all the families would get the word of our early arrival. The senior officers made some quick phone calls to their wives to get the phone trees in motion, while the rest of us boarded the plane for the final time.

Nobody slept on the last leg of our flight.

I was restless. I’d finished my book, heard all of the in-flight music stations numerous times, and seen all the movies and videos. For the last hour of the flight, I peered over Paul’s shoulder out the window, looking for familiar landmarks. From the air, I could see the border fence between California and Mexico, an unnatural straight line with radically different development on either side—First World meets Third World. We passed over the last of the Coast Ranges, and I spotted the border city of Tijuana, and then the Pacific Ocean. Out the opposite window, I could make out the skyline of San Diego, my home town.

I felt my heart beating faster as we banked to the right over the ocean, making our final approach to North Island Naval Air Station. As if to remind me of previous homecomings, we flew parallel to the shipping channel, and I had a perfect view of Point Loma though the tiny window. I spied the old light house, and the small white stones of Rosecrans National Cemetery, where my brother’s friend Tom had been laid to rest a few months earlier…

The wheels touched down on the tarmac, and the plane erupted into cheering and applause. As we rolled to a stop, I could see the crowd gathered at the hangar to welcome us home. They were holding up signs, and waving American flags in frenzied excitement. I spotted the media, a troop of Girl Scouts, and even the Charger Girls, who must have found it refreshing to cheer for a winning team—but I couldn’t pick out the one person I was looking for in the crowd.

It seemed to take forever to roll the stairway up to the plane. The Group Commodore was the first person on the plane, and he had a few brief words to say. Proud of us, job well done, blah, blah, blah. Let me off the plane already!

Finally it was time to leave the airplane. Buh-bye! As I stepped on to the staircase, I noticed the beautiful blue sky, with puffy white popcorn clouds. It was about 75F outside—almost 40 degrees cooler than it had been in Kuwait the previous day.

We formed up in four rows at the foot of the staircase, while our loved ones watched from behind the security cordon, about 50 meters away. I searched the faces in the crowd, but I couldn’t see her—had she not gotten the word about our early arrival?

We were called to attention, and the senior officers went through their routine, saluting and saying important sounding stuff.

Then the CO turned to address the troops.

“Mission complete. Naval Coastal Warfare Group One, HOORAH!”

“HOORAH!”

“DISMISSED!”

The formation dissolved. Families and sailors rushed forward, into a melee of hugs and tearful reunions.

Where was she? I felt a knot forming in my stomach, as I began to worry that she hadn’t learned of our early arrival--Suddenly, off to my left, I heard a familiar voice: “SCOTT!”

Standing before me was The Most Beautiful Woman on Earth, surrounded by my family. I dropped my bags, and closed the final yards in long, quick strides.

I was home at last.

More later...

This place is beautiful only twice a day: at sunrise and sunset. I took a photograph of each yesterday.

Got my last Sandbox haircut the other day. The barbershop is run by contract workers, almost all of whom are Filipinos. I don’t speak Tagalog, and their English isn’t all that great, but they understood me perfectly when I told them I was going home.

My hair is very short, both because of military regulations and for practical reasons. It’s just too darned hot to be carrying a lot of hair around. But it was starting to get a little bit rough around the edges, and I wanted to look good for my homecoming.

My barber gave me the most meticulous haircut I’ve had in years. He didn’t bother with the electric shears, opting instead for scissors and a straight razor. He studied my head like an artist working on a masterpiece, ensuring that my hair was neat and even. He spent almost thirty minutes with the scissors, searching my scalp for rogue hairs and split ends. He finished it off with a massage of my head and shoulders.

I asked if he would like to come home with me to be my personal barber. I told him we had lots of Filipinos in my town, and he would feel right at home—plenty of lumpia and pancit. He smiled and laughed.

Military regulation haircut: $5.25. I gave him a two-dollar tip.

You accumulate a lot of stuff over eight months. Some of it has outlived its usefulness, and will be thrown away. Other stuff, like our bedside rugs and makeshift furniture, will be sold or donated to our replacements. I’m shipping a couple of boxes of souvenirs home, to avoid the hassle of lugging it around the airport and going through the numerous MP and customs inspections.

We’ve taken some of the burden off ourselves by separating out some of our military gear to be shipped home on a space-available cargo transport. We might not see it for several months, but we won’t be needing it, as we will now be at the end of the line of deployable units.

I volunteered to help out with the customs inspection for these shipments. The job consisted of emptying each bag, as the military police went through and searched for contraband. They were looking for the usual stuff, like drugs and large wads of cash; but also for unauthorized war trophies, such as Iraqi weapons, explosives, or even (shudder) body parts.

They didn’t find any of that, although I did feel a little shiver down my spine when we went through some medical supplies and found a stack of body bags. Fortunately, we didn’t have to use any of those on this deployment.

Jorge noticed that I’m wearing a big smile on my face.

“Watch out, Jorge,” I warned him, “If I gave you a hug when I met you, imagine what I’ll do when I leave!”

I’m soooo short…

How short are you?

I’m so short, I have to reach UP to lace my boots!

Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got some bags to pack…

There's an English-language radio station here that plays American music--all kinds of American music, including rock, rap, hip-hop, country, etc. Seriously, you can hear Willie Nelson one minute, and Eminem the next.

They use every worn-out, cliched radio slogan you've ever heard. The Gulf's Number One Radio Station! Rockin' the Gulf! All the Best Hits, All the Time! Moo Mushkla!

OK, maybe you haven't heard that last one. Neither had I, before I came here. It was bugging me. What the heck does "Moo Mushkla" mean? I was determined to find out, before I left.

So today I fired off an email to a local woman who has her own weblog, to see if she could shed some light on this.

Apparently, "Moo Mushkla" means "No Problem" in Arabic.

Now I know. I feel complete.

I can go home now.

Tom, who works on the “Force Provider” contract for the Army, writes to me requesting feedback on the Containerized Latrine System in our camp. The following is my reply.

Sir,

Thank you for your letter requesting feedback on the Containerized Latrine System. Overall, we are very pleased with the system, and feel fortunate to have such a relative luxury in an otherwise inhospitable environment. I would like, however, to address a specific deficiency regarding the operating instructions posted on the inside lid of your toilets:

OPERATION
To Flush: Step on large pedal until rinse clears the bowl.
To Add Water To Bowl: Step on small pedal until water reaches desired level. Release pedal slowly.

The fix to this problem is relatively simple. Replace the “civilian” operating instructions with the following “military” instructions, and post them in large block letters next to the toilet paper dispenser.

ATTENTION

BY ORDER OF THE COMMANDING GENERAL, EACH SOLDIER USING THE LATRINE WILL OBSERVE THE FOLLOWING PROCEDURE:

1. ENSURE TOILET LID IS IN RAISED POSITION.
2. STEP ON THE SMALL PEDAL. WATER WILL FLOW INTO THE TOILET UNTIL IT IS HALFWAY FULL.
3. RELEASE THE PEDAL SLOWLY.
4. LOWER TROUSERS AND UNDERPANTS.
5. SIT ON TOILET AND CLEAR BLADDER AND/OR BOWELS.
6. WIPE REAR AREA WITH TOILET PAPER UNTIL CLEAN.
7. DEPOSIT SOILED TOILET PAPER IN BOWL.
8. STAND. RAISE UNDERPANTS. RAISE AND BUTTON TROUSERS.
9. STEP ON THE LARGE PEDAL. WATER WILL FLOW INTO TOILET UNTIL CLEAR OF SOLID WASTE.
10. RELEASE PEDAL.
11. PROCEDE TO HAND-WASHING STATION.

FAILURE TO FOLLOW THE ABOVE PROCEDURES CONSTITUTES DISOBEDIENCE OF A DIRECT ORDER, AND WILL RESULT IN DISCIPLINARY ACTION UNDER ARTICLE 51 OF THE UNIFORM CODE OF MILITARY JUSTICE. THIS MEANS YOU.

Please let me know if I can be of any further assistance in this matter.

Very Respectfully,
L.T. Smash

UPDATE: The HQ weenie over at Wind Rideer has chopped this memo, and has a few minor edits.

Not much work left to do here.

Went to town again today, this time to the souq district. There’s a neighborhood like this in almost every city in the world. You know the place. Knock-off watches and handbags. Cheap luggage. Jewelry. Perfume. Electronics. T-shirts. Couterfeit CDs and DVDs.

Aggressive merchants, who possess varying degrees of fluency in English, call out to us as we pass by their shops.

“I have good product. Very cheap!” I don’t think this one appreciates the irony of his claim.

We go into a small shop where I find some nice gifts for my family. I proceed to haggle over the price, but the shopkeeper won’t budge.

“Hmm… I don’t think it’s worth that much to me.” I turn to my shopping buddy. “You want to go somewhere else?”

He catches on to my ploy. “Yeah, let’s go.” We turn to walk out the door.

The shopkeeper knows the rules of the game. “Sir, sir, wait!” He pulls out the ubiquitous calculator—it’s time to start negotiating. “I can give you discount!”

He offers to knock about 4% off the price. I counter with a 20% discount.

“No, not possible.” He takes off another trivial amount.

I shake my head, and turn to walk out the door.

“Sir, what you pay?”

I name a price 10% below his original offer. He looks sheepish. “OK, sir. I sell.” But I know that he probably would have gone further, if I had been more aggressive.

I pull out my credit card, and he grimaces. “Different price credit.” He takes back half my discount, even though we both know that the credit card only takes a 2% surcharge. I don’t argue—he played the game well, and has earned his little profit—the money means much more to him than it does to me.

There are several food stands on the street, but mindful of my earlier experience, I opt for a sit-down restaurant with a view of the souq.

The menu lists both Chinese and Indian dishes, but nothing distinctly local. I order Chicken Tikka Masala on saffron rice, with Cheese Naan on the side. It’s not the best Indian I’ve had, but it’s not the worst, either—and it sure beats the heck out of an MRE. The total for lunch comes out to about ten dollars—not too bad.

Just a few more days…

Before I came on this little expedition, I was planning on ordering a new computer.

"Oh, no," Dad told me, "you don't want to take a brand new laptop to the desert! The sand will get in there and it will break down!"

So he gave me his "Old Reliable" Pentium Pro with Windows 98, and I set off on my journey. It's a slow computer, compared to the speed machines everyone is carrying today, but it served its purpose, and has managed to survive through the heat and dust of this foreign land.

Until today. It turns out Dad was right about the desert--my "Old Reliable" now has to be coaxed to start up, and even then I'm lucky if I make it all the way to my desktop, with the lovely photo of Mrs. Smash.

I finally got it started this afternoon, and proceeded to run some diagnostic programs to see if I could find the problem. It promptly crashed, again.

(No, I don't have the blaster virus--I update my virus files and scan my computer on a regular basis, thank you very much).

So now I'm typing this on a borrowed computer, counting the days until I go home and get to play with my brand new Dell laptop.

We're down in the single digits...

UPDATE: Reports of my computer's demise were a bit premature, as I am currently using it to type this very update. Now, if it will only hold out for a few more days...

If you’re reading this in the Northeast, I guess that means the power is back on…

Yesterday, the wind shifted to the northwest, pushing the humidity back over the Gulf, where it belongs. It was a perfect day to go out and see some sights. We visited a museum, where I learned more about how the local people view themselves. Here’s a typical quote from one of the exhibits:

Allah blessed the good and peaceful people for their hard work and patience, by giving them the gift of black gold.

But seriously, I tried to view the museum from the eyes of a local person. They are proud of their culture, their accomplishments, and their heroes. Even when discussing periods of their history when they were defeated and oppressed, they still celebrate their sacrifices and the fighting spirit of their people—much as we might pay tribute to the heroes of the Alamo, or the Bataan Death March.

Had lunch at an Arab restaurant in a shopping area. Ordered a Hommous (a paste made from chick peas and olive oil) appetizer, with warm pita bread and cucumber slices. The main dish was Shish Tawook, which was chicken basted in spices and grilled on a skewer, served with sliced red onions and cilantro. Real plates and silverware. They had non-alcoholic beer available, but I settled for Coca-cola, served in a glass. It was all very tasty.

After lunch, we visited another small museum, with a very nice gift shop. Most of us spent as much time in the shop as we did looking at the exhibits, and just about everyone left with a purchase.

Mrs. Smash will have to wait to find out what I bought for her.

It won’t be long now.

Had a fun day--a little sight-seeing, lunch out, and some shopping.

More on this tomorrow...

Isn't it funny how two people can have a completely different impression of the same place?

Most of you probably never realized it, but Kevin and Will live at the same camp.

A couple of days ago, I linked to a post by Will (whom I've never met) complaining about the new Port-a-Johns at his camp. Well, I had an opportunity to visit that camp today, and can happily report that the new Port-a-Johns aren't appreciably different from the older models, and there are now plenty of them to go around.

But then again, I don't claim to be a Port-a-John connoisseur--my camp is equipped with these.

Did a little bit of work on Sunday, but spent most of the day relaxing with a book.

Reading novels isn’t the only way to keep oneself entertained around here, but it is my preferred form of recreation on a hot, lazy afternoon in the Sandbox. Back when the weather was a bit cooler, I would sometimes spend a precious hour or two sitting in a shaded spot outside, enjoying a nice paperback—but now it’s just too hot, so I do my reading in my tent.

This latest paperback was one I picked off the well-stocked bookshelf in our morale tent, having recognized the name of the author, David Morrell. Morrell’s books are a guilty pleasure of mine, purely plot-driven suspense novels. He is perhaps best known as the author of First Blood, upon which the Rambo movies were loosely based.

It wasn’t particularly deep or thought provoking, but this particular novel, Long Lost, was a real page-turner. It’s told in the first person, with Morrell’s trademark bare prose and short, suspense-filled chapters. It was the best offering I’ve read from him in several years. I finished it in a day.

Last week I read A Son of the Circus, by John Irving. In sharp contrast to Morrell, Irving takes time in his novels to develop rich and complex characters. His best known work was the modern classic The World According to Garp, which was later made into a successful movie starring Robin Williams. Circus, which was first released about ten years ago, contains some of Irving’s most interesting characters to date, and generous helpings of his trademark humor.

One of my favorite contemporary novelists is the British writer Ken Follett, who is a master of both suspense and character development. Perhaps best known for World War II spy thrillers like The Key to Rebecca, Jackdaws, and The Eye of the Needle, Follett has also written some excellent novels set in other historical eras. My personal favorites include A Place Called Freedom, about an eighteenth century Scottish immigrant to North America, and The Pillars of the Earth, an epic story that revolves around the construction of a cathedral in a Medieval English town.

I’ve read two of Follett’s novels on this deployment. The first book, Paper Money, was one of his earlier works, originally released under the pen name ‘Zachary Stone.’ This novel, along with The Modigliani Scandal (which I read on a previous deployment) from the same period, was fun and suspenseful but lacked the well-developed, interesting characters of Follett’s later works. The author admits as much in a somwehat apologetic foreword, but I enjoyed the book nonetheless.

The other Follett book I read this time around was A Night Over Water, a typically suspenseful tale about one of the last commercial flights of the famous Pan-Am Clipper seaplanes. While it was an entertaining read, it wasn’t one of Follett’s best—he attempted to tie too many characters together in a single plot, but fell short of many of his previous efforts.

Like just about every other literate adult in North America, I’ve also read several of John Grisham’s novels. I found his latest paperback, The Summons, to be somewhat of a disappointment—it was so similar to his earlier works, that I had the unshakeable feeling that I’d already read it. But I thoroughly enjoyed A Painted House, which was a serious departure from Grisham’s bread-and-butter legal thrillers. Set in rural Arkansas, Grisham draws from his own childhood to tell the tale of a struggling family of cotton farmers. There are no lawyers.

What military officer hasn’t read Tom Clancy? There was a time when I would wait anxiously for each of his books to come out, then buy them and devour them greedily like a twelve-year-old consuming Harry Potter. But somewhere along the line, I had skipped over Rainbow Six. Well, now I’ve read it. It certainly wasn’t Clancy’s best, nor his worst, but it filled the void that I felt when I read The Bear and The Dragon a couple of years ago.

Stephen Coonts, who is perhaps most famous for The Flight of the Intruder, has often been called ‘a poor man’s Tom Clancy.’ I don’t think that’s fair to either of them, but I do see some similarities. I picked Coonts’ thriller Hong Kong off the bookshelf, and found it to be quite enjoyable. It started out as a murder mystery, but quickly accelerated into a tale of intrigue and revolution in the former British Crown Colony (interesting that protests against the Hong Kong government erupted at the time that I was reading this book). I think it would have been a much better and more relevant story without the killer robots, however.

Speaking of robots, one of my favorite British humorists is Douglas Adams. I discovered Adams when I was a teenager, and devoured his books as fast as he wrote them. When he passed away two years ago, I actually felt a profound sense of loss—no other author could possibly make me laugh out loud as easily as Adams. I found the second, and last, of his Dirk Gently novels, The Long, Dark Tea-Time of the Soul, on the bookshelf, and I was compelled to pick it up and read it again. He could still make me laugh out loud.

Mrs. Smash recently introduced me to another British humorist, Terry Pratchett—and it was like discovering Douglas Adams all over again. I read five of Pratchett’s Discworld novels on this deployment: The Color of Magic, The Light Fantastic, Equal Rites, Wyrd Sisters, and Mort. I can’t wait to read the rest. If you loved Adams but haven’t yet discovered Pratchett, what the heck are you waiting for?

My father visited a used bookstore, and mailed several classic books to me. One of the better ones was Chaim Potok’s 1967 bestseller The Chosen, a tale of two Orthodox Jewish boys coming of age in Brooklyn, told against the backdrop of the Holocaust and the Zionist movement. Reading this book helped me to develop a greater appreciation for the events that led to the foundation of Israel.

Another interesting book my father sent was the highly controversial (in 1958) novel The Ugly American, by William J. Lederer and Eugene Burdick. It is actually a series of interwoven short stories, illustrating the successes and failures of American foreign policy in Southeast Asia, in the years leading up to the Vietnam War. After reading this book, one marvels, almost a half-century later, that we actually managed to win the Cold War.

One of my tent-mates dropped a classic science fiction novel, Robert Heinlein’s Starship Troopers, on my cot one afternoon and recommended that I read it. Considering that this book was written in 1959 and is STILL generating controversy, I decided to find out what all the fuss was about.

Much of the controversy revolves around Heinlein’s imagined future society, in which citizens of the Terran Federation (Earth) earn the right to vote only after completing a voluntary term of federal service, typically in the military. Several critics have described this, incorrectly, as a fascist system. This interpretation was echoed in the (very bad) 1997 film loosely based on the novel. You can read more about the controversy surrounding this book here.

Starship Troopers tells the story of a young man who joins the military out of a sense of duty and a thirst for adventure—but shortly after he signs up, a hostile alien race attacks the Earth, destroying the city of Buenos Aires and killing his mother. Many of Earth's citizens demand that the government pull the military back into a defensive perimeter to prevent future attacks, but the powers-that-be decide to go on the offensive and carry the fight to the enemy.

Sound familiar?

Both Kevin and Will have noted the increased humidity, which has made our pitiful lives even more miserable than before. Indeed, Kevin writes that at his camp, they’ve thrown out the Wet Bulb Globe Thermometer Heat Index in favor of a more user-friendly system.

Our weatherman has a new heat index measurement. He calls it the Sunglass, as in "how much time it takes your sunglasses to unfog when you step outside after being in the air conditioning."

Will also has some reflections on military intelligence (or lack thereof).

Meanwhile, Pontifex has yet another amusing anecdote about the heat.

Chrome Dome has a post with everything, including a visit to the Presidential Palace, a little bit of gunplay, and some R&R; at Camp Arifjan. That guy gets around, and now he has the photos to prove it!

Thor has been having heart-to-heart discussions with his wife regarding his next career move.

Moja reports that Saddam’s swimming pool is now off limits, but at least he has ice cream.

The network was down this morning.

Normally, this would be a cause for much anguish--a critical link to the outside world, cut. But neither that nor the oppressive heat and humidity (one of the most miserable days we've had yet) could get me down today.

I brought Jorge into work today, showed him around, introduced him to people. He's eager to get started--no point in wasting time. I can already feel the burden lifting from my shoulders.

I had time today. Time to read; time to write; time to linger at lunch; time to start packing my bags.

Oh, and the network came back up this afternoon, of course. Otherwise, you wouldn't be reading this.

I'm walking around with a smile on my face. I'll be home soon.

Our replacements arrived yesterday morning. They had been delayed at Frankfurt overnight, and complained of suffering in 98 degree heat in a terminal without air conditioning. But hey, it wasn't all that bad, the charter airline brought them food, and there was beer available.

Food, beer, and 98 degree temperatures? Sounds like paradise to me!

I walked into my tent right before lunch, and encountered two very sleepy and sweaty officers.

"I'm so happy to see you guys," I beamed, "that I could hug both of you!"

Ed, a large black man, politely declined the hug, offering his hand as a substitute. But Jorge, a jolly hispanic man, opened his arms wide, and gave me a big hug--I liked him already. Good thing, too, because it turned out the Jorge was MY replacement.

I had lunch with them, and gave them the straight scoop about life in the Sandbox, and this camp in particular. Their CO joined us, and listened very intently to my advice.

After lunch, I took them for a tour of the camp, showing them the latrines, showers, post office, and our little PX. They complained of the heat. I managed not to laugh, because it was actually a relatively nice day compared to the past week.

After the tour, most of them went to sleep. Both Jorge and Ed snored, but not too loudly.

Welcome to the Sandbox.

The wind changed directions again overnight, coming out of the west. I could tell there was less humidity in the air this morning because my sunglasses didn’t completely fog up when I stepped outside.

Wasn’t planning on walking to the office today after yesterday’s experience, but given the improved conditions, I changed my mind. Although it wasn’t nearly as bad as yesterday, my uniform was still pretty much soaked in sweat by the time I arrived.

The temperature at 0800 was 97F, with 60 percent humidity. Later on, the wind shifted back to the southeast, and the humidity shot back up to about 75 percent

I was settling in for my morning online chat with Mrs. Smash, when an O-5 came up to me and asked, “Are you pretty good at grammar and proofreading?”

“Yes, sir, but I’m trying to keep it a secret.”

He smirked.

“What can I do for you?”

“Well, I’ve got this hundred page document that I need smoothed, and someone told me you’re the man I should see.”

“Guess the secret’s out. When do you need it?”

“Friday, if you can manage it.”

“Well, I don’t have any big plans between now and then, sir, so I’ll make it happen.”

“Great, thanks.”

“No problem, sir.”

Don’t be surprised if I don’t post anything tomorrow…

When I was growing up and we had houseguests, my bedroom would become the guestroom, and I would have to grab a sleeping bag and go share my little brother’s room for a few days.

Well, some things never change. I had to move my stuff over this morning to make room for another officer in my tent. My little one-man living-space is now a two-man bedroom, and all my stray junk is stuffed into a single footlocker and under my cot. Maybe I should paint a line down the middle…

By the time I get back to my tent this evening, the other cot should be occupied by some poor soul trying to catch up on sleep after a day and a half of air travel.

I hope he doesn’t snore.

Woke up this morning and went to take a shower. As I passed through the vestibule of my tent, I noticed that the humidity was back—the wooden floorboards were letting off vapors reminiscent of a sauna.

It was going to be a hot day.

In the shower tent, condensation was forming on the on the ventilation duct, and dripping in a straight line down the middle of the floor. When I had finished washing the sweat off my body, I found it difficult to get myself dry.

The chow tent smelled musty. After breakfast, I put on my sunglasses as I was exiting the tent, only to have them fog up instantly—they had cooled down enough in the air conditioning to cause the formation of condensation on the lenses. As I walked back to my tent, I felt a trickle of sweat dripping down my spine—and it wasn’t even 0700 yet!

Since I’ve graduated from running one of our teams to being a staff weenie, I’ve taken up the healthy habit of walking to work. It’s about a mile and a half from my tent to the “office,” and the mornings are the only time it was cool enough to make the hike in relative comfort. Today I started my trek right after our morning meeting, at about 0730. I knew I was in trouble when I had only gone about a third of a mile and my undershirt was already soaked through. By the time I got to the office, my blouse, trousers, socks, and even my hat were soaking wet.

Inside the air-conditioned tent where I spend most of the working day, I noticed that condensation was dripping from above onto the table. Being careful to pick a dry spot to work, I pulled my laptop out of the backpack and proceeded to set it up. It’s an old computer, vintage 1998, and yesterday I had ordered a new one from Dell to replace it when I get home. I could only hope that my current laptop will make it through the next few weeks…

I logged on to my instant messenger to chat with my wife, who was finishing her day just as I was starting mine. It wasn’t long before I noticed a major problem with my computer: the “a,” “q,” “z,” “1,” and “Caps Lock” keys weren’t working, along with the backspace.

Needless to say, this made it difficult to communicate. I had to shut down my computer, get out a screwdriver, and dismantle the keyboard. I popped off each of the problem keys, but didn’t notice anything wrong with them, except a little bit of gunk and sand in the keyboard. Maybe it was sweat from my hands, or condensation dripping from above that had caused the problem?

I carefully re-assembled the keyboard, making sure it was plugged in nice and snug, and turned the computer back on. After a little bit of initial stickiness, the keys worked fine.

Mrs. Smash was impressed with my handiness. But it was nothing, really.

The unit taking over for us are arriving tomorrow. We’ve got nine people in our tent right now, but we’re going to have three more for the next few weeks. I spent a couple of hours this afternoon making room for another cot in my living area, and clearing out a footlocker. We had to shift around a few of the barriers we use to separate the tent into six living areas, and some of our makeshift furniture had to go.

I’ve packed up a few boxes to mail home, so that I won’t have so much to carry. From those that have gone home already, I’ve heard that the customs inspections for returning military are VERY thorough, so I’m also going to send everything that I bought or acquired here home through the mail, just to avoid any potential hassle. We’re also going to have the opportunity to send some of our military gear home in a sealed container, which should make things easier.

I spent an hour or so today sorting through my gear, deciding what to mail, what to put in the container, and what to hand carry. I was amazed at some of the things I brought, that I haven’t used in months—like my rain gear, a wool cap, gloves, sweats, and long underwear. It’s hard to imagine, but back in January I actually used all of this stuff.

I feel sorry for the guys who are coming here right now. One of the units is coming from the Pacific Northwest, and they’re about to arrive in the worst part of the Sandbox Summer.

Poor bastards.

The wind shifted around to the southeast last night, bringing with it a wave of humid air from the Gulf. It was as if we went to sleep in Phoenix, but woke up in Miami. The mercury might say that it's below 100F, but it sure doesn't feel that way.

The weather-guessers warn us that it's likely to stay this way until we leave. Good thing that won't be very long!

A couple of responses to my request for more writers from the Sandbox:

Chrome Dome is an Army Staff Sergeant escorting convoys and chasing down bad guys in Iraq.

Phantom 491 is an Air Force Staff Sergeant who works in communications.

Also, Chief Wiggles has moved to a different camp in Iraq, and to a new website. Update your bookmarks.

The unit that will take over our mission should be arriving in country sometime next week. We'll be going home later this month.

Everybody back home wants to know what will happen to this journal. As I've said before, I intend to keep it going. The format might change slightly, but this site will still be here.

I'll write about my homecoming, the demobilization process, and our vacation. I might put in a post or two about going back to work, and playing with my nephew. I'll talk about what has changed, what hasn't, and whether I experience culture shock.

But what everyone wants to know is where they will get their "inside scoop" about what's going on in Iraq and Kuwait once I'm safely home. While there are several other bloggers who will remain in theater after I've gone, people continue to write and tell me how upset they will be when I'm no longer writing from "in country."

One thing that I won't be doing is "handing over" my journal to someone in the unit coming to relieve us--this is my own personal website, and it will remain in my hands. But if anyone else is in theater, or deploying soon, I'd be more than happy to either post their messages on this site, or help them to set up a site of their own.

I realize that about 6,000 people come here every day to get a feel for what life is like in the Sandbox. I've been pleased to be able to provide this service, and I'd like to keep it going.

Please drop me a line if you're in the Sandbox, or headed here, and would like to participate.

UPDATE: A couple of readers have written to inform me of yet another blog from the Sandbox, Soldier's Paradise.

What am I as a soldier in the US Army? There are many that will tell you I am just a brainwashed tool of a few greedy men who use the military for their own personal gain and policy. On the other hand there are those that will tell you I am the defender of all that is good and right, the hand of God that brings freedom and salvation to the oppressed peoples all over the world. I think there are even an extreme few who would say I am the devil incarnate, bringing death and destruction to the world.

I'm flattered by the comparison.

My nephew Jack is only two years old. I'm afraid that I've been gone so long that he won't remember me when I return.

When I last saw Jack, on Christmas Day last year, just about all that he could say to me was "bye!" But boy, could he say it. He could also wave. The last time I saw him, his mother was strapping him into the car seat, and he was waving to me the whole time.

"Bye Jack!"

"Bye!"

It's been seven months, and I'm expecting to go home in a few weeks. In preparation for this, Jack's parents have been showing him pictures of me, and teaching him to say my name. He caught on pretty quick, they tell me.

So when they went over to my parents for dinner the other night, they sat him down in front of Dad's computer, and showed him my picture. He said my name, and asked where I was! Maybe he does remember me, after all?

They told him I was "working." He latched on to that word pretty quickly, too. Now they point to my picture, and ask him where I am, and he says "working!"

But the best part is that they recorded all of this on a .wav file, and e-mailed it to me.

I don't know whether to laugh or cry.