I saw a reference to a 92-year-old veteran of the Bataan Death March and decided to read it. You can also HERE.

There are several disturbing paragraphs, such as this one:

The march became known as the Bataan Death March, not just because of how many died, but because of the way they died. If you stopped, you were killed. If you had a malaria attack and had to stop for help, you were killed. If you had dysentery and had to stop to relieve yourself, you were killed.

But, I find this paragraph especially disquieting:

The U.S. military document we former POWs had to sign as we were released from our POW camp stated, “You shall not discuss your experience as a POW with any source without prior approval from the War Department, doing so may result in severe penalties, or court-martial.” And the threat kept us quiet all these years.

I don’t know what explanation the government had for requiring this, but I’d like to find out.

We at the Peanut Butter Cafe & Roadhouse are wondering about getting an aquarium, and we got this idea from The Weather Channel Website, where we also became obsessed with the end of the world. Now one of their sub-headlines is about the deadliest fish and the stone fish is mentioned. I once saw a show where a man kept a stonefish in an aquarium, pulled it out and stuck its snout at an enemy/rival/whoever and then put it back in the water.

But could we control ourselves if Joe Biden came in??

It started with deciding to have a small fire while we were grilling. Der Bingle put in a fire starter and a couple of logs and I sat there watching the flames grow. One of the logs had a knothole which eventually burned out, allowing a view of flames through it. I tried to catch it on camera, and maybe I did, but I’m not looking now.

I liked sitting there on a day close to 60 degrees, watching the fire – so I added more logs. There is a special pile at the corner of the shed consisting of decaying logs; I used them . . . it was time. Over ten years ago, Quentin, Mother, Daddy and I stacked a bunch of wood on two elevated rails. We burned a lot of it, but never seemed to get down to the bottom layer, then Daddy died and I just let it sit there because I remembered that fall day when the four of us put it there. Then Mother passed away and I still let it stay. To my Depression Era parents, this would have been considered wasteful.

Finally, last fall I got the message and took it off the rails and put it at the corner of the shed. But I left it there and it got snow-covered and ice-glued together and by this spring, it was a little more rotten. So yesterday I sat in the backyard with the firepit for about five hours and burned it. I don’t know what went up in smoke, but it kept me warm.

Last summer when I started walking with clenched-teeth determination to lose weight, I chose to listen to the theme from The Longest Day on my ipod. It has, of course, a good, strong tempo, as do a lot of songs; it also was a reminder to me of those soldiers who came ashore at D-Day – they were facing a more than possible death, not just heat shimmering from a sidewalk. I felt there would be no way I could quit with them in my mind – their song in my ears.

And it worked. This year I briefly considered walking to another song, one that was upbeat and happy – maybe One Top of the World, but I felt I owed it to those soldiers and all the others who have gone in harm’s way. So it played in my ears two days ago and yesterday and today. Today, though, I thought a bit about my father who came ashore at Normandy shortly AFTER D-Day. It was February and he was dying, would be dead in just days. For the first time he mentioned that time to me: He said his group came through St. Lo and the people threw flowers at them “because they thought we were real soldiers, but, of course, we weren’t.”

By the time I reached this part of my memory, I was almost home. Tears were stinging my eyes and my throat was tight . . . I could have used a few more blocks before I went inside. I composed myself in the vestibule and came out here . . . to write this.

I have been doing a lot of housework/cleaning and you know what? Today I am not going to do any. I may go and buy vacuum bags, but that’s only because I have a shedding dog and I do not want to run out of them. I will take the second walk of my walking outdoors program, although my legs are a bit sore from yesterday’s initial trod-a-thon. I thought I was going at a fairly good clip, but was surprised by the time when I got back; I’m not certain that I marked my departure time correctly, or maybe reality has a sting to it.

I will note the progression of planting and flowering and new landscaping projects in yards as I pass by. I’m tempted to leave a note at one house begging them not to plant those damned marigolds again. They have bordered a short sidewalk forever and, to me, lack any sense of good cheer because they are lined up so precisely, it seems they are doing a job and not expressing any of the freedom of nature. They are too short to even dance with the breeze.

Gee, I sound more testy than in a mood to relax and party with blue sky and sun. I didn’t notice that earlier. In fact, I thought I was in a goodish mood. Maybe I should go whack some dust around to relieve subconscious frustrations – or do a little raking of debris in the hedge. I don’t have to make a snap decision on that . . . I believe I can sit here and consider the matter.

I forgot to wind our chiming clock, which belonged to my grandmother and now it is chiming off time. That is, you have to add four hours and forty-five minutes when it chimes (at night, the verbs is more like gongs) the hour. I actually add five hours and take away 15 minutes because it’s easier – also easier that sitting through many gongs to get the time to match. (This is not a smart computer clock.)

This, in itself, does not really suck . . . a word that I find myself using although it makes me uncomfortable when I see myself using it in print. I think my father would prefer I express myself in a different manner. Getting on with the story, the part that really is a pain in the neck (sucks) is when I am listening to to seven chimes because it is a quarter to midnight and I am up because I fell asleep in a long evening nap. I actually dreamed and woke up thinking it was morning. HA! Zee whole night is ahead. At least there is cable TV and Netflix and DVD’s – just the other day I was horrifying my granddaughter with tales of three channels, the National Anthem and the test pattern screen. It is too much for her to imagine.

I think I’ll just get a diet soda – hey, accept and embrace the situation, have caffeine . . . and maybe a foldover.

I saw a small headline about the worst allergy cities in the country and decided to glance at it, even though I’ve not been a big allergy person. Der Bingle, however, has had sinus trouble off and on and when I looked at THE LIST, I saw Dayton, Ohio. Technically, The Ohio Redoubt is in Fairborn but that is really, really a technicality.

Speaking of technicalities, the pollen bit must be a factor because down the road – and I do mean in elevation down – in Cincinnati, the air is much less clear. You can drive down I-75 and see the layer of darker air sitting in the bowl of the Ohio River Valley where it meets the Miami River.

I can remember being in West Chester – and that’s on the northern edge of the bowl and looking up on a windy day and remembering what color a blue sky is supposed to be. The area is chock full of ridges and valleys and creeks and humidity.

It’s as if a giant zeppelin landed in Cincinnati – Oh, the humidity. AND, OH, THAT WAS IS BAD TASTE.

My daughter-in-law talks a lot about basketball, and being from Kentucky, she talks a lot about Rick Pitino. Since the spotlight on last night’s game was heightened by Ware’s injury, there has been even more talk. I remarked that Pitino had a reputation for being a coach with an intense physical training program, she mentioned seeing him run up and down the court at Kentucky with his team and mimicked his jabbing finger.

She paused and said, “He’s kind of like the mother in Throw Momma off the Train.