March 15, 2025, Episode 8: Ides Madness — Becoming Super Rog!
A Birthday, A Sister, and A God(dess?) of War!
Beware The Ides of Barb
Thanks to Roman emperor Julius Ceasar (no, I did not know him personally), and thanks to William Shakespeare’s eponymous play (I didn’t know Bill, either), we all know March 15 is “The Ides of March.”
It is also my little sister Barbara’s birthday.
HER I do know.
And, of course, we all know March is named after the god Mars – another Roman I never met.
“Barb.” “Mars.” Coinkey Dink?
I think not.
A long, long time ago – but NOT long enough ago to pal around with Billy S., Julie C., or god(dess?) M. – we were young.
A time of innocence, impatience, violence.
My mother assigned me one task: “Keep Barbara out of the road.”
After all, I was older. Bigger. Stronger.
But Barbara, she was determined. Resolute. Evil.
“I’m heading for the road!” The race was on. She was fast – faster than me. And even if I did catch her, she was feisty. Wirey. Slippery.
Once I had dragged her back from the dirt road – the original “road less travelled” (if we saw anyone we didn’t recognize driving down our road, a rare occurrence despite Mom’s fears of being hit with a car, we knew: they were lost) – she would wriggle free, laugh maniacally, and shout, “I’m heading for the road!”
Good times.
Until Mom, armed with “the strap” – an old buckleless belt – came out, grabbed Barbara’s arm, and landed a few licks.
When endeth the lesson, Barbara bawled, and Mom turned toward me.
“Why are YOU crying?”
“I couldn’t keep her out of the road.”
Surprisingly, I did not get a lickin.’
Mom said, “You tried. You did all you could. I saw the whole thing from the kitchen.” She turned to Barbara, “Maybe this will teach you to do as you’re told!”
It did not.
As soon as Mom was back inside, Barbara’s blubbering boo-hoos mutated into cackling laughs. “That didn’t hurt!”
And headed for the road.
Mars, god of war, had many successes. But he was defeated. Rarely. Once by Hercules. (NO, I didn’t know Herc personally!)
Barbara, however, remains unconquered.
Happy Birthday Baby Sis!
You Call That Progress?
Sneak Peak!
You asked for it – wait, what? No? Still, here’s a sample from Vhat I Vant, an essay I’m writing for the Writer’s Digest Competition:
Spoiler: This is draft so final essay may be different, radically different.
READY.
FIRE!
SET….
Vhat I Vant
Alternate title: I Fought The Force, And The Force Won
A silent screaming ricochets inside my skull.
Tinnitus piercing, fight / flight prompting, blaring, booming, whooping, echoing – over and over, louder and louder – like Lost In Space Robot’s warning: “DANGER! Will Robinson. DANGER!”
Detonated by a question, no doubt imagined simple – but actually complex, or possibly sneak attack – asked oh-so-softly by a silver-haired, grandmotherly, I’m guessing German doctor, flipping through page after page of notes – notes about me.
“Zoh, do you VANT to get in da Army, or do you vant NOT to get in da Army?”
My klaxon clanged its silent: “Aroogah! Aroogah!” And warned:
“IT’S!
A!
TRAP!”
Doctor, clinic, question, screaming, trap – all revealed in Episode 2.
EPISODE 1: AN OFFER I COULDN’T REFUSE
In 1971, cotton sateen olive drab fatigue-clad recruiter Sergeant “Call Me Andy” Anderson invaded the peace of my family’s Vermont dairy farm to offer me my free Army physical. Tempting me with a Trailways bus cruise, greasy spoon food, dingy hotel accommodations, and a sooty, grimy, stinky Albany, New York, and adventure.
Irresistible to an unpaid farm laborer – where “days off” meant not working between 6:00 AM (starting at 4:00) and 4:00 PM (ending at 6:00); “chore times” not granted “work” status.
Farm logic.
So when “Call Me Andy” offered relief from the mandatory tedium and boredom that is farm living with an all-expenses-paid government financed vacation – I was in, despite the clear and present danger of proximity to U.S. recruitment methods, after hearing multiple first-hand tales of recruitment lies and deceptions shared by World War 2 Vets.
5 years earlier, during milking (one of those twice daily “non-work” chores), I learned my older brother Jimmy had escaped risk of the U.S. draft; rescuing him from the physical, emotional, and psychic combat casualties of war – declared or undeclared — not to mention the unjust and frankly barbarous “blame the victim” tactics inflicted on survivors returning home from the horrors of jungle combat and not the respect, admiration, and applause their patriotic service, courage, and sacrifice for our nation they had earned and deserved.
My father explained, “I declared Jimmy indispensable to the operation of the family business.”
Freed from sticky, thick, heavy doom and gloom, my spirits soared.
Then, gently manhandling our top milk producer Sonja’s voluminous udder to coax out every last milk drop, Dad oh-so-casually added, “Of course, that makes you dispensable.”
