Little Massacre on Sixth Street

More folks were let go at another of my alma maters, the Daytona Beach News Journal. The Little Miracle on Sixth Street was once considered miraculous in that its paper hit the streets every morning in all its glory. The miracle now is that it's still around.

The story of its arrival at this stage in its history is beyond surreal, starting with the profligacy of the Davidson family, who spent the paper's proceeds on a pet project involving attaching the newspaper name to a new arts center in the city; they became embroiled with Cox, the newspaper chain with partial ownership, which resulted in a forced sale at judicial gunpoint at a cost of several hundred million that the Davidsons could not raise. That ended ultimately with sale of the paper to the new ownership at a fraction of the asking price. The place was shedding jobs all along the way.

My sympathy to those who have gone before and those who most recently received their slips. It's a brave new world you're entering. I've just received a list of editorial folks who've been booted and it includes some familiar names. Here's a link to a DB blog with all the names; read all the way to the bottom. The new owner, a joint venture, named the Leesburg, FL publisher to run the joint.

Locals on the Road: Wymondham and the Green Dragon

The Drover this edition highlights not a true "local," but a local to some other local instead. The Green Dragon, at left, is located on Church Lane, Wymondham, a small ville about an hour from here in Norfolk County. It's just shy of Norwich on the A11.

The Green Dragon was built in the 1300s. It has a simple, roomy interior with a front room that was chock full of diners on Palm Sunday, and a small tap room. Like other period construction, you sort of bend over, duck your head further and angle sideways through the puny opening that serves as a door. The interior is timbered in the same pattern you see from the street. I slaked my considerable thirst with a pint of Wherry after a brisk 5-miler around the town and its environs.

I visited Wymondham on Sunday as part of my "50 Walks in Norfolk" tour and happened past the pub early on. It's just a stone's throw from the abbey ruins that are part of the St. Mary and St. Thomas of Canterbury church (so nice, they named it twice). The tower to the right is actually a ruin. It's part of the church but is inaccessible due to a wall between the two. Story goes, according to the guide book, that the townsfolk and the Benedictine monks who shared the church couldn't stand one another. The monks built the right tower, not intending the townsfolk to share it. So the townies built their own tower, on the left, to spite the gowns. Centuries later, along comes Henry VIII, who called Dissolution on the Catholic church, whereby the monk's abbey was torn down. All that remains is the ruined tower. The church was allowed to stand.

Behold the ruined tower at left.

The horse above was grazing in a pasture north of town called the Lizard, which is apparently some old English or Anglo-Saxon word for open fields, or a place left to seed. Sometimes our yard is a lizard.

Pistol-packer

The wife, still serving in Afghanistan, writes that she works from before dawn to past dusk, but that living conditions have improved somewhat. She has more privacy. She gets packages. She's settled into a routine of sorts.

She writes about her co-workers, including one guy who is by turns utterly polite and professional, and then equally as profane. He stays awake for days and then sleeps at his desk. It's like something out of MASH or Catch-22.

Twice now she's ventured outside the wire on missions. She commented on the near absence of women anywhere in the local area, and those that do appear are head-to-toe burqa'd. Phone calls and e-mails from the front have tapered to a few short bursts. Her workload is ramping up and she's consumed by meetings until after dark. Here's a recent photo, however. She's standing outside the door to her quarters in a qalat.

House Cat Safari

I'll conclude this post with a new feature I'll call "Bug Hunt: The Electrifying Search for Neighborhood Felines." Each week we'll bring you a captivating, real life photograph of a local feline captured digitally in its natural habitat. Bug is (my own) household slang for house cat. Brits call them moggies.

Our first subject is a black-and-white neighbor cat whom I suspect leaves its scat in our front yard. She was in the hedge across the street this morning when I snapped this photograph.

Here's a closer look:

Til next time, guard well your scratching post.

The Ridgeway: Well Traveled & Muddy; Locals II: The Fountain

 Back in 1969, an obscure historical drama appeared on film, King Alfred the Great, featuring David Lemmings as the eponymous monarch and Michael York as his godless, Danish foeman. Young Alfred, a bookish and pious sort, has the crown thrust upon him in a critical hour after the deaths of his father and elder brother.

Nonetheless, he takes up the sword and combing the intellectual curiosity that is his defining trait with the martial spirit he must invoke as king,  humbles the fearsome Dane. It doesn't quite hew to history, but you get the picture. It took a bit longer for Alfred to quell the Danes than the movie implies.

Alfred was born in the 9th century at a place called Wantage , about 2.5 hours driving time from here and near there he squared off in the one of the more impressive fights he and his followers had with the Danes, the Battle of Ashdown. The past weekend, I took a drive to Wantage and from there up to The Ridgeway, a trail in use since prehistoric times. My walk took me along the top of the ridge overlooking the downs and the towns of Wantage and Letcombe Regis, perhaps on the very ground on which the English schooled the Danes.

From Wantage, the B4494 heads south to a parking lot just off the roadside where the highway tops the ridge. The photo above is The Ridgeway itself, about 2 miles farther west, just west of its intersection with the A338. I was spurred to this trek by an article in the New York Times travel section. The writer reported meeting practically no one along the first leg of his journey. That wasn't my experience. I encountered all sorts of people, including backpackers, day trippers, bicyclists, dog walkers, you name it.

The day turned warm and clear after morning overcast divided into pleasant cumulus. The way was muddy and the chalk soil made for a slick surface when wet. The view from atop the ridge is worth the effort, nonetheless. The view at right, looking north, is of the northwest curve of Segsbury, a large, circular Iron Age fort. It's basically a ringed earthen wall with an accompanying ditch along the exterior. Sheep graze the inner precinct and farmland surrounds the whole thing. I got a late start and having to pick my way past puddles and through mud flats slowed progress, but the area has lots of potential so I'm sure one day I'll return.

Locals: The Fountain

Keeping up the series on local pubs, this week's focus is The Fountain.  This pub is a freehouse, unlike the Prince Albert, the first featured pub, which is a tied house. A tied house is tied to particular brewer and serves only its products, in Albert's case, the Greene King, which is based in nearby Bury St. Edmunds. A freehouse, like the name implies, is free to tap whatever beer the pubkeeper prefers. You can always find a pint of London Pride, a product of Fuller's brewing, or Broadside, an Adnan's product, at The Fountain. Brit ales have a little higher alcohol content than most Americans are accustomed to, but with names like Spitfire, Broadside and Bombardier, don't say you weren't warned.

The Good Pub Guide recommends The Fountain as a distinctly cerebral place. No jukebox or video gambling machine, ubiquitous in most other public houses, litter the interior. Depictions of the nearby Ely Cathedral in whatever form -- drawings, rubbings, paintings, poster art and photographs -- populate the walls. My favorite is a large, framed copy of a print of the Pink Floyd album cover from Division Bell. (Look close between the two heads, that's Ely Cathedral.) A warm fire is usually burning in winter in the fireplace. A couple of lithe young blonds are handy at the taps. Friday evening is the best time, in my experience, to find the atmosphere that typifies a good English pub. Elians find The Fountain a welcome release for friendly conversation after the work week. Chatty groups of friends or workmates are knotted at the bar or clustered around the pub tables. It's a diverse group that patronizes this pub. Once last year a group of young people obviously coming from the Brit version of their high school prom staked out the doorway and sidewalk just outside. The Fountain, incidentally, is Kelley's favorite haunt.

Speaking of Which...

The wife reports she is settled in comfortably in FOB Gardez and it appears she has her own room with a mattress topper and a fan. Birds nest in the roof above. The nature of communication disallows quick follow-up questions, so that's the picture I'll leave readers with for now. 


She writes that she's bonding with the Afghan radio DJs with whom she works. A group of two or three of them brought lunch one day from their homes. Forgive me but all I can remember of the three dishes she described is rice with julienned carrots and raisins. Yum. Now she has to reciprocate, but all that's available to her are the chow hall, where everyone eats anyway, and a subpar Afghan restaurant in the FOB. One makes do, I suppose.

She also sampled some yogurt obtained locally for her by a senior citizen Afghan-American who signed on as an interpreter with our forces.

She also reports that within a short matter of time she'll make her first foray outside the wire. I'm certain that she'll do superbly on whatever mission takes her out on her first encounter with the locals. She's been training for months and can't help but be ready.

East Anglian Spring: Randy Pheasants; The Locals I: Prince Albert

Spring is well nigh upon us. The winter fat yields no ground without a contest. The lawn suddenly shows itself in need of mowing. Pheasant roosters in the potato field across the street move like fat red bed bugs across a taut green sheet.

These two characters were squaring off in a field in Wentworth, a speck of a ville about six miles down the A142. Surging hormones no doubt piqued their combative urges. Down the street, a trio of big cockbirds were chasing a skinny little hen into a thicket of sticker bushes. English ponies in their blankets standing nearby took note but seemed otherwise little concerned. The proliferation of pheasants in this country is remarkable. The same bird was once pretty common in Pennsylvania, but you just don't see that many of them anymore.

Today was market day in Ely. Market days fall twice a week, Thursday and Saturday. It's a small market square, at the top of the high street. You can find practically anything down there, from folk and rock CDs to hardware to produce to ostrich meat. Market days are pretty lively in the UK. King's Lynn, not far from here, reportedly has a market day to beat the rest. It's reachable by bike, but that's a daylong ride best accomplished in the summer.

Meet Me at Prince Albert

Folks constantly inquire of me, "What are the pubs like in the UK?" and "How do you like that warm beer?" and my favorite, "What'll I need in terms of bail money on a night out?"

Warm beer is actually pretty good, if it's the right beer. I've taken a liking to Adnan ales, London Pride especially. Greene King brews in nearby Bury St. Edmunds; its Old Speckled Hen is hands down my favorite UK ale thus far, although there's plenty to choose from. Lager is still the popular drink here, from what I can tell. Kronenburg, Carling, Stella Artois are what you find tapped locally, even Budweiser sometimes. Which I don't understand.

Several pubs in the area shuttered now that were doing a lively trade when we first arrived. This report from July appears to be holding true. The recession is taking its toll, along with higher taxes, but the larger, I believe, and harder to measure effect is the change in lifestyle. Folks just stay home a lot more, apparently, and there's a definite fitness sensibility in the UK. Nonetheless, try finding a seat at the bar on Friday night.

The Brits refer to their neighborhood tippling spot as their "local." Ely has several pubs within walking distance of our home that stand as the local as far as I'm concerned.

Let's have a look at them, one by one. I'll start with the Prince Albert on Silver Street. Imagine your grandmother's living room married that basement rec room in your buddy's parent's house back in high school. Their child would be the Prince Albert. Quirky is the overused word that's applied to anything English, but it was probably born right here. The Albert has the requisite low ceiling; stacks of reading material, mostly paperback novels and travel magazines; itty bitty pub tables; funky green slick carpet; a warren of nooks and crannies; and an assortment of local color. The bartender is either a short, curmudgeonly guy about 50 or a winsome twenty-something female, never anyone in between.

The place is never open when you expect it should be, say 5 or 6 on a Friday evening. But if I wanted a pint at 12:30 p.m. on a Thursday, you bet! The inevitable house cat ambles from place to place and there's a backyard beer garden, which is essentially a garden and a couple of wooden picnic tables. It smells a bit musty, but if we're pub crawling anytime in Ely, this is a must stop.

Cross Cultural Communication in Action

The wife reports from down range that she's not been beyond the wire at all, being consumed with the inevitable staff work and endless writing of reports. Part of what she does involves putting word out via local radio, the primary method of communication there. Hence, this nugget of cultural interchange:

 "I sat down and really chatted with my radio DJ's today. They're interesting characters. All young and not bad looking for Afghan guys. Two are married---one's a dad---one engaged and one single. They all wanted to know if I was married, how old I was and if I had children. You know how it is, if you're a woman of any kind of age and don't have
kids, you're a failure in this society. Once I said I didn't have kids, they really had nothing left. I didn't bother talking about the cat. I've been told it's really not cool to discuss pets with this culture. They don't get it and think it's exceedingly odd to form attachments to animals, I guess. Pet spas would blow their minds, I'm sure."

Not even mentioning the layabout husband back home.

'Til next time.

Disney, the Iditarod and the New Terror Front, In No Particular Order

It's that time of year when the Iditarod is run across the sweep of western Alaska. The ADN is doing a good job as usual covering the event this year. Kyle Hopkins is deployed with a digital arsenal in his backpack with which to ply his trade. The Alaska Dispatch, a scrappy online news site run by runaways and exiles from various Alaska media, is giving the established newspaper a run.

The Dispatch employs some top notch folks, including Steven Nowers,  a multimedia genius, and Craig Medred, one of the most experienced outdoor writers in the state. Is it too much, though, that Medred is advertising his upcoming book on the race in what might be considered editorial space on the Web site? Discuss among yourselves.

Speaking of the AK outdoors, I'm surprised this item, about a rare wolf attack on a human, hasn't gotten much traction outside the state. That's typical, however. Lots of dramatic turns occur on the Last Frontier that barely get a notice in the Lower 48, which is typically too transfixed by the latest LA freeway chase or political boondoggle to pay notice.

Disney Threat

As mentioned in a previous post, we recently completed a week-long class on international communication, in which a lively discussion erupted one afternoon on the question: Disney, Benevolent, Well-Run Corporation I'm Happy to Let Babysit My Children or Evil Transnational Corporation and Global Brainwasher? Those who see primarily the benign aspect tend to represent themselves as stock holders or busy folks happy to let their children watch lots of Disney movies and TV shows. They see the company as efficiently run, offering a steady return on their investments and providing a positive message in otherwise harmless entertainment.

As evidence to the contrary, exhibit A.

Disney is one of six transnational media corporations -- in 2006 the second largest after Time Warner -- that control nearly all the entertainment media, from book publishers to video games, in the world. In the world. In 2004, Disney had $2.3 billion in profits on $42.8 billion in revenue.

If you favor Disney, have a soft spot for the company, or whatever, fine. I needle my classmates above, and truth be told I was short on facts the day the debate raged. Just thought I'd pass on a little more food for thought.

If you disparage big government, for example, why is a corporation with this much control over the messages it brings to your home so good? Is the fact it makes a lot of money a justification for the power it wields in the marketplace? I'll leave it there. I've got nothing against Disney, or Time Warner or Bertelsmann or the others, per se. If you're an informed consumer, you have more opportunity to choose, that's all. Be informed.

New Terror Front -- Construction Sites

The wife called from Afghanistan today with a chilling update on what the Taliban is doing to turn the tables in Afghanistan. Provincial Reconstruction Teams like the one she serves with concern themselves primarily with building projects intended to give Afghans a better civil society, engender employment and show our good will. Unfortunately, much of the effort is undermined by graft. The money is often wasted, or funneled into the pockets of tribal bigshots, local pols and militia leaders. The result is shoddy construction in some cases, such as concrete that crumbles at the touch. This is well reported in the world media.

Or so we thought. Apparently, local Afghan authorities questioned by American military engineers report that Taliban insurgents have been sneaking into construction sites at night and secretly doing shoddy work on ongoing projects in an attempt to undermine the international aid effort. How nefarious is that? How dastardly? And who would have even guessed at the creative genius behind such a bold move?

We must redouble our efforts. Perhaps we can ship specially treated bags of concrete, such that when it's mixed with water it detonates. Or high-explosive 10-penny nails.


On another topic, MyCAA, the program I mentioned in earlier posts that started up last year and gives $6,000 to milspouses like me to help with tuition, is back in action. The DOD pulled the plug earlier this month, apparently because the program proved so popular it was running out of money.

E-mail notices were shipped out today that anyone who was already enrolled in the program would continue to receive benefits but no new applications would be accepted. Mine is a subjective view, to be sure, but nonetheless it seems education is one of those areas in which we can't spend too much, or rather, invest. Not when the economy is shifting so dramatically that jobs we once counted to work until retirement no longer exist, and the sheer notion of working one job until retirement is outdated in itself. Rather than constrain the program, it should be expanded into the general population in some form. My two cents.


No, Not that Redford. The Singing One.

Lisa Redford performed at the Norwich Arts Centre on Thursday. Her music is a variety of pop ballads about love lost and sometimes savored and not the same class of female songwriters I typically gravitate toward, Neko Case or Aimee Mann, for example, who sing about twisted interpersonal relationships. Redford's was satisfying to the point that I picked up her latest release, Clouds With Silver, with an autograph on the way out. She has a soaring voice when she wants it to reach the rafters, but a little girl whisper when it suits her. I put the downloaded CD into my alternative playlist and have been listening to it regularly on its own since Thursday. It's growing on me.

Norwich was the final stop on her first UK tour as a headliner, short though it was. She returns now to New York, where she's based. Catch her show if you find her playing within a reasonable driving distance.

Latest Word From the Front

Greetings from the bunker. We've had a string of sunny days here, giving hope that spring can't be too far away. The English countryside is still leafless but the farmers' fields are showing green. The picture at left was taken in Norfolk County last year but could be just about anywhere around here. These concrete pillboxes are ubiquitous. Remnants of World War II, they languish in overgrown clumps, barely discernible, or along roadsides where landowners make them visible by clearing away the weeds and trash. They harbor magnificent spider populations.

Speaking of fortified positions, the wife has settled into her compound at FOB Gardez in Afghanistan. The getting there took the better part of two weeks. First a stop in Shannon, Ireland, that turned into a stay of several days while weather improved at the next stop, Manas, Kyrgyzstan. Manas is the base, you may recall, that the Kyrg government briefly threatened to close last year but after negotiations allowed to stay open and available to the US.  Here's a slice of the description she sent regarding the downtime spent there waiting for a flight to Bagram air base, Afghanistan:

  "I'm sitting here now in the big bar and rec tent that's centrally located here. Has good WiFi. There's a stage, and a live band is about to get rolling. The place is pretty full, and there's all sorts of shenanigans going on. I see Army guys who clearly aren't allowed to drink building can pyramids with Red Bull cans. Most the AF people have a beer in front of them. Us PRT weenies are still under GO1 (General Order No. 1 forbids alcohol consumption -- Ed.) and can't partake. There's lots of Polish and Croat soldiers here right now, as well as some US Marines in their desert cammies. All just trying to get downrange like us. The Croat group has a bunch of women in uniform as well. I saw a couple of them rocking long ponytails and gold hoop earrings. Very different appearance standards than we have. Pretty sweet."

Next stop was Bagram, the air base northwest of Kabul, where Kelley was last deployed in 2007:

"That is hardly the same planet it was when I was there before. It's totally different and the place is exponentially busier than when I was here. Plus, the transients are all put in a camp out on the edge of nowhere, where you have to take a bus if you want to get down to main base where I used to live, and I just never did it. The transient camp is just downright freaky. People from all over, with tons of civilians, mostly Afghan, mixed in. I kept referring to it as "Bartertown," because it just had that Mad Max apocolyptic, survival-of-the-fittest feel to it. What a freaky place."

And then finally the last stop for the next several months, FOB Gardez, which is similar in geography to northern New Mexico. She lives in a mud brick building, or qalat, in a base where outside lighting is nonexistent. The nighttime stars are a breathtaking sight. More on living conditions:

 "The qalat is really like living in an adobe house in NM. Has the vigas across the ceiling, and I constantly worry about bugs and rodents. The guys who lived in the room before me have had a running tally of mice killed there, and it's depicted on the wall with a little drawing of a mouse and tic-marks for each year, going back to 2004. Nice."

The high altitude takes some getting used to, even for tough guys:

"Starting to get less uncomfortable here. I know it's at 7,600 feet, but thought that wouldn't be a huge deal. I kept a headache for the first two days, was nauseous off and on, and I get out of breath walking more than 50 feet. It's pathetic. I had to don my gear yesterday and we convoyed over to the nearby FOB to their firing range, so we could re-zero our M4's. Apparently the altitude messes with the scope's settings or something, and we had to re-zero. According to one of the SECFOR guys, I'm a really good shot! That was a shock."

On the Home Front

Stars & Stripes must have heard my plea because it ran this piece on the surprise hold put on MyCAA, the program that gives military spouses up to $6,000 for tuition. The program is supposed to help spouses train up for some kind of career both meaningful and portable. It no doubt aims also to improve retention among the military members themselves by giving two-career households better odds within military families. A post on the Facebook site dedicated to this situation surmises that with retention and recruiting goals being met, keeping spouses satisfied may have less urgency.

I take advantage of this program, sure, but lots of spouses with husbands and wives in much lower pay grades see this as a definite leg up. It affords an opportunity to learn anything from auto mechanics to computer IT to a graduate degree. Finding work anywhere is a difficult proposition, but as a constantly shifting military member's spouse there exists an added layer of difficulty. If not for folks like me, but for those who need it most, this program needs to survive.

Here's another story, from Military Times, that emphasizes the rather clueless and sudden nature of the abrupt shutdown of this program.

This strange development leaves a lot of people in the lurch with little explanation and no expectations. Some may question whether it's largess we can ill afford and that's a fair question. Turns out there's nearly $600 million already committed. I expect the program will either disappear or return with a diminished budget.

Elsewhere in This Great, Big World of Ours

We just finished another semester's worth of graduate education crammed into a week of classroom time at Lakenheath, the topic this time was international communication. I ruminated upon lessons learned as I sipped my morning java and perused the news channels and online newspapers.

The Oscars topped the New York Times, which also gave prominence to the Iraqi elections.

The Washington Post echoed the same set of reportage. The earthquake in eastern Turkey had yet to register, as did the massacre of approximately 500 in Nigeria.

Al-Jazeera had good reportage from the scene in Nigeria. It also reported this story about the Mekong River  drying up, due, in part or largely, depending on who you believe, to the Chinese building a series of dams up river.

Reporting on the capture of the American-born al-Qaeda member in Pakistan is beginning to look like a case of mistaken identity, as much as it would be intensely satisfying to see this SOB captured.

Finally, Robert Gates, the US defense secretary, is in Afghanistan today, following up on the apparent success in taking Marja. The battle now is for Kandahar.

'Til next time, keep it real.

From East PA to East Anglia

Home again in Cambridgeshire after a ride home aboard a United flight from D.C. to Heathrow, a flight I found unbelievably cheap on Vayama. We troll the usual airline-fare sites, including Kayak, but I'd never heard of Vayama before until digging in for a way home that sidestepped the hassle of flying military Space A, yet presented a justifiably low fare. In this case, $271 from Newark to D.C. and Heathrow. I discovered this site on an e-newsletter when I arrived home and expect to give it a try this summer.

The red-eye ride home aboard a 777 was pretty relaxed. Plenty of seats went unsold in coach, so moving to a nearly empty row to stretch out and nap was no problem. From Heathrow, where we landed around 6 a.m., I took the Tube to King's Cross and caught a train to Ely, then walked the two miles home, where I arrived by 10:30 a.m.

Speaking of travelers, Kelley has been incommunicado better than three days now, except for a phone message she left Monday from Bagram while I was out, mailing a package to her in Afghanistan, among other errands. She left Indiana Feb. 20, then spent a couple days waiting in Shannon, Ireland, before flying to Manas, Kyrgyzstan, and then to Bagram, Afghanistan. She has no access to an Internet connection and phoned instead. She sounded in great spirits but was unsure what day it was. I expect to hear more in coming days. Bagram is not the final destination, however, and no telling how long her team must wait before hitching a ride south aboard helicopters to FOB Gardez.

The weather here was atrocious, a typical English winter, wet, cold and windy for most of last week. Overnight Sunday into Monday, the skies cleared, and today another blue-sky dawned over East Anglia. Tonight another class in the University of Oklahoma graduate program in international relations convenes at RAF Lakenheath, this one on international communications. The reading thus far has been interesting. The textbook, "International Communication: Continuity and Change," is a pretty good reference for anyone interested in the subject. The author lays out the history of international communication, from trans-oceanic cable to transnational multimedia corporations, like Fox and its competitors. A good book to keep on the shelf, full of basic information and lots of charts that lay the story in an easily digestible fashion.

The class promises to be interesting and I'll probably have something to say on it later in the week.  Til then, be cool.