Wednesday, August 19, 2009
Tuesday, August 04, 2009
Tuesday, July 28, 2009
Monday, July 27, 2009
Saturday, July 25, 2009
Friday, July 24, 2009
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
Monday, July 20, 2009
Lily
This photo was taken of Lily at the Otakon 2009 Baltimore Conference. What made me time so wonderful, besides all the people running around in costumes, was the fact that I didnt even know something like this was going on.Tuesday, July 14, 2009
Monday, July 13, 2009
Wednesday, July 08, 2009
Crazy Bastard
The guy in the photo is my wife's uncle. The kids - none of has a clue.
No children were harmed during the shooting of this photo.
No children were harmed during the shooting of this photo.
Thursday, June 25, 2009
She'll be Coming Around the Mountain When She Comes...
She'll be Coming Around the Mountain When She Comes...
Originally uploaded by JLK1979 (AKA Mr. Johnson)
Monday, June 22, 2009
Thursday, June 18, 2009
Sacrilegious in the Name of Art
Walking around to the back side of the Marathon Motor Works, following the train tracks, past the stench of something dead, Fallingwater123 pointed out a collection of books. A dozen tomes hung, tied up and gently swinging under the eve of the building still awaiting renovation. It is a creepy site just because it is just so conspicuous. There is no indication of where the books came from, there is no reason to hang them under an eve, and apparently, they have been there for more than a few weeks. It's an odd site.
The artist’s knots seem built to last. None of them have fallen; however, one or two of them have begun to shed some pages. It’s a shame. I felt as if the scene was a drawn out version of a book burning event.
The artist’s knots seem built to last. None of them have fallen; however, one or two of them have begun to shed some pages. It’s a shame. I felt as if the scene was a drawn out version of a book burning event.
Gretchen's Grind - Working at Getting you Up and Keeping you Up.
Gretchen's Grind - Working at Getting you Up and Keeping you Up.
Originally uploaded by JLK1979 (AKA Mr. Johnson)
This was meant to be an informative blurb about a quaint coffee house in Ellicott City, where the clever owners have used the name to connote duel meaning - sexy strippers and coffee, but all I can think about is Kacie's blog.
kacieinourdreams.blogspot.com/2008/12/12112008.html
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
The Lincoln Memorial - A Wonder of the World in my Back Yard
The Lincoln Memorial - A Wonder of the World in my Back Yard
Originally uploaded by JLK1979 (AKA Mr. Johnson)
Heaven and Hell in the District of Columbia
Kasia and I went out the other night into DC to capture the color of light. Our primary site was a construction site right off of Constitution. Our Photography instructor, Aya, told us that there are some amazing shots to be had at these locations due to the high powered flood lights they use to continue working. Since Monday was the last night for posting, we made an impromptu excursion.
As the sun dipped over the horizon, we walked to our site from her parking space on the side of Constitution. Two blocks in, we passed a Buddhist Monk on the sidewalk. “I just need to stop,” Kasia squeaked. I obliged. Kasia set up her tripod from a respectable distance and I watched her work. This is where the magic began to happen.
I watched Kasia, half illuminated by a nearby street lamp, I turned my head to see another monk glide past me, his orange robes flowing from the shadows. He didn’t speak or nod, but walked on. After seeing him, I knew we were going to be here a while and since I didn’t have a snickers to munch on, I also broke out my tripod.
I watched the monk pass Kasia and make his way down the sidewalk towards his brother. I watched everyone as they passed us. Even if they didn’t speak or look at me, they all still made sounds…except for these monks, and the next one that passed and the next one. They came out of nowhere gradually and stood there by the side of the street. The convergence may have took 10 minutes while Kasia and I snapped photos of the mystics to capture them in the night lights.
I would like to say that we had a calm equanimity about our work, but it was completely the exact opposite. We were being eaten alive by every fucking bug within a two mile radius of Washington DC. I slapped at my legs, my arms and head. I flailed around in the dark like I was having a seizure and in between grunts of satisfaction and cries of frustration, I froze long enough to hit the shutter on my camera and tripod. I felt as if I were in hell looking up into heaven.
For every mosquito I killed with my meaty paws, 30 others got their fill of my plasma and platelets. Those dirty buggers almost made me pass out from their feasting and gluttony. In fact, I still feel a bit woozy two days later and I have the welts to prove it.
I continue to itch as I remember the irritation and frustration I felt in the dark watching these peaceful ambassadors. Not once did I see them move suddenly to swat at a biting insect. I watched them as they stood there. I heard nothing when I watched them. Except for the whining sound of an incoming bloodsucker, the rest of the night sounds faded. I don’t remember hearing the buses, the horns, or the meandering tourists with children in tow.
I think the other night is the closest I am going to come to experience an amalgam of heaven and hell, at least until the music stops for me. Only in the Nation’s Capital can we find such chaos and inspiration to do great things.
As the sun dipped over the horizon, we walked to our site from her parking space on the side of Constitution. Two blocks in, we passed a Buddhist Monk on the sidewalk. “I just need to stop,” Kasia squeaked. I obliged. Kasia set up her tripod from a respectable distance and I watched her work. This is where the magic began to happen.
I watched Kasia, half illuminated by a nearby street lamp, I turned my head to see another monk glide past me, his orange robes flowing from the shadows. He didn’t speak or nod, but walked on. After seeing him, I knew we were going to be here a while and since I didn’t have a snickers to munch on, I also broke out my tripod.
I watched the monk pass Kasia and make his way down the sidewalk towards his brother. I watched everyone as they passed us. Even if they didn’t speak or look at me, they all still made sounds…except for these monks, and the next one that passed and the next one. They came out of nowhere gradually and stood there by the side of the street. The convergence may have took 10 minutes while Kasia and I snapped photos of the mystics to capture them in the night lights.
I would like to say that we had a calm equanimity about our work, but it was completely the exact opposite. We were being eaten alive by every fucking bug within a two mile radius of Washington DC. I slapped at my legs, my arms and head. I flailed around in the dark like I was having a seizure and in between grunts of satisfaction and cries of frustration, I froze long enough to hit the shutter on my camera and tripod. I felt as if I were in hell looking up into heaven.
For every mosquito I killed with my meaty paws, 30 others got their fill of my plasma and platelets. Those dirty buggers almost made me pass out from their feasting and gluttony. In fact, I still feel a bit woozy two days later and I have the welts to prove it.
I continue to itch as I remember the irritation and frustration I felt in the dark watching these peaceful ambassadors. Not once did I see them move suddenly to swat at a biting insect. I watched them as they stood there. I heard nothing when I watched them. Except for the whining sound of an incoming bloodsucker, the rest of the night sounds faded. I don’t remember hearing the buses, the horns, or the meandering tourists with children in tow.
I think the other night is the closest I am going to come to experience an amalgam of heaven and hell, at least until the music stops for me. Only in the Nation’s Capital can we find such chaos and inspiration to do great things.
One more Marker
By the time, I took this shot, Don and I were on our third hour in the cemetery. The light caught my eye and I thought this would make a nice photo of the tree roots and that one marker near the tree.
Many times throughout the time in the cemetery, a movie (made for television -- I cannot remember the name) I saw years ago came to mind. It was about a haunted house where a new family moved in. It is the same typical haunted house story everyone tends to remember. The house was built on a cemetery with unmarked graves and the bodies were never removed from the property before the builder came in for construction. The story's supposedly true, the family is tormented by spirits, weird things happen and cannot be explained, etc. Only one aspect was different in the story that always stuck with me - the perspective that the souls of the dead inherited the lives of foliage and trees because their bodies provided sustanance as the tree's roots grew into the dead. The movie suggested that these souls now watch us and are able to live as part of the tree. This thought never left me the whole time. Interesting thought though.
True or not. So I wonder if this tree was watching me. I wonder if they retain their names afterward. "Hi, I am Bobby Lee, the Rosebush."
Many times throughout the time in the cemetery, a movie (made for television -- I cannot remember the name) I saw years ago came to mind. It was about a haunted house where a new family moved in. It is the same typical haunted house story everyone tends to remember. The house was built on a cemetery with unmarked graves and the bodies were never removed from the property before the builder came in for construction. The story's supposedly true, the family is tormented by spirits, weird things happen and cannot be explained, etc. Only one aspect was different in the story that always stuck with me - the perspective that the souls of the dead inherited the lives of foliage and trees because their bodies provided sustanance as the tree's roots grew into the dead. The movie suggested that these souls now watch us and are able to live as part of the tree. This thought never left me the whole time. Interesting thought though.
True or not. So I wonder if this tree was watching me. I wonder if they retain their names afterward. "Hi, I am Bobby Lee, the Rosebush."
Flickr Friend - Fallingwater123
Fallingwater123 - A true Southern Gentleman, knowledgable among the dead, and great company.
I met Don over Flickr about a month after I joined the website. Don does wonders in a cemetery and he truly brings those buried there back to life through the photos he takes of their tombs and grave markers. During a visit to Nashville this past weekend, I had the pleasure of meeting Don in the dark before sunrise, in an area I have never been, and let alone, in a Cemetery (parking lot)! He greeted me with a shovel, pick, and crow bar, wait no, it was cold bottle of water for the drive. Nevermind.
Along the way, Don set the tone with one of the creepest scores I have ever heard. Dark, heavy organ music played (Franz Listz) as we ascended into the graveyard; like I said on his posting of Mount Olivet, it is a moment I will not forget.
This particular photo was taken at the Marathon Motor Works in Nashville and each place that he took me turned out to be a true treasure.
Don, it was a pleasure meeting you and I look forward to our next photoshoot. Remember, lunch is on me next time -- guest or no guest. Thank you very much for sharing your time, city sites, and knowledge with me.
For those of you that are interested in his work, please check him out at:
www.flickr.com/photos/fallingwater123/. You will not regret it.
I met Don over Flickr about a month after I joined the website. Don does wonders in a cemetery and he truly brings those buried there back to life through the photos he takes of their tombs and grave markers. During a visit to Nashville this past weekend, I had the pleasure of meeting Don in the dark before sunrise, in an area I have never been, and let alone, in a Cemetery (parking lot)! He greeted me with a shovel, pick, and crow bar, wait no, it was cold bottle of water for the drive. Nevermind.
Along the way, Don set the tone with one of the creepest scores I have ever heard. Dark, heavy organ music played (Franz Listz) as we ascended into the graveyard; like I said on his posting of Mount Olivet, it is a moment I will not forget.
This particular photo was taken at the Marathon Motor Works in Nashville and each place that he took me turned out to be a true treasure.
Don, it was a pleasure meeting you and I look forward to our next photoshoot. Remember, lunch is on me next time -- guest or no guest. Thank you very much for sharing your time, city sites, and knowledge with me.
For those of you that are interested in his work, please check him out at:
www.flickr.com/photos/fallingwater123/. You will not regret it.
Love me for my Flaws
This glass was found on the window ledge of the abandoned admin building on the premises of Mount Olivet.
As Fallingwater123 and I left the building to go around the other side, I heard her whisper, "take my photo. Love me for my flaws." So I did and here she is.
As Fallingwater123 and I left the building to go around the other side, I heard her whisper, "take my photo. Love me for my flaws." So I did and here she is.
Flickr Friend - Katarzyna Swierczek
Kasia and I have become fast friends through friends and neighbors, but most notably, through photography and Flickr. Though this website provides ample subject matter for our discussions, we talk about everything under the sun. She is my Photography companion during the early morning weekends when we seek out another abandoned site or interesting photo opportunity.
To me, Kasia, as a good friend and photo buddy, she comprises a plethora of knowledge on so many topics. She is driven, creative, and a sense of humor that always makes me smile when I see her. My Polish friend has the ability to use vulgarity just enough to make you smile and laugh.
She possesses an evil eye that, in times of duress, may threaten to burst and squirt eyeball fluid all over. She calls it allergies; I call her “allergies” an event that has the ability to make me do the exorcist vomit exercise if anything threatens to land on me. I have photos to prove her eye can get huge and ominous.
Already, in the short span of a few months, we have gone on over a dozen excursions, had our blood sucked by packs of ticks the size of dinner plates, and we were almost arrested by a “pretend cop.” (Go figure.) Together, we have logged hundreds of miles on the roads and many hours behind the lens of a camera.
She is a Canon girl and I am a Nikon guy. This is my Flickr Friend, Kasia.
You can view her work here: www.flickr.com/photos/kswierczek/
To me, Kasia, as a good friend and photo buddy, she comprises a plethora of knowledge on so many topics. She is driven, creative, and a sense of humor that always makes me smile when I see her. My Polish friend has the ability to use vulgarity just enough to make you smile and laugh.
She possesses an evil eye that, in times of duress, may threaten to burst and squirt eyeball fluid all over. She calls it allergies; I call her “allergies” an event that has the ability to make me do the exorcist vomit exercise if anything threatens to land on me. I have photos to prove her eye can get huge and ominous.
Already, in the short span of a few months, we have gone on over a dozen excursions, had our blood sucked by packs of ticks the size of dinner plates, and we were almost arrested by a “pretend cop.” (Go figure.) Together, we have logged hundreds of miles on the roads and many hours behind the lens of a camera.
She is a Canon girl and I am a Nikon guy. This is my Flickr Friend, Kasia.
You can view her work here: www.flickr.com/photos/kswierczek/
Thursday, June 04, 2009
Wednesday, June 03, 2009
Tuesday, June 02, 2009
Wednesday, May 27, 2009
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
Monday, May 25, 2009
Friday, May 22, 2009
Are you okay? I am trained in First Aid. Do you need help?
Kasia and I are in the same photography class at NVCC. Though it looks like she has fallen in the corner of my shot, she is really just working her magic.
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
Monday, May 18, 2009
Thursday, May 14, 2009
Thursday, May 07, 2009
Wednesday, May 06, 2009
Where's the Coffee?
This photo was taken last week at Forrest Hills Mental Asylum. It was the second time I have been to this place and the halls take on a different feeling when you go alone.
Tuesday, May 05, 2009
http://linuxinside.org/flickr/Tuesday, April 14, 2009
Spit and Polish - Essay
Robert Hendrickson defines the origin and definition of the phrase spit and polish as:
"Military in origin, this term goes back to Victorian times, probably to the middle of the 19th century, although it isn’t recorded before 1895. Meticulous cleaning and smartness of appearance were demanded of sailors in the British navy, which became known as the ‘Spit and Polish Navy.’ Enlisted men liked it then no more than they do now and spit and polish- the application of one’s spittle as a polishing agent and much elbow grease to make an object shine – came to be a pejorative term for finicky, wasteful work in general."
I can’t argue with anything the man says until he addresses the thoughts of enlisted men. While Hendrickson’s statement may be true of many veterans, regardless of time, for me polish and shine became one of my favorite obligations to fulfill.
The time I spent conducting "wasteful work" showed me exactly how subjective the word "Perfect" truly is. The dictionary describes perfect as "a state of undiminished or highest excellence; without defect; flawless." "Perfection," represents a very broad, subjective scope, and often remains the goal against which we define standards. The purpose of the act determines the range of what passes for perfect. Pride exists in the effort of one’s work. Ask the question for any professional: What needs to be perfect in your work? Why? Ask a teacher that question. A student. A firefighter. A surgeon. A soldier. A politician? What does perfect mean to them? How important are their efforts? At what point does their standard reach its pinnacle? As a soldier, the worth in my work became apparent in my abilities to shine brass and leather.
My first lesson in shining leather was a primitive experience. That January evening, the night our drill sergeant began chucking boots, I had been in basic training for a week. Sand Hill, Ft. Benning Georgia, the weather was a heat wave compared to the wet, freezing air of Detroit. We came from all over the country to learn how to kill and how to survive. Disappointment and despair quickly became routine with every new task – each one not even remotely related to the art of war. That night we had a 10-minute block of instruction: How to shine boots.
We bought polishing kits earlier in the day as we slinked through the PX under the malevolent eyes of the drill sergeants hovering at the edge of our peripheral vision. Each kit contained two small cans of Kiwi black shoe polish, a brush applicator, a piece of cloth, and a boot brush. The kit came in a soft plastic pouch, black on the back and clear plastic front. The shoe kit was a novelty, but as the days wore on, I grew to hate the smell, the mess it made, and even the thought of shining.
Our boots were two days old, but they looked as if they had experienced years of abuse. Each toe and heel was scraped and raw from push-ups and Hello Dollies. Drill Sergeant called it exercise; we called it pain. "You jokers keep it up," Drill Sergeant would announce as he walked through our ranks as we grunted in effort. "I can play this game a lot longer than you all. Keep it up. Please." Fortunately, the leather in our boots held up much better than our bodies. That evening, Drill Sergeant used a boot from Private Hale as an example of the proper way to shine a boot.
Drill Sergeant’s instruction and delivery is concise, his words breaking the silence in the evening air. "Cover your boot with polish," Drill Sergeant instructed our platoon. "Use the applicator in your kit." We watched him as he worked, his eyes hidden shadows under the bill of his brown round. "Make sure the polish fills the divots. It will cure the damage in the fibers. The oil will keep em in good condition." His brush strokes seemed minimal in effort. We watched as he slightly repositioned the boot in his hands as he worked. His words never faltered, he never hesitated with his movements. We were quickly learning that he never made mistakes, though his ability to find them amongst our newly formed platoon was already uncanny. He looked down at us with steely glances as he continued to work his magic.
"Keep your boots in good shape. If you don’t give them proper maintenance, they won’t protect your feet. If your feet are not protected, they will not allow you to move effectively. It will behoove you all to make sure your shoes are polished and well kept at all times of the day. If I see you are not doing so… I can fix that for you."
He presents the boot to us. In a minute’s worth of effort, the entire boot is gleaming. The finish reflects the miniature versions of the fluorescent rods above our heads. It was amazing. "Ya’ll have an hour to shine your boots to this standard. I will be back down to inspect your progress at that time. If your boots don’t look like this," displaying the boot, "you won’t enter my barracks until they do."
He holds out the boot to Private Hale. Private Hale reaches for his gleaming boot, but just before the prize makes it into Private Hale’s eager hands, Drill Sergeant tosses it out into the darkness. We hear the thud as it strikes the rocks and gravel.
"Get to Work." Drill Sergeant walks off into the barracks. The disheartened private scampers out to salvage what is left of the polish on the boot.
The first 15 minutes started out with a lot of chatter and good humor. This was going to be an easy night, we all thought to ourselves. Drill Sergeant was going to leave us alone for the entire hour. A few jokes here, a moment’s pause between brush strokes to laugh and comment; we passed the next 15 minutes taking our time.
While the remaining minutes sped away, our comments gave way to anxious inquiries and short commentary on how Drill Sergeant made the shine. Before long, we gathered around the boot Drill Sergeant had touched. Even Private Hale was frustrated. When comparing his boot to the example, his success was just as good as the rest of ours – nonexistent. The illusion of an easy night quickly deteriorated. Instead of the symbolic black mirror polish, one would expect on a military combat boot, our boots remained dull and perpetually dusty even with all the effort we put forth.
The hour came and went. We spent next two hours standing in line for inspection. One after another, Drill Sergeant dashed the hope in our boots passing inspection. Hope of sleep and rest vanished every time our boots sailed over his shoulder and into the rocks and darkness. Drill Sergeant kept silent except for his occasional and caustic reminders, "Ya’ll are on your own time now," he would say between tosses. He made no comments about the quality of our boots. It was enough to hear the sound of the boots smacking the mud and rocks. Standing next in line, I kept thinking, please God, let this be good enough. I handed over my boots for the third time. I search his face for the slightest sign of approval. Nothing. No indication of approval. I think I see something. I did, I know I did. Yess, I am going to pass. He throws my boot.
Shit.
Throughout basic training, we had countless hours to refine our techniques on polishing boots, which always took place during our "own time," - roughly one hour a night. During that time, we would conduct uniform and boot maintenance for the next day and throw in a prayer that our efforts succeed. As we got better, it allowed us time to write letters with black knuckles and sore fingers, leaving our pages stained with black boot kiwi.
My life after basic training took place at Ft. Myer, Virginia – home to the Old Guard. The public knows the unit for the soldiers serving at the "Tomb of the Unknown Soldier" in Arlington National Cemetery. In my new family, leadership again labeled my spit shining efforts inadequate. For starters, every solider reporting to The Old Guard, officer and enlisted, must go through an additional three weeks of training, Regimental Orientation Program or ROP.
ROP ensures drill and ceremony movements are crisp and precise, including perfect uniforms and appearance. We worked with the same boots and uniform in basic training, but again, new challenges pushed my development and growth towards greater degrees of precision and refinement. Twice daily, the instructors would measure the progress of our class by measuring our buttons and brass with a ruler. If my boots resembled my best efforts in basic training, they were pathetic for The Old Guard. Negative reinforcement can be a powerful tool for motivation. Like the drill sergeants, our ROP instructors were also aware of this. Instead of rigorous exercise as punishment, standing at the position of attention for long periods became the routine.
In attempts to save me some grief and hours of time, my new squad started instructing me on the nuances of conducting boot and uniform maintenance at Ft. Myer outside of ROP. I spent the evenings watching and mimicking my roommate when he shined his own boots. I began to learn new techniques and tips that would help with day-to-day uniform activities. Over the months of constant shining, my mediocre efforts slowly improved. I tried new methods and discovered new degrees of gleam in my leather and brass. I tried new methods and developed my own style and routine.
Six months later, I volunteered for duty at the Caisson platoon. Caisson soldiers are known as the hardest workers in the regiment for their excessive hours and farm-like chores involved with keep a stable in good shape. Every soldier works more than 80 hours a week. Duties include our uniform and additional time and care for horses and related equipment. The caisson platoon is responsible for participation in all funerals for officers and the most senior enlisted soldiers being buried in Arlington Cemetery for all branches of the military. My responsibilities went beyond just my two pairs of military boots.
Once accepted into the Caisson platoon, the Supply Sergeant issued me two additional sets of riding boots that required even more time to polish due to the acres of surface area. Our riding boots suffered even more abuse than I could ever recall during basic training and these boots extended to just below the knee, instead of lower mid-calf. The brunt of our efforts in polish focused the tack each horse had to wear in order to pull the caisson, or "the wagon" to civilians.
My first job as a caisson soldier was to start shining the leather and the brass components that attached the horses to the caisson. The remaining tack for our horses consisted of seven individual sets. Every set contained a saddle, bridle, and a croupier. A seasoned rider could polish his set of tack within a four-hour timeframe; a beginner, maybe six hours. A beginner with an antagonistic Sergeant – two weeks.
Monday thru Friday, we had funerals in Arlington Cemetery. If we had a funeral at 9:00 a.m., we were at the barn and well into the morning at 4 a.m.
Most days ended at 6:00 p.m. The day’s last task before fighting the traffic home was to clean the tack for scrote. Cleaning scrote was always the worst part of the job. The constant irritation appeared as a white, filmy, residue covering the interior straps of leather. As the horses meander throughout the cemetery and set in the elements, their sweat and dead skin produce this unsavory residue throughout the day. If it rained that day, it wasn’t the scrote we had to clean; it was the hair we had to remove from the sticky leather. Cleaning is never an easy job, nor is it ever fun. My first year of Caisson consisted of polishing, and cleaning, then polishing and more cleaning, re-cleaning, getting yelled at, and more cleaning. Then we polished. Through hard work and endurance, I was promoted to the most coveted position the Caisson platoon offered – the Cap Walker.
My final job was to walk the riderless horse during high-ranking military funerals. The riderless horse, also known as the Caparisoned Horse, or "Cap horse" for short, is dressed with all the required tack for riding a horse. An Officer’s saber adorns the horse, along with riding boots positioned backwards into the accompanying stirrups. The riderless horse and backward boots symbolizes the fallen soldier looking back on his troops one last time. The horse is presented for officers ranked as Colonels or above for the Marine Corps and Army, two branches with a mounted cavalry units in their past. The riderless horse also represents presidents and other distinguished civilian, at their funerals. During my time, no civilian was issued the order for a riderless horse.
Starting out as a Cap Walker is daunting and qualifying is harder. Being a walker demands even more time beyond the typical 80-hour workweek. The Chain-of-Command offers the Cap Walker position to soldiers proven to have higher than average standards. However, the appointment to such a position removes all room for error. Peers and superiors alike scrutinize every move a walker makes.
My pride in the recognition of being a Cap Walker soon gave way to the realization of exactly how demanding my job would become. Maintaining the special artifacts for the Cap Horse would extend my nights far beyond a sixteen-hour day. During a funeral, awkward movements from the horse, or even leaves and twigs falling from trees in the cemetery, would damage mirror-like gleam on the tack. The level of care and polish that goes into the tack seems almost ludicrous to those outside of the unit. During my walks in the funeral, I would keep a mental tally of any movement or incident that would make my evening longer when repairing damages. Sometimes rain or too much sun would be enough to keep me long through the night.
Days with more than one mission or extreme weather conditions made my nights seem twice as long as any workday. Sometimes, it wasn’t worth going home to bed. Those nights, I stayed in the barn and slept on the couch upstairs for a few hours before reporting for formation the next morning.
No matter the damage, the only acceptable end state for the tack is always a mirror made of black leather, wax, and oil. No exceptions. You’re on your own time now, I would hear my drill sergeant’s voice echoing in my mind. Just the radio, a bare bulb overhead, and me in a red room the size of a closet, I would stand there, my thoughts wandering as I hunched over polishing.
Spending hour after hour with a small can of shoe polish and a pile of cotton balls, what started as a chore soon made shining my obsession. If he only knew where I would end up, smiling to myself, I thought of what my drill sergeant would say to me if he saw me now. By the time I finished, a stroke from a boot brush like that from basic training would have done more damage to the saddle than what I could fix in an hour.
For every Cap mission, the rule-of-thumb called for a minimum of eight hours of work– four hours of prep time and four for maintenance. Shining brass and polishing leather consumes ¾ of every hour. Beyond that rule-of-thumb, the guidelines stop and new standards of perfection emerge. I had to teach myself what was acceptable and what was not.
As my experience grew, so did my ability to repair the mirror-like reflection. My skill became surgical in nature. Learning when to use more water rather than polish, whether to use the silk or continue my strokes with the cotton balls always came into play. Guidelines gave way to an art form. Too much attention in one area and not enough in another ruined the whole finish. Eighty percent of all I know about spit and polish I learned through trial and error.
To represent that soldier who had served his country, a man or woman who often times; served through more than one war – how much of my effort and time earns the right to represent that soldier on their last trip? Though I knew my skill in shining was admirable among the soldiers I worked with, there were times that I could see the failure in my work when they couldn’t. I was never admonished for my preparation or performance, but I quickly learned the bite of guilt and remorse when I presented less than my personal best. Those times, I wished it were just my boot being thrown back into the mud.
When I hear "Enlisted men liked it then no more than they do now," I shake my head and disagree. It isn’t wasteful work. Beyond the skill of polishing leather, the act in itself opened my eyes to other tasks I would perform in the future. Be it a skill for work, a hobby, a pastime, the time, the effort, and the care that you put forth does more than develop that skill. It influences your character. Almost as if in tandem, skill and character seem to march in step, sometimes with the help of direction and pain. In my case, it started with a plastic pouch of brushes and polish and ended with cold fingers and lost hours of sleep. What needs to be perfect in your work? Why?
"Military in origin, this term goes back to Victorian times, probably to the middle of the 19th century, although it isn’t recorded before 1895. Meticulous cleaning and smartness of appearance were demanded of sailors in the British navy, which became known as the ‘Spit and Polish Navy.’ Enlisted men liked it then no more than they do now and spit and polish- the application of one’s spittle as a polishing agent and much elbow grease to make an object shine – came to be a pejorative term for finicky, wasteful work in general."
I can’t argue with anything the man says until he addresses the thoughts of enlisted men. While Hendrickson’s statement may be true of many veterans, regardless of time, for me polish and shine became one of my favorite obligations to fulfill.
The time I spent conducting "wasteful work" showed me exactly how subjective the word "Perfect" truly is. The dictionary describes perfect as "a state of undiminished or highest excellence; without defect; flawless." "Perfection," represents a very broad, subjective scope, and often remains the goal against which we define standards. The purpose of the act determines the range of what passes for perfect. Pride exists in the effort of one’s work. Ask the question for any professional: What needs to be perfect in your work? Why? Ask a teacher that question. A student. A firefighter. A surgeon. A soldier. A politician? What does perfect mean to them? How important are their efforts? At what point does their standard reach its pinnacle? As a soldier, the worth in my work became apparent in my abilities to shine brass and leather.
My first lesson in shining leather was a primitive experience. That January evening, the night our drill sergeant began chucking boots, I had been in basic training for a week. Sand Hill, Ft. Benning Georgia, the weather was a heat wave compared to the wet, freezing air of Detroit. We came from all over the country to learn how to kill and how to survive. Disappointment and despair quickly became routine with every new task – each one not even remotely related to the art of war. That night we had a 10-minute block of instruction: How to shine boots.
We bought polishing kits earlier in the day as we slinked through the PX under the malevolent eyes of the drill sergeants hovering at the edge of our peripheral vision. Each kit contained two small cans of Kiwi black shoe polish, a brush applicator, a piece of cloth, and a boot brush. The kit came in a soft plastic pouch, black on the back and clear plastic front. The shoe kit was a novelty, but as the days wore on, I grew to hate the smell, the mess it made, and even the thought of shining.
Our boots were two days old, but they looked as if they had experienced years of abuse. Each toe and heel was scraped and raw from push-ups and Hello Dollies. Drill Sergeant called it exercise; we called it pain. "You jokers keep it up," Drill Sergeant would announce as he walked through our ranks as we grunted in effort. "I can play this game a lot longer than you all. Keep it up. Please." Fortunately, the leather in our boots held up much better than our bodies. That evening, Drill Sergeant used a boot from Private Hale as an example of the proper way to shine a boot.
Drill Sergeant’s instruction and delivery is concise, his words breaking the silence in the evening air. "Cover your boot with polish," Drill Sergeant instructed our platoon. "Use the applicator in your kit." We watched him as he worked, his eyes hidden shadows under the bill of his brown round. "Make sure the polish fills the divots. It will cure the damage in the fibers. The oil will keep em in good condition." His brush strokes seemed minimal in effort. We watched as he slightly repositioned the boot in his hands as he worked. His words never faltered, he never hesitated with his movements. We were quickly learning that he never made mistakes, though his ability to find them amongst our newly formed platoon was already uncanny. He looked down at us with steely glances as he continued to work his magic.
"Keep your boots in good shape. If you don’t give them proper maintenance, they won’t protect your feet. If your feet are not protected, they will not allow you to move effectively. It will behoove you all to make sure your shoes are polished and well kept at all times of the day. If I see you are not doing so… I can fix that for you."
He presents the boot to us. In a minute’s worth of effort, the entire boot is gleaming. The finish reflects the miniature versions of the fluorescent rods above our heads. It was amazing. "Ya’ll have an hour to shine your boots to this standard. I will be back down to inspect your progress at that time. If your boots don’t look like this," displaying the boot, "you won’t enter my barracks until they do."
He holds out the boot to Private Hale. Private Hale reaches for his gleaming boot, but just before the prize makes it into Private Hale’s eager hands, Drill Sergeant tosses it out into the darkness. We hear the thud as it strikes the rocks and gravel.
"Get to Work." Drill Sergeant walks off into the barracks. The disheartened private scampers out to salvage what is left of the polish on the boot.
The first 15 minutes started out with a lot of chatter and good humor. This was going to be an easy night, we all thought to ourselves. Drill Sergeant was going to leave us alone for the entire hour. A few jokes here, a moment’s pause between brush strokes to laugh and comment; we passed the next 15 minutes taking our time.
While the remaining minutes sped away, our comments gave way to anxious inquiries and short commentary on how Drill Sergeant made the shine. Before long, we gathered around the boot Drill Sergeant had touched. Even Private Hale was frustrated. When comparing his boot to the example, his success was just as good as the rest of ours – nonexistent. The illusion of an easy night quickly deteriorated. Instead of the symbolic black mirror polish, one would expect on a military combat boot, our boots remained dull and perpetually dusty even with all the effort we put forth.
The hour came and went. We spent next two hours standing in line for inspection. One after another, Drill Sergeant dashed the hope in our boots passing inspection. Hope of sleep and rest vanished every time our boots sailed over his shoulder and into the rocks and darkness. Drill Sergeant kept silent except for his occasional and caustic reminders, "Ya’ll are on your own time now," he would say between tosses. He made no comments about the quality of our boots. It was enough to hear the sound of the boots smacking the mud and rocks. Standing next in line, I kept thinking, please God, let this be good enough. I handed over my boots for the third time. I search his face for the slightest sign of approval. Nothing. No indication of approval. I think I see something. I did, I know I did. Yess, I am going to pass. He throws my boot.
Shit.
Throughout basic training, we had countless hours to refine our techniques on polishing boots, which always took place during our "own time," - roughly one hour a night. During that time, we would conduct uniform and boot maintenance for the next day and throw in a prayer that our efforts succeed. As we got better, it allowed us time to write letters with black knuckles and sore fingers, leaving our pages stained with black boot kiwi.
My life after basic training took place at Ft. Myer, Virginia – home to the Old Guard. The public knows the unit for the soldiers serving at the "Tomb of the Unknown Soldier" in Arlington National Cemetery. In my new family, leadership again labeled my spit shining efforts inadequate. For starters, every solider reporting to The Old Guard, officer and enlisted, must go through an additional three weeks of training, Regimental Orientation Program or ROP.
ROP ensures drill and ceremony movements are crisp and precise, including perfect uniforms and appearance. We worked with the same boots and uniform in basic training, but again, new challenges pushed my development and growth towards greater degrees of precision and refinement. Twice daily, the instructors would measure the progress of our class by measuring our buttons and brass with a ruler. If my boots resembled my best efforts in basic training, they were pathetic for The Old Guard. Negative reinforcement can be a powerful tool for motivation. Like the drill sergeants, our ROP instructors were also aware of this. Instead of rigorous exercise as punishment, standing at the position of attention for long periods became the routine.
In attempts to save me some grief and hours of time, my new squad started instructing me on the nuances of conducting boot and uniform maintenance at Ft. Myer outside of ROP. I spent the evenings watching and mimicking my roommate when he shined his own boots. I began to learn new techniques and tips that would help with day-to-day uniform activities. Over the months of constant shining, my mediocre efforts slowly improved. I tried new methods and discovered new degrees of gleam in my leather and brass. I tried new methods and developed my own style and routine.
Six months later, I volunteered for duty at the Caisson platoon. Caisson soldiers are known as the hardest workers in the regiment for their excessive hours and farm-like chores involved with keep a stable in good shape. Every soldier works more than 80 hours a week. Duties include our uniform and additional time and care for horses and related equipment. The caisson platoon is responsible for participation in all funerals for officers and the most senior enlisted soldiers being buried in Arlington Cemetery for all branches of the military. My responsibilities went beyond just my two pairs of military boots.
Once accepted into the Caisson platoon, the Supply Sergeant issued me two additional sets of riding boots that required even more time to polish due to the acres of surface area. Our riding boots suffered even more abuse than I could ever recall during basic training and these boots extended to just below the knee, instead of lower mid-calf. The brunt of our efforts in polish focused the tack each horse had to wear in order to pull the caisson, or "the wagon" to civilians.
My first job as a caisson soldier was to start shining the leather and the brass components that attached the horses to the caisson. The remaining tack for our horses consisted of seven individual sets. Every set contained a saddle, bridle, and a croupier. A seasoned rider could polish his set of tack within a four-hour timeframe; a beginner, maybe six hours. A beginner with an antagonistic Sergeant – two weeks.
Monday thru Friday, we had funerals in Arlington Cemetery. If we had a funeral at 9:00 a.m., we were at the barn and well into the morning at 4 a.m.
Most days ended at 6:00 p.m. The day’s last task before fighting the traffic home was to clean the tack for scrote. Cleaning scrote was always the worst part of the job. The constant irritation appeared as a white, filmy, residue covering the interior straps of leather. As the horses meander throughout the cemetery and set in the elements, their sweat and dead skin produce this unsavory residue throughout the day. If it rained that day, it wasn’t the scrote we had to clean; it was the hair we had to remove from the sticky leather. Cleaning is never an easy job, nor is it ever fun. My first year of Caisson consisted of polishing, and cleaning, then polishing and more cleaning, re-cleaning, getting yelled at, and more cleaning. Then we polished. Through hard work and endurance, I was promoted to the most coveted position the Caisson platoon offered – the Cap Walker.
My final job was to walk the riderless horse during high-ranking military funerals. The riderless horse, also known as the Caparisoned Horse, or "Cap horse" for short, is dressed with all the required tack for riding a horse. An Officer’s saber adorns the horse, along with riding boots positioned backwards into the accompanying stirrups. The riderless horse and backward boots symbolizes the fallen soldier looking back on his troops one last time. The horse is presented for officers ranked as Colonels or above for the Marine Corps and Army, two branches with a mounted cavalry units in their past. The riderless horse also represents presidents and other distinguished civilian, at their funerals. During my time, no civilian was issued the order for a riderless horse.
Starting out as a Cap Walker is daunting and qualifying is harder. Being a walker demands even more time beyond the typical 80-hour workweek. The Chain-of-Command offers the Cap Walker position to soldiers proven to have higher than average standards. However, the appointment to such a position removes all room for error. Peers and superiors alike scrutinize every move a walker makes.
My pride in the recognition of being a Cap Walker soon gave way to the realization of exactly how demanding my job would become. Maintaining the special artifacts for the Cap Horse would extend my nights far beyond a sixteen-hour day. During a funeral, awkward movements from the horse, or even leaves and twigs falling from trees in the cemetery, would damage mirror-like gleam on the tack. The level of care and polish that goes into the tack seems almost ludicrous to those outside of the unit. During my walks in the funeral, I would keep a mental tally of any movement or incident that would make my evening longer when repairing damages. Sometimes rain or too much sun would be enough to keep me long through the night.
Days with more than one mission or extreme weather conditions made my nights seem twice as long as any workday. Sometimes, it wasn’t worth going home to bed. Those nights, I stayed in the barn and slept on the couch upstairs for a few hours before reporting for formation the next morning.
No matter the damage, the only acceptable end state for the tack is always a mirror made of black leather, wax, and oil. No exceptions. You’re on your own time now, I would hear my drill sergeant’s voice echoing in my mind. Just the radio, a bare bulb overhead, and me in a red room the size of a closet, I would stand there, my thoughts wandering as I hunched over polishing.
Spending hour after hour with a small can of shoe polish and a pile of cotton balls, what started as a chore soon made shining my obsession. If he only knew where I would end up, smiling to myself, I thought of what my drill sergeant would say to me if he saw me now. By the time I finished, a stroke from a boot brush like that from basic training would have done more damage to the saddle than what I could fix in an hour.
For every Cap mission, the rule-of-thumb called for a minimum of eight hours of work– four hours of prep time and four for maintenance. Shining brass and polishing leather consumes ¾ of every hour. Beyond that rule-of-thumb, the guidelines stop and new standards of perfection emerge. I had to teach myself what was acceptable and what was not.
As my experience grew, so did my ability to repair the mirror-like reflection. My skill became surgical in nature. Learning when to use more water rather than polish, whether to use the silk or continue my strokes with the cotton balls always came into play. Guidelines gave way to an art form. Too much attention in one area and not enough in another ruined the whole finish. Eighty percent of all I know about spit and polish I learned through trial and error.
To represent that soldier who had served his country, a man or woman who often times; served through more than one war – how much of my effort and time earns the right to represent that soldier on their last trip? Though I knew my skill in shining was admirable among the soldiers I worked with, there were times that I could see the failure in my work when they couldn’t. I was never admonished for my preparation or performance, but I quickly learned the bite of guilt and remorse when I presented less than my personal best. Those times, I wished it were just my boot being thrown back into the mud.
When I hear "Enlisted men liked it then no more than they do now," I shake my head and disagree. It isn’t wasteful work. Beyond the skill of polishing leather, the act in itself opened my eyes to other tasks I would perform in the future. Be it a skill for work, a hobby, a pastime, the time, the effort, and the care that you put forth does more than develop that skill. It influences your character. Almost as if in tandem, skill and character seem to march in step, sometimes with the help of direction and pain. In my case, it started with a plastic pouch of brushes and polish and ended with cold fingers and lost hours of sleep. What needs to be perfect in your work? Why?
Friday, March 20, 2009
Dividing Wealth
"You cannot legislate the poor into freedom by legislating the wealthy out of freedom. What one person receives without working for, another person must work for without receiving. The government cannot give to anybody anything that the government does not first take from somebody else. When half of the people get the idea that they do not have to work because the other half is going to take care of them, and when the other half gets the idea that it does no good to work because somebody else is going to get what they work for, that my dear friend, is about the end of any nation.. You cannot multiply wealth by dividing it."
~~~~~ Dr. Adrian Rogers, 1931 - 2005
Monday, February 23, 2009
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
