I opened my eyes and the only visible light in the room were the glowing red numbers on the clock beside me – 4:03 a.m. How could that be? I had just lain down. I had flown a reconnaissance mission the previous night and as we began to work our way back to the airfield, just south of Mehtar Lam, we took fire. Bullets passed by the aircraft close enough to break the squelch on our intercom system. The event was morbidly common, nevertheless my heart rate noticeably increased. It was a night mission so I didn’t get to bed until 1:30 a.m. and now I lay awake, wondering why.

I sat up, swung my body around and placed my feet on the Afghan rug I’d haggled over, head in hands. “May as well get up and go for a run,” I thought. As I ran I wondered what my family might be doing at this hour. I had spent three of the past five years deployed to either Iraq or Afghanistan. It was baseball season at home so I tried to think about something else because it hurt too badly inside to visualize a double play and an empty seat in the bleachers. I thought how strange it was that something so unnatural as repetitive combat tours could somehow become a way of life that we considered normal. It was absurd, yet it was true.

I finished my run on the flight line, drenched in sweat. The sky was beginning to lighten up, but it would be a while yet before the sun climbed its way above the mountains to the east. Suddenly, the morning quiet was pierced by a high-pitched tone, “Allahu Akbar, Allahu Akbar,” the adhan or morning call to prayer emanated from a minerate to the east of the airfield. Within seconds another voice began at a mosque to the west. The pitch and tempo of the Muezzin’s voices varied, giving an otherwise identical call to prayer refreshing uniqueness. As local Muslims unrolled rugs and prepared themselves for prayer I headed to my office to read the daily intelligence summary and check emails, trying to remember what day it was.

Going home always brings a myriad of memories for me. I see where I went to first grade, where I played my first baseball game, caught a stringer full of fish and got sick from eating too much homemade ice cream. I saw all that again on this trip to Gordon County, but more importantly I saw what makes, and always has made, our community so special, and why I will always proudly call it home – the people.

Momma passed away Tuesday. Walravens came from everywhere. Momma was the oldest of 35 grandchildren. Freddie Walraven tried but could not count all the great-grandchildren. My cousin Brent and I spoke about how they all loved and supported each other. “I guess growing up with such hardship bonded them together,” he said. I suppose he’s right.

She was born in a dirt floor house at Crane Eater – one her daddy built with his own hands. Her momma died when she was 11 making her a momma to her brother, my Uncle Bobby. She was a “Momma” for the next 68 years – a title she cherished. She married a Mill boy and stayed married to him for 60 years – a feat by modern standards.

She loved gospel music, fried chicken, tenderloin and cube steak. She cooked the best white gravy that ever graced a homemade biscuit and she loved her family. My son says, “Daddy doesn’t cry anymore. All his tears dried up a long time ago.” That’s not true, of course. I suppose we all grieve in our own way. I choose to see her in a place where she walks with new legs and excuses the alto Angel that’s been filling in for her in the Walraven Quartet. That’s nothing to be sad about. I know where she is.

My great-uncle Otto was the first one to the Funeral Home. He’s about to turn 89 and when I was just a boy I knew him as the mule man. I asked him how many mules he had now. He said, “Just one, but I don’t have a penny tied up in him.” He said Ronnie Hunt told him he could have all the corn he could pick up after they ran the combine through the fields. Uncle Otto, who the family called “Toby,” said he picked up corn, twisted it off the cob by hand and filled enough bags to feed his mule all year long. Did I mention he was 89 and never wore anything but Liberty overalls, because he was always working? That’s why he’s still working, and I guess always will.

Truett Wilbur Moss II “T2” came to the house to visit and reminisce about our childhood adventures, mixed with myth. Always happy, T2 was born with a smile on his face. He seemed to be ready to clear his conscious of our childhood mischievousness. I stopped him because my daddy was present and, well, he’s still my daddy. We were good boys and never really got into trouble, unless you count running amuck during Sunday School, or liberating a watermelon from a garden here and there bad.

Momma would have been proud. Despite all of our shortcomings, she loved and was proud of her family. Everyone she loved was there, if they were still living. For those already gone home, well she’s singing to them now, with a smile.

I can’t begin to adequately thank all of those who came, cried, laughed, hugged, and cooked. I left Gordon County 26 years ago to go play Army and don’t get back often enough. What I saw this week made me proud of where I was raised, of who I was. They are my people and they understand that people matter most. Thank you for who you are and what you’ve always been.

Two seasons of green give way to a kaleidoscope of color that ironically comes at the end of a leaf’s life. The forest’s siren call, screaming, “Look and appreciate what we have done in the cycle of life–” the prelude to winter and rebirth.

The boys and I look after a sweet widow lady we attend church with as best as we can. Her husband, who passed away last year, was a wonderful man, but that is another story all together. We spent the day raking leaves in her yard. I hope they will learn the importance of service.

I took the leaf-blower and went to work on a far bank while Logan picked up dead limbs and Austin hauled off an old woodpile that had rotted beside her house and was no longer of use.  After a couple of hours of work I looked over at the boys, sweaty and red cheeked, and was proud of them.

I was reminded of a story Henry Eyring told of his father.  Henry Eyring, Sr. was quite elderly and had bone cancer. He was tormented by terrible pain, but Brother Eyring never complained. He accepted a call to serve on the church’s welfare farm. The farm was in need of weeding so he called all the men in the church and organized a day of service to pull weeds.

The men reported as asked and were given assignments. Brother Eyring also began weeding a row, but walking and stooping over hurt too much so he lay on his belly and crawled down the row.  He slowly made his way to the end and then back, certainly in some degree of pain. After hours of work the men gathered back at the trucks. As Brother Eyring crawled back to the end of his rows the caretaker of the farm said, “Oh no, Brother Eyring. You didn’t weed those rows did you?  Those rows have been sprayed and the weeds will die. There was no need to weed them.”

Brother Eyring had a good laugh at himself, but his son Hal felt horrible. When they were in private Hal asked, “Dad, how could you laugh?  You are in terrible pain. You crawled on your belly all day toiling in the dirt for no reason at all.”

His father smiled and said, “Oh Hal.  Don’t you see?  It never was about the weeds.”

What a wonderful example. I hope my boys learned something today. I asked them if they felt good helping this sweet lady with work she could not do for herself.  They both said yes and Logan added, “It was fun!”

I am thankful for leaves.

The flag waved in the wind, antsy boys fidgeted as the anthem played and a voiced rang out “play ball.” Crowds oohed and ahhed as kids made spectacular plays. Moms and dads snapped disk cards full of pictures and I thought to myself this might make a poem. I sat back and took it all in. Shaved ice, sunflower seeds, Rawlings gloves, Easton bats, Nike cleats, green grass and fresh chalk lines ran through my mind and just then a loud “ooooohh” from the crowd.

A kid had stood at the plate.  He seemed uncharacteristically relaxed – feet shoulder width apart, weight on the back foot, a slight bend in the knees. He slowly waved his bat back and forth, eyes fixed on the ball as if trying to see a single stitch. The pitch was on its way and the bat went slightly back. It was on the outside of the plate. His hips rotated and his hands went to the ball. He didn’t try and pull it.  He went with the pitch, kept his shoulders square and drove it deep into the gap in right center. Then it occurred to me. I had searched for poetry all over the park and there it was right before me, written on a diamond by an 8- year-old kid.

Suddenly, 36-miles into my ride, I snapped back to reality as I saw movement approaching from a parallel road. He would intersect my road in about a quarter of a mile. He was moving quickly. It soon became clear that he would reach the intersection first and thus take the lead. Pride is a terrible thing.

He didn’t slow at all as he merged onto my path.  I put a couple of crank bending strokes into the pedals and jumped on his wheel.  I glanced down to see how fast we were going.

I surveyed the terrain ahead and saw that we had a short climb coming up then a long downhill.  I’d have to time it perfectly.  I inventoried my energy, took a quick swig of water and prepared to attack. We hit the climb and I popped up out of the saddle and pulled alongside.  I glanced over at the buggy jockey and he gave me a snarl then turned back to his steed. A loud shrill emanated from his lips then he gave a sharp rap with the reins and yelled, “Yaaaaaaa.”  Fast trot quickly turned canter which became a run and it was on. I danced on the pedals to hold my position until we crested the hill then I downshifted, tucked and sped away with another Tour de Bluegrass victory!

In the name of convenience we have rapidly dove deeper into the digital abyss; however, there is a price to be paid for ease and speed. That price doesn’t always equate to a reduction in our bank balance or debt accrued but rather a compromise for our privacy. The smart phone option allows businesses to track your shopping habits. They know when we entered the store, what we look at and if we leave without purchasing anything.

Of course being tracked is nothing new. We can be physically tracked literally everywhere we go using the chip inside our cell phone whether we make a call or not.  Our IP address allows us to be tracked throughout the virtual world of the Internet. Yes, that infinite land of servers known as the World Wide Web tracks our every move. All of those Facebook users who choose to view Social Cam and play games are being tracked and now Facebook even tells their friends what videos they have viewed.  So what about our privacy? Should we be paranoid?

George Orwell may have gotten it pretty darn close, but Big Brother is Big Business rather than the all seeing eye of government.  In fact we may be dependent upon the government to try and protect our privacy at some point in the future, but don’t hold your breath.  The Internet is, at the moment, ungovernable space that can be used to exploit individuals, businesses, and even nation states. In the future the only certain protection could be unplugging from the network, but that might require therapy.

Don’t get me wrong there are many wonderful things on the Internet. Some have argued that Wikipedia is the single best cure for poverty man has ever created.  Knowledge has migrated to places where school was a dream two decades ago. We can share, inspire, learn and develop via the Internet, but there must be opposites in all things.  Where there is good evil also lurks.  We must be careful what we share and where we go.  We are sure to keep our kids out of the bad parts of town so we must be just as vigilant to protect them from the bad servers scammers and virtual thieves.  Find the good, avoid the bad, and be careful what you share.

Happy surfing.

I’ve often sat, as I tried to shake the cobwebs of sleep, and thought what would be the ideal view. It’s an individual preference of course. Some folks like a view of the city from high up in their apartment, but a concrete jungle doesn’t appeal to me. Water is attractive to some. The river with morning fog or a lake with ducks clears the morning mind.

I like my mountains, perhaps a field or pasture. I like to watch the animals as they search for a morning morsel. I could sit for hours but life’s schedule never permits. We live a life of timekeeping, so much so that we identify retirement as freedom from a schedule – liberation.

Well, it’s 7:00 a.m., time to get a shower, some breakfast, and then baseball practice. I have a bike ride planned after that and then some chores I’ve long promised Lisa. It’s Saturday and I’ve a schedule to keep…..

Went to the ballpark tonight. It was our 20th trip in the first 21 days of the month. It’s our lives. We do it and love it, because they love doing it. I’m speaking of our kids and their love affair with sports of course. It’s an investment in the memories they will carry with them for the rest of their lives.

The usual crew is there – other parents who volunteer to coach, umpire, run the concession stand, keep the books, run the scoreboard, and cheer their kids, your kids, our kids. There are very few places you can find a village trying to raise a kid today, but you can find it at the ballpark.

“Son, you’re better than that. Get in front of the ball. Pick your trash up. Tell your mom thank you for bringing you to practice. Tuck your shirt in,” are the words they hear, because they were the words we heard when we were kids and feel they are worth repeating, so we do.

It’s time for district tournaments and then State for those born in a year that was good for baseball. We’ve got a chance this year. The perfect storm could be brewing in Clarksville so we focus on the kids, because we love them. Go Big Blue!

Rick Bragg Southern Journal: My Brother’s Garden – Southern Living.