The Fundamental Law of Weight Loss I know how to lose weight. What you do is burn more calories than you eat. This is apparently a fundamental law of nature, although people forget it all the time. That is why diet plans always include a little extra instruction: “When accompanied by exercise and a sensible diet, weight loss may occur.” The truth is that weight loss may occur without the diet plan. You also have another choice: Do not exercise, but eat hardly anything. I have met several skinny people who stay skinny that way. They do not exercise because they do not have the energy. Seven Techniques That Almost Work I am now past 80, and I have learned that as men age, our hairlines and waistlines tend to proceed in opposite directions. The former retreats while the latter advances. So I have been watching my weight lately. It has been going steadily up. I have also been counting calories. So far today, I have counted 3,000. In my quest to lose weight, I have developed several useful techniques for older men. They are not particularly effective, but they may be enlightening. 1. Never Trust a Scale Bathroom scales often lie. When weighing yourself, grip the bathroom door handle before stepping onto the scale. Then apply the two-second rule: Read the number quickly and step off before gravity has time to take effect. The first number you see is your actual weight. Anything that appears afterward is merely the downward pull of the Earth. If the number is still unsatisfactory, move the scale to another part of the bathroom. Floors are notoriously unreliable. 2. Exercise Makes You Hungry If you are trying to lose weight, never exercise. Exercise makes you hungry, which causes you to eat, which defeats the purpose of exercising. Concentrate instead on reducing your intake: less beer, fewer peanuts and more Diet Coke in your rum. This is called making healthy choices. 3. Subtract the Weight of Unnecessary Body Parts Your gross weight includes everything in your body, whether or not it should properly count against you. Your kidneys, spleen, liver, heart and—in older men—the prostate gland may add several pounds to the total. When reporting your weight on questionnaires, it is therefore permissible to subtract the estimated weight of these organs. Their function may be vital, but their weight is irrelevant. Heavy shoes can also be helpful. Weigh the shoes separately and always subtract their weight from yours—even when you were barefoot on the scale. I use a similar method in golf: I count the strokes required to reach the green and subtract the putts. 4. Compare Yourself Strategically No matter how much you weigh, there is always someone heavier. Feeling discouraged about the five pounds you gained over the holidays? Do not stand next to a marathon runner. Stand next to someone who regards the all-you-can-eat buffet as a personal challenge. Weight, like wealth, intelligence and golf ability, is best evaluated through the careful selection of comparison groups. 5. Distrust Diet Plans Why does every advertised diet plan include the warning “Results not typical”? I ask you: Why participate in a program whose desired result is specifically identified as unusual? The typical result I seek from a weight-loss plan is weight loss. “Results not typical” sounds suspiciously like a polite way of saying, “This usually does not happen.” Prepared diet meals are another questionable idea. Companies charge you more money for smaller portions containing fewer calories. Naturally, you finish the meal hungry, eat a second one and then go out for a hamburger. This is excellent for the diet company, the restaurant industry and the national economy. It is less useful for your waistline. 6. Never Trust a Magazine Diet Never trust a diet plan advertised on the cover of a magazine. The headline will say, “Lose 20 Pounds by Tuesday!” Directly beside it will be a photograph of a six-layer chocolate cake with instructions for making the frosting thicker. I see a conflict of interest. It is like a dentist giving children candy so they will remember to schedule another appointment. The magazine wants you to bake the cake, gain five pounds and then buy the next issue to discover how to lose them. 7. Demand Guaranteed Results Trust only weight-loss programs that work 100 percent of the time. Unfortunately, the only completely reliable plans involve some combination of starvation, hard labor and being held somewhere against your will. Someday an entrepreneur will recognize the commercial possibilities. Celebrities will appear in advertisements for the Beverly Hills Anti-Obesity Detention Center: “I lost 22 pounds in four weeks. They took my phone, hid my car keys and refused to tell me where the kitchen was.” A company spokesman will explain that everyone entering the program signed a legally binding non-release agreement. A National Emergency Now that we have examined the pitfalls of personal weight loss, let us consider the wider problem of obesity in America. This is a serious matter, which means the government should immediately create an acronym. I propose that the president appoint a Special Assistant for Weight Control and Exercise: the SAWCE. The SAWCE could be assisted by an official slogan: GOYA! Get Off Your Asses! A suitably skinny poster person would point an accusing index finger from government advertisements while the words “GOYA! Lose Weight!” appeared overhead. The duties of the SAWCE—or GOYA Secretary—would include the following. Making Childhood Inconvenient Again In coordination with the Department of Education, the GOYA Secretary would institute programs of increased exercise and improved nutrition for children. The ideal secretary would be an older person capable of saying: “When I was your age, we walked five miles to school through the snow. It was uphill both ways, and we carried the school.” Possible initiatives would include: Reducing unnecessary school-bus trips and creating safe walking and bicycling routes. Restoring recess, physical education and other activities that require children to stand up. Requiring students to complete one lap around the school each time they claim their phone battery is too low to call their parents. School lunches could occasionally feature military-style field rations. These meals are designed to provide nourishment without creating the dangerous expectation that food should be enjoyable. Childhood obesity would decline, although military recruitment might suffer once the children discovered where the recipes originated. Warning Labels for Dangerous Foods High-calorie foods should carry prominent warning labels. Before opening a box of doughnuts, consumers would have to break a red seal reading: GOYA SECRETARY’S WARNING: The contents of this package may cause your bathroom scale to become dishonest. Fast-food meals could carry a similar notice: The meal you are about to consume contains enough calories to require exercise. Please retain this wrapper as evidence that you were warned. Restaurants could also print the number of miles a person would need to walk to burn off each item. A milkshake, for example, might be listed as “Denver to Omaha.” The National Waistline Service Program Congress should establish a public-service program combining physical labor with portion control. For three weeks each year, eligible Americans would report to special camps to perform trail maintenance, park cleanup and other useful outdoor work while eating carefully measured meals. Participation would be based on waist size, although Congress would naturally exempt itself. People within the recommended range would stay home. Everyone else would spend three weeks digging, lifting, walking and remembering fondly the days when exercise consisted of searching for the television remote. The program would improve public lands, reduce waistlines and create thousands of government jobs for people assigned to measure other people. Additional Measures Other possibilities include a personal tax based on body weight. This would operate like an environmental tax, except that the expanding footprint would be your own. There would, of course, be deductions: Five pounds for heavy shoes. Three pounds for vital organs. Two pounds for clothing. Ten pounds for retaining water. An unlimited allowance for having “a large frame.” After all deductions, most Americans would report an official weight of 83 pounds. The Final Recommendation These proposals may not solve America’s weight problem, but they demonstrate that no difficulty is so personal that the government cannot make it more complicated. As for me, I intend to continue watching my weight. This requires no exercise at all. I simply stand still and watch it increase. I will also keep counting calories. Tomorrow, however, I may try subtracting them.

Giver of life, bringer of death, Ingredient of primordial soup Whence the first tadpole emerged, Half in and half out, Knowing that I was its past, present, and future. Fallen from the sky, I bring sustenance to what lives. Desiccation becomes green; Green becomes lush with lichens and moss. I pool in creeks and drain like tears To rivers, then to salty oceans. Watch me from the Moon And see my blueness. Sail over me in your ships and boats And see my denizens Staring fish-eyed back at you. Dam me and name me Hoover or Aswan. Watch me turn your turbines To shocking electrical effect. Channel me through levees and aqueducts, Around and into your cities. But never be so arrogant As to pretend I am controllable. You cannot always stanch my fearsome flow, For I am the inexhaustible product of everything— The air, the clouds, the mountains. When my cloud-parents turn dark, I can inundate and suffocate The very earth to which I give sustenance. I drive hurricanes and floods. My chauffeurs are the winds, My highways the warm oceans. The Aztecs called me Tlaloc. They prayed and sacrificed to me. They knew I made things grow In the Valley of Mexico. They also knew I could raise Lake Texcoco And ruin everything. New Orleans thought it could hold me back with levees, But my daughter Katrina laughed and surged. I rose into the streets And quieted the parades and celebrations. I can also withhold life Through my alter ego, drought, Leaving dry earth, desiccation, and starvation. I can watch from afar As you and your earth shrivel. My stepsister Sahara can be seen from the Moon, A yellow blight against my blue. Giver of life, bringer of death, I am the main ingredient of all living things Even proud humans. More than half your physical substance is me. You came from life sustained by me. I give it. I withhold it. I fall gently from your skies And rage across your shores. You may drink me, dam me, channel me, Sail upon me and name me. But never forget: You are made of me. You cannot live without me. And you will never command me.

Computers are wonderful devices. They save time, simplify our lives, put the world's information at our fingertips—and periodically reduce perfectly rational adults to repeatedly clicking the same button while muttering threats at an inanimate object. This week's Friday's Featured Article takes a slightly less serious look at our supposedly friendly relationship with technology. Computer Software Mastery and the Definition of Insanity examines the strange psychological transformation that occurs when passwords stop working, printers go “offline,” settings disappear into unexplored corners of menus, and our various electronic devices can't agree on who we are. If you've ever solved a computer problem, felt briefly like a technological genius, and then discovered five minutes later that the problem has returned, you may recognize some of the symptoms. Fortunately, treatment is available. Unfortunately, it may involve turning off the computer and going outside....Here's the article: The Large-Scale Clinical Trial There’s an old definition of insanity—usually attributed to Einstein, although apparently without the cooperation of Einstein—that says insanity is doing the same thing over and over while expecting a different result. If that’s true, the modern computer user is not merely insane. We are merely part of a large-scale clinical trial. Consider the ordinary login screen. You enter the password you have used successfully since the Obama administration. The software rejects it. You enter it again, this time more slowly, allowing each keystroke to understand the seriousness of the occasion. Rejected. You double check your password manager. It’s there. You entered it correctly. And this is the thanks you get for using passwords other Password1234. Nevertheless, you delete the password asterisks and type it a third time, because perhaps the computer will respect persistence. It does not. Suddenly you notice the tiny light glowing above the keyboard. Caps Lock has been on the entire time. Yeah, you get it. Somewhere inside the computer, the cooling fan begins to whir with what sounds suspiciously like laughter. Obsessive Clicking Disorder This is the digital form of obsessive-compulsive behavior: clicking the same broken link repeatedly, refreshing the page, closing the window, reopening the window, and then tampering with the URL as though you were defusing a bomb. Maybe if I remove everything after the question mark? Maybe “https” has become too formal? Maybe the slash is angry? Soon, you are no longer trying to visit a website. You are negotiating with punctuation. The Banking-App Conspiracy Paranoia, another wellknown mental disorder, arrives when the banking app suddenly refuses to recognize you. Yesterday, it greeted you warmly with your account balance. Today, it regards you as an international jewel thief attempting to infiltrate First Community Savings from a hostile foreign power. “Your identity could not be verified.” Oh, really? By whom? You begin to suspect the bank knows something you don’t. Was your account emptied overnight? Has your Social Security number been sold on the dark web? Did the cashier at the garden center notice your PIN when you bought mulch in April? The app allows two more login attempts. Then one. A warning appears: “Your account will be locked.” Now you must decide whether to risk your final guess will send you to Hamlet's Undiscovered Country. Or should you call customer support, where you may eventually reach a live person working from home while a toddler throws pots and pans down a staircase? You call and get a real person, who is obviously stressed out watching an unruly toddler and trying to remain insincerely polite: “Can you confirm your mother’s maiden name?” CLANG. “And the street where you grew up?” CRASH. “Sir, please don’t yell.” “I’m not yelling. I’m speaking over your child’s cookware.” The person fixes the problem, but you're not done yet. You have to run one more gauntlet involving two-factored authentication, hoping sincerely that your don't mess that one up. The Ecstasy and Agony of the Printer Then there is bipolar computing, the soaring emotional cycle produced by solving an impossible technical problem only to have it return five minutes later. At first, you are in despair. Your printer is “offline,” despite being three feet away, fully powered, illuminated like a casino, and physically attached to the computer by a cable thick enough to tow a Buick. You investigate. You crawl under the desk. You restart the printer, the laptop, the router, and possibly the refrigerator. After forty minutes, the printer suddenly whirs to life and produces seventeen copies of the document before running out of paper and flashing mysteriously. It's missing a driver that possibly took a bathroom break. You reload the paper tray, reboot the printer and the computer--your go-to trouble-shooting solution to every problem. Then there's the faith-based belief if you let the computer processor cool down, the trantrum will be over and all will be well. The computer returns to normal. Euphoria! You are a genius. A systems engineer. A digital shaman. You have reached into the invisible realm of drivers and protocols and restored order. Five minutes later, the printer is offline again. It ran out of ink. The descent is immediate. Will the Real User Please Stand Up? Split personality emerges whenever you own more than one device. Your laptop knows you as Curtis. Your phone knows you as Curt. Your tablet believes you are “Guest.” Your streaming service thinks you live in Ohio, while your credit-card company is deeply concerned that someone in Colorado has purchased gasoline. Each version of you has a different password, security question, subscription status, and preferred method of receiving a six-digit code. One identity gets codes by text. Another gets emails. A third sends verification messages to an address you abandoned when Netflix was still mailing DVDs. Soon you are holding three devices, trying to prove to each one that you are the same person. Features We Hid Because They Were Useful Delusional behavior occurs when we believe software labels. A button marked “Help” rarely helps. “Remember me” seldom remembers. “Keep me signed in” is more of a philosophical aspiration than a feature. The most dangerous delusion is the belief that an arcane setting must be somewhere nearby. It isn’t. It is in the basement of the software, behind four menus, under “Privacy,” then “Advanced,” then “Other,” then “Features We Hid Because They Were Useful.” On the iPhone, the setting you need is accessible only by tapping your portrait, selecting a cloud, turning off something unrelated, and performing a gesture known exclusively to one teenager in Cupertino. By this stage, computer-induced illusions of grandeur may set in. You find the obscure setting, change it, and immediately offer technical support to your entire family. “I understand these systems,” you announce. This is the most serious symptom of all. Diagnosis and Treatment Plan Diagnosis: Acute Digital Frustration Syndrome, complicated by Password Fatigue, SettingsMenu Vertigo, and an unhealthy conviction that restarting the device should not be necessary. Treatment plan: Step away from the screen. Do not click the broken link again. Do not attempt one final password. Put down the phone and go outside. Breathe fresh air. Look at a tree, which requires no login, has never demanded two-factor authentication, and performs automatic updates every spring. If symptoms persist, take a walk. If you still feel compelled to troubleshoot, turn around and walk farther. The software will still be broken when you return—but with luck, you’ll be sane enough to ask some genius at the Apple store to help and humiliate you. A Final Word from the Machine But computers were never designed to improve our self-image. They emerged from a world of brilliant, intensely focused people who could spend an entire weekend coaxing a machine to display a blinking cursor—and consider that a social triumph. Bill Gates did not literally invent the personal computer in his parents’ garage; that bit of technological mythology belongs more closely to other pioneers. Still, he became the enduring symbol of the era: a famously cerebral young programmer building software while the rest of us were outside acquiring tans and interpersonal skills. Then MS-DOS arrived and took over everything. Its black screen and blinking prompt did not welcome us, encourage us, or ask how we were feeling. It simply displayed C:\> and waited for us to admit that we had no idea what to do next. In retrospect, that may have been the computer’s most honest user interface. ----------- Enjoyed this one? Visit my Humor collection for more evidence that life is considerably easier to endure when we're willing to laugh at it.

Chicago Roots--Not Harlem The Harlem Globetrotters were not originally from Harlem, nor were they originally named the Globetrotters. Their first team name was the New York Harlem GlobeTrotters, and they were a team of professional Black basketball players who toured southern Illinois during the 1920's. The team actually began in Chicago, evolving from the Savoy Big Five before promoter Abe Saperstein renamed them the New York Harlem Globe Trotters. Their owner and manager, Abe Saperstein, figured that associating an all-Black basketball team with Harlem, then the nation's cultural center for African Americans, would lend an exotic aura to his venture. Before they became famous entertainers, the Globetrotters were among the finest basketball teams in America. In 1948 and 1949 they stunned the basketball world by defeating George Mikan's powerful Minneapolis Lakers, victories that helped demonstrate that Black players belonged at the highest levels of professional basketball. Many historians consider those games milestones in the integration of the sport. Didn’t play in Harlem until 1968 Since those early days, of course, the team has morphed into its single-word version "Globetrotters," but it took them over 40 years to finally play a "home" game in Harlem (that was 1968). However, they have truly been trotting the globe and have played around the world to packed stadiums of delighted, laughing fans in a truly zany and entertaining style of America's finest export: basketball. Delighted me as a youngster My first encounter with the Globetrotters was when I was a youngster growing up in St. Louis, Missouri. My dad took me and my brothers to a Globetrotters "game" against another "professional" team, the hapless Washington Generals. (The legend spread by the Globetrotters was that they were on a 2,000-game winning streak, and the stooges on the other team stood not a chance. The final score was something like 98 to 70 in favor of the Globetrotters, of course.) Our outing to see Meadowlark Lemon and his cast of magicians was a truly fun experience. From beginning to end - the signature "Sweet Georgia Brown" theme and magical ball handling circle to playing practical jokes on the goofy referees - we laughed from the opening tip to the all-too-quick final buzzer. Even the half-time circus performers couldn't hold my attention. I just wanted the Globetrotters to come back. An overseas putdown Years later while I was stationed at the U.S. Navy headquarters in London, England, I took my English fiancé to a Globetrotters game at Wembley Stadium. The British fans adored the show, and got a special kick from an impromptu putdown of one young man who decided to heckle a Globetrotter named "Tex" Harrison. "Hey, Tex!" shouted the young Brit in a very bad imitation of an American accent, "Where's yore gun, Tex?" Tex, who apparently had enough of this young "yahbo," stopped playing, walked off the court about two rows into the stands, towering over him and still glistening with sweat, and yelled, "Why don't you just shut up!?" The heckler shut up and the crowd laughed and cheered. Undeserved image Amid the cheers and history, some have derided the Globetrotters as poor role models for African American men. In their heyday they were accused of "Uncle Toming for Abe (Saperstein)." However, It wasn't until the 1950s that basketball's color barrier was broken, and up to that time the Globetrotters were the icons and main recruiters of Black basketball talent. Those people, Black or White, who felt then or still consider the Globetrotters as having sold out or as representing clownish Black stereotypes, should consider what Rev. Jesse Jackson once said in their defense. According to Jesse Jackson, the Globetrotters were originally, and still are, players who represent the best in playing skills. They do what they do in a superior manner and deserve everyone's admiration. The magic of Meadowlark Lemon Returning to that first game in St. Louis when I was a lad, I saw Meadowlark Lemon stand at half court holding the ball behind his back with both hands: "Hey, Ref," Meadowlark yelled, "Watch this!" Meadowlark tossed the ball two-handed over his back and the ball disappeared cleanly through the basket without touching the tim. To my young eyes it bordered on magic. Their magic continues More than sixty years after my father first took me to see them, I found myself sitting beside my grandson laughing at many of the same routines—along with a few new ones. Few sports traditions survive that long. The Harlem Globetrotters have, because they offer something that never goes out of style: astonishing skill, clean comedy, and the simple joy of watching people have fun. Blogger's note: This is the featured blog for Friday, August 21, 2026. See this and accompanying sports pieces an my Sports Articles Page.

Chicago Roots--Not Harlem The Harlem Globetrotters were not originally from Harlem, nor were they originally named the Globetrotters. Their first team name was the New York Harlem GlobeTrotters, and they were a team of professional Black basketball players who toured southern Illinois during the 1920's. The team actually began in Chicago, evolving from the Savoy Big Five before promoter Abe Saperstein renamed them the New York Harlem Globe Trotters. Their owner and manager, Abe Saperstein, figured that associating an all-Black basketball team with Harlem, then the nation's cultural center for African Americans, would lend an exotic aura to his venture. Before they became famous entertainers, the Globetrotters were among the finest basketball teams in America. In 1948 and 1949 they stunned the basketball world by defeating George Mikan's powerful Minneapolis Lakers, victories that helped demonstrate that Black players belonged at the highest levels of professional basketball. Many historians consider those games milestones in the integration of the sport. Didn’t play in Harlem until 1968 Since those early days, of course, the team has morphed into its single-word version "Globetrotters," but it took them over 40 years to finally play a "home" game in Harlem (that was 1968). However, they have truly been trotting the globe and have played around the world to packed stadiums of delighted, laughing fans in a truly zany and entertaining style of America's finest export: basketball. Delighted me as a youngster My first encounter with the Globetrotters was when I was a youngster growing up in St. Louis, Missouri. My dad took me and my brothers to a Globetrotters "game" against another "professional" team, the hapless Washington Generals. (The legend spread by the Globetrotters was that they were on a 2,000-game winning streak, and the stooges on the other team stood not a chance. The final score was something like 98 to 70 in favor of the Globetrotters, of course.) Our outing to see Meadowlark Lemon and his cast of magicians was a truly fun experience. From beginning to end - the signature "Sweet Georgia Brown" theme and magical ball handling circle to playing practical jokes on the goofy referees - we laughed from the opening tip to the all-too-quick final buzzer. Even the half-time circus performers couldn't hold my attention. I just wanted the Globetrotters to come back. An overseas putdown Years later while I was stationed at the U.S. Navy headquarters in London, England, I took my English fiancé to a Globetrotters game at Wembley Stadium. The British fans adored the show, and got a special kick from an impromptu putdown of one young man who decided to heckle a Globetrotter named "Tex" Harrison. "Hey, Tex!" shouted the young Brit in a very bad imitation of an American accent, "Where's yore gun, Tex?" Tex, who apparently had enough of this young "yabbo," stopped playing, walked off the court about two rows into the stands, towering over him and still glistening with sweat, and yelled, "Why don't you just shut up!?" The heckler shut up and the crowd laughed and cheered. Undeserved image Amid the cheers and history, some have derided the Globetrotters as poor role models for African American men. In their heyday they were accused of "Uncle Toming for Abe (Saperstein)." However, It wasn't until the 1950s that basketball's color barrier was broken, and up to that time the Globetrotters were the icons and main recruiters of Black basketball talent. Those people, Black or White, who felt then or still consider the Globetrotters as having sold out or as representing clownish Black stereotypes, should consider what Rev. Jesse Jackson once said in their defense. According to Jesse Jackson, the Globetrotters were originally, and still are, players who represent the best in playing skills. They do what they do in a superior manner and deserve everyone's admiration. The magic of Meadowlark Lemon Returning to that first game in St. Louis when I was a lad, I saw Meadowlark Lemon stand at half court holding the ball behind his back with both hands: "Hey, Ref," Meadowlark yelled, "Watch this!" Meadowlark tossed the ball two-handed over his back and the ball disappeared cleanly through the basket without touching the tim. To my young eyes it bordered on magic. Their magic continues More than sixty years after my father first took me to see them, I found myself sitting beside my grandson laughing at many of the same routines—along with a few new ones. Few sports traditions survive that long. The Harlem Globetrotters have, because they offer something that never goes out of style: astonishing skill, clean comedy, and the simple joy of watching people have fun. Blogger's note: This Friday, August 21, 2026, featured artice is on my "I Love Sports" writing page.

A Navy Father and an Army Son Yes—one of my children did follow my footsteps into military service. My son, Mark, chose a different path, but one just as meaningful. After growing up for 20 years as the son of a Navy man, he decided the Army was the right fit for him. I was serving as an active-duty Navy officer when Mark made his decision. One of the proudest moments of my life came in 1981 at an Army Recruiting Station in Fresno, California, when I had the honor of administering the oath of enlistment to my own son. Watching him raise his right hand and swear to serve our country was a powerful reminder that service is not only a profession, but a legacy. Mark completed basic training and was assigned as a communications specialist in the Army Signal Corps. His technical aptitude and discipline served him well, and he went on to spend more than four years stationed in Germany. Those years were formative—not only professionally, but personally. While both he and she were serving on active duty, Mark met the woman who would later become his wife and the mother of his two children. The Army didn’t just give him a career foundation; it introduced him to the family he would build. After completing his service honorably, Mark and his wife returned to California, where they were married and began civilian life together. Like many veterans, he leveraged the benefits he earned through his service, using his educational assistance to pursue higher education. His dedication paid off when he earned a master’s degree in business administration with a focus in accounting—another example of how military discipline can translate into civilian success. My wife and I eventually followed Mark and his growing family to Colorado, where we had the privilege of watching our grandson and granddaughter grow up. That chapter of our lives has been richly rewarding. Today, our granddaughter has children of her own, giving us three great-grandchildren whom we absolutely adore. Seeing multiple generations thrive has been one of the greatest blessings of our later years. Despite serving in different branches, Mark and I share a bond rooted in military service—and a good-natured rivalry that comes alive every year during the Army-Navy game. For our family, that matchup is nothing short of the Super Bowl. The teasing is enthusiastic, the loyalties firm, and the respect mutual. I am proud of my own service to the Navy, and I am equally proud of my son’s service to the Army. Together, our Navy-Army father-son team represents a shared commitment to serving the United States—at sea and on land—and a legacy of duty that continues to shape our family to this day.

Veterans Day was originally Armistice Day, when on the 11th hour of the 11th day of the 11th month of 1918 World War I ended. If ever there was a brutal, stupid war, it had to be the blood and carnage of World War I. But that's a subject for another forum. "Pershing at the Front," by Arthur Guiterman is not an anti-war poem. It's just a light-hearted piece that pokes fun at military protocol. So, the following is an article I wrote a few years ago for Helium.com: Arthur Guiterman was a prominent American poet who lived from 1871 to 1943. Best known for his humorous poems, he was also an author and magazine editor. He was also one of the founders of the Poetry Society of America. This article highlights Guiterman’s World War I comic poem and spoof of General Pershing, the commander of the American Expeditionary Forces and is one of my favorite humorous poems of all times. I can honestly say that poetry like Guiterman’s is what got me interested in poetry and literature in high school. (For a complete copy of the poem, please see http://holyjoe.net/poetry/guiter8.htm.) World War I was not a funny war “Pershing at the Front” is somewhat of a rarity. Not many pieces of humorous literature, poetry or otherwise, have come out of the World War I period. Of course, World War I was no laughing matter. Years of stalemated trench warfare made life for the common soldier a muddy, vermin infested hell interspersed with death and terror. Classics like Remarque’s “All Quiet on the Western Front, Hemmingway’s “A Farewell to Arms,” as well as poems like “In Flanders Fields” by McCrae set the somber and sad tone for this dismal war. Straying from that mold, Guiterman’s poem takes a good-natured jab at the Army brass touring these miserable conditions. In this poem, General Pershing arrives at the front “in a new tin hat” and is fussed over and escorted by an entourage of hilarious toadies. Pershing's entourage Let’s look at the first verse, which sets the tone and them for this gem: The General came in a new tin hat To the shell-torn front where the war was at; With a faithful Aide at his good right hand He made his way toward No Man’s Land, And a tough Top Sergeant there they found, And a Captain, too, to show them round. So here we have Black Jack Pershing going to the “shell-torn front where the war was at.” (Notice the lyrical cadence of this piece. It has an almost limerick quality that adds to its gusto and enjoyment.) Every general has at least one aide de camp, and naturally he needs to seek out an experienced sergeant. The captain is there in case the sergeant commits some error in protocol and also so that General and his aide don’t have to address the sergeant, a lowly enlisted man, directly. It’s a matter of protocol designed to make everyone completely comfortable. In the next verse we see the entourage groping carefully “their heads bent low,” and the sergeant, who is their guide, whispers their location “Third-line trench!” So they are at the third trench back from No Man’s land, and the sergeant is whispering. One assumes that their voices should not be raised because of enemy snipers or other dangers that lurk from across No Man’s land. The word is whispered up the chain of command, and Black Jack repeats it, also in a whisper – and not in French – “Yes I see it” (Rumor had it that General Pershing didn’t care for his French hosts, so it is understandable that he would not speak in French.) The Third Line Trench Let’s rejoin our heroes as they creep closer and closer to the guns of the sinister Hun: Threading the ditch, their heads bent low, Toward the lines of the watchful foe They came through the murk and the powder stench Till the Sergeant whispered, “Third-line trench!” And the Captain whispered, “Third-line trench!” And the Aide repeated, “Third-line trench!” And Pershing answered- not in French- “Yes, I see it. Third-line trench.” Anyone who has ever laughed at the sometimes silly pretentiousness of military protocol will really appreciate the way the poet satirizes the passing the word up the chain to the General. After all, these men are standing right next to each other, and the General, not deaf, probably heard the sergeant clearly. But protocol demands that the General remain silent until the word is communicated formally through his aide. Let us continue to the next stanza, when the group arrives to the Second-line trench, ever closer to what the group perceives as dangerous enemy territory. Getting closer to the front lines Again they marched with wary tread, Following on where the Sergeant led Through the wet and the muck as well, Till they came to another parallel. They halted there in the mud and drench, And the Sergeant whispered, “Second-line trench!” And the Captain whispered, “Second-line trench!” And the Aide repeated, “Second-line trench!” And Pershing nodded: “Second-line trench!” The foregoing verse is more a repetition of the one before. The poet is apparently enjoying describing this scene as this group marches “with a wary tread.” Again the word is whispered up the chain of command. Note the poet’s humorous and continuous rhyming of trench with drench and stench. Some words are simply funny, like “turkey” and “chicken.” After reading this poem, I have added trench to that lexicon. First line trench and the punchline Next our intrepid crew closes in on the First-line trench “well camouflaged from planes and Zeps (German dirigibles).” Up here at the front we have soldiers standing on the firing steps and a major sitting “on a wooden bench” (there’s that rhyme again!). So there is not much going on at the front today, apparently. Remember, also, that our group stealthily crept two trench lines back with their heads down, and they were whispering. Why is the major sitting and why aren’t the soldiers crouching? Yet on they went through mire like pitch Till they came to a fine and spacious ditch Well camouflaged from planes and Zeps Where soldiers stood on firing steps And a Major sat on a wooden bench; And the Sergeant whispered, “First-line trench!” And the Captain whispered, “First-line trench!” And the Aide repeated, “First-line trench!” And Pershing whispered, “Yes, I see. How far off is the enemy?” And the faithful Aide he asked, asked he, “How far off is the enemy?” And the Captain breathed in a softer key, “How far off is the enemy?” Now General Pershing becomes curious and wants to know how “How far off is the enemy?” The beauty of this stanza is that now we have the word going down the chain of command from the General to the aide to the Captain (“he asked, asked he” – a great conformance to both cadence and humor) to the sergeant. This is one of the funniest stanzas of the poem because of this reverse in the direction of the dialog. Also our group has somehow been molded into a zany quartet who never speak unless it is in tandem. At this point, the poem ends in what turns out to be a rather extended joke and its anticipated punch line as the final dialog virtually yo-yos up and down and once again back up the chain from the General to the sergeant and back again to the General: The silence lay in heaps and piles And the Sergeant whispered, “Just three miles.” And the Captain whispered, “Just three miles.” And the Aide repeated, “Just three miles.” “Just three miles!” the General swore, “What in the heck are we whispering for?” And the faithful Aide the message bore, “What in the heck are we whispering for?” And the Captain said in a gentle roar, “What in the heck are we whispering for?” “Whispering for?” the echo rolled; And the Sergeant whispered, “I have a cold.” So as a teenager in English Literature having to suffer through Lord Byron and Alfred Lord Tennyson, “Pershing at the Front” was like a breath of fresh air. It was the first poem I ever read that I understood (and laughed at) every word.