“We are persons of integrity. We stand for that which is right…”

As the tides churn and turbulent winds push with ill purpose against our galvanized hull, only those Naval officers “imbued with the highest ideals of duty, honor, and loyalty”, can raise their sails and set their rudders to harness that which means their vessel harm and able to garner good for those they lead.

Two for Seven, or Two along the Severn, is more than simply time. It’s time well spent in a special place. It’s a timeless place. It’s two years in preparation for five more. Seven years of service to a country which, seems now more than ever, desperately needs strong leaders. Two years left for our Midshipmen to step up, saddle up, and steady the ship to sail.

Two years is a small prism, but casts long, colorful shadows over the Yard as the Naval Academy continues to hone the vessel they commissioned on I Day while also preparing it for christening just four short years later.

Five years is a commitment to active service beyond self few are willing to make. Some call it, “repayment”. I prefer, “paying it forward”.

Seven years is a span of time from their birth to the second grade, mathematically, one third of their lives lived thus far, and hopefully, our Navy and Marine grown-ups will roll lucky sevens until they decide what’s next. In the wake of a full and abundant life, seven is really a small number, but it’s a measure of time anchored in big things, good things, right, and honorable things.

At around twenty-one, which most of these brave souls signing this sacred document are, I was imbued with little more than a short term dream of passing calculus and hopes of which young lady might say yes when asked to the fall formal. These kids, your kids, are becoming warriors of the sea, land, and air and willing to commit, in writing, to do that which they’ve been called to do; “without any mental reservation or purpose of evasion”. They are long term dreamers, doers, fighters, and winners.

Last year, our then 2/C daughter (pictured here), delighted us with this photo. It was without measure the joy we felt upon receiving confirmation of such a milestone. It’s a moment rivaled by only a few.

As you survey your own MIDN, I’m sure, like our’s, your children have accomplished that which you never doubted they would achieve. Now we, as parents, must find contentment in their decision. Although our minds may find favor with their future, our hearts desperately want to hold tight the chain that anchored them to our safe harbor for so many years. It is time they set course, point their bow, aircraft, or battalion, and sail to explore new seas and fight worthy battles. Their signatures, and what they represent, have stamped their place in U.S. Naval history.

“We are persons of integrity. We stand for that which is right…” is a profound collection of words inscribed on this scroll that means something. They matter. Those Mids that sign this scroll have not done so of light heart, but with deep conviction. They believe these words. These Midshipmen embody the script of which they are committing to. These words mean doing hard things. Things these future Naval officers have chosen to do their whole lives. They’ve got this. They’ll soon have the watch, and we, as a nation, are safer for it.

Congratulations class of 2023!

Fair winds and following seas. ⚓️

Myrtle Beach is the east coast mecca of sun and coastal family leisure. This iconic place, where the gaggle of red neon “Vacancy” signs is rivaled only by the gobs of beach towels, like tribal flags of unicorns, sea life, and northern ball teams, flutter along concrete balconies up and down the Grand Strand.

It’s a place where waiting, for what seems like hours, for mediocre calabash style seafood, is the right thing to do. A place where planes buzz the beach with banners selling hermit crabs, beachwear, and directions to Ripley’s Believe It Or Not. Doing nothing is a non-contact sport and is required of all who go there. It’s a place children dream of. It’s a place where I grew up.

Myrtle Beach is where I saw my first wave, built my first sandcastle, and where I almost drowned in the deep end of the motel pool. I was just a blue collar kid who seemingly lived like royalty for one week each year.

My first glimpse of the ocean upon entering town, as the horizon opened between the myriad of hotels, from the backseat of our 1976 VW Beetle, was exhilarating. At that moment, I would’ve been content, even as a three-year-old, to have been dropped off at the first public access with some Little Debbies and a bucket, not to be seen, hide nor hair, for days. Sunscreen was too much of a bother and only slowed me down.

Jorts were acceptable “resort wear” and muscle shirts, adorned with Ol’ Glory and tie dyed in rainbow colors, dotted the beach. The smell of Hawaiian Tropic coconut oil wafted across the hot sand while tater brown bathing beauties shifted their chairs as the sun traversed the sky above.

White motel towels, for those who hadn’t yet made their voyage to the Gay Dolphin for beach supplies, lay about the pool deck, hither and tither. I recall Winston Red 100s was the preferred smoke and Budweiser the preferred beer of those who brought me there, at least from my vantage point. I can still smell bbq pork chops on the hibachi grill.

MB’Vegas was a light show after dark. The sun’s Bactine burn of the day was equal to that of my retina burn at night. Tank tops, salt water taffy, and cheap toys emptied tourist’s pocketbooks like a game of hungry hippos. Dads in flower print button-up shirts just purchased at the corner shirt shop, you know, to fit in with the hip crowd. Moms everywhere uttering the words “hooligans” and “ne’er-do-wells”, as young boys passed by, hootin’ and hollerin’, at the young girls. I think my dad may have been guilty of that as well…oops!

Theme parks, putt-putt, and ice cream shops were fancy living even Little Lord Fauntleroy would envy. Who knew you could top a sugar cone with anything other than vanilla, chocolate, or strawberry ice cream? Sprinkles were an upgrade.

I think my detour down memory lane this week is about to end. As I rolled my beach wagon down the strip yesterday, the flood gate swung wide and my reservoir of Myrtle Beach days overflowed.

The First Lady and I have found creating good memories for our kids, no matter how minor, is important so when times are tough, there’s a room they can rent for a moment to reflect on the feel goods that are now long in their rear view mirror. Times when joy and a sense of wonder filled their lives. A time when, perhaps as an adult, they can rebuild their sand castle before they drown in the deep end of the pool. For me, Myrtle Beach is one of those places. Yes, bedazzled sportswear is a thing and dad’s still wear clothes incongruent to their birth date, but it’s a place where families, who’ve saved their pennies all year, can come and exploit the best of being on vacation together…jorts, muscle shirts, and all.

As lawn darts, cap guns, searing hot steel monkey bars, easy bake ovens and, my favorite, pop rock candy, have all fallen out of favor with the National Association of Helicopter Moms, I’m tickled pink to find these mini pirate swords lodged into the heart of my Caribbean Caesar wrap. I know our precious little dumplings can be a bit fragile but, crawling through the sandbox of life while eating Bojangles’ chicken supremes, is good for their constitution.

So, en garde! Poke and prod your lambs to go outside. Pierce their imagination to explore the world around them. Tell them to throw, climb and catch stuff. It’s ok. The threads they’ll spin as adults will be much more intriguing than stories of them sittin’ on a couch playing Call of Doody

Thanksgiving leftovers are the gifts that keep on giving. We’ll be sifting through the shrapnel that exploded on our dining room table for days with the exception of the fruit cake we discreetly hid away in the freezer. That thing will be there for a month of Sundays or the next blue moon, whichever comes first.

The cornucopia of sustenance that spread across two rooms was too wide and far too deep to have been captured by even the widest of fish eye lenses. It looked as if our Dining Room had been decorated by Paula Deen. Oh, the smells were wonderful. I told the First Lady, “don’t you dare turn on that hood vent!”. I wanted to savor the aromas. I also didn’t want the neighbors to know the feed bag was on lest they come lookin’ for some of my ham gravy.

As I gazed across the fruited plain of bowls, platters, and gravy boats, the variety of colors, shapes, and sizes of foods were overwhelming. Ham, turkey, corn puddin’, mashed taters, and sweet ones too! Lima beans, homemade rolls, and cranberry sauce, the type that makes a sucking sound when it shimmys from its can, was a crowd pleaser. Homemade cheesecake, pecan, and Chocolate Chess pie with whip cream made from scratch. Lawd, have mercy on me! I broke out in a sweat. My mouth was declared a flood zone. I was like Pavlov’s dog anxiously anticipating that first morsel of deliciousness to pass my lips.

Because I’m a Southern gentleman, I elected to fill my plate last. I was in such an irrational state, I wondered if any crumbs would be left upon my turn. Even our little pooch was able to partake, from her food bowl, of course, as we do not allow the passage of table scraps from finger to mouth.

Ugh, I’m full! But, one more big goblet of egg nog I shall drink before I lie down and go to sleep. By the end of it all, the table at which we sat looked as if it had been ravaged by a herd of Squirrel Monkeys. Nonetheless, as we all loosened our belts a notch or two and acknowledged what gluttons we had become, we sat content, not because our bellys were full, but because we had just broken bread, and a lot of it, together with those we loved.

So, as each day passes and it seems impossible to swallow another turkey sandwich, I’m reminded that, unlike all the leftovers in my icebox, which may eventually spoil, the thankfulness for the blessings in my life never will.

14Bobbie Osborne, Ben Griffith and 12 others1 CommentsLikeCommentShare

Like eager hound dogs tethered to the hand of their owner, so too are these pants, which when released from the confines of my closet, tromp through fields and forests alike, searching, as if determined children chasing an ice cream truck, for that which draws their curiosity.

Each pair could tell a story. As a palm reader might, she could decipher every mud stain, errant paint splatter, fish smear, or piece of tattered fabric, most likely from a beaver swamp briar patch, yard chores, or simply from a life well lived.

Like a proper spouse, a loyal pair of pants will never leave you, nor forsake you. I have some pairs older than my children, but because they are now threadbare, like all good things, they must relinquish their hanger upon which they’ve lived all these years. However, some things are just too painful to let loose of.

Like a treasured hunting dog, they deserve a proper burial, but instead of being placed in a landfill, most will forever live amongst old love letters, trophies, and school pictures somewhere at the bottom of my chest of drawers. The only difference is, it’s ‘bout near impossible to replace a good hunting pair of pants.

If I were a polished country music singer with pretty teeth and lyrics which celebrate my southern culture, I hope my agent would make this photo my album cover. Nevermind my tuner is twitchy and my pitch is pitchy. I would look George Strait handsome holding a six string guitar even though my fingers couldn’t play a chord. My Wrangler jeans worn a little too tight and my belt buckle a little too big would be my stage costume at night, but I would wear swim trunks and hoodies in the light of day. My hat would hold ten gallons of twang and my boots crafted from rattlesnakes with pointy toes and a high heal.

If I was feeling a bit saucy, shiny gold spurs would adorn my boots with metal taps on my souls so I would go click-clack as I crossed the room. I would sing songs about neon moons, lost loves, little towns, mamas, and rodeos. I would have a great big tour bus with little pimento cheese hors d’oeuvres as snacks and a keg of sweet tea in the back. My fans would love my public profile, but loathe my lonely, mundane real road life. It would be the best of times: it’d be the worst of times.

Since the good Lord has set my life’s compass on a different path, I do not need to concern myself with looking handsome, wearing tight jeans, or boots that hurt my toes. Swim trunks and hoodies would be the uniform of the day. I am just a simple man, with simple ideas, and simply, when I approach life’s threeway intersection, I sometimes wonder, should I turn left or turn right. The fear of the unknown can shift my go-getter gear into park. For some, the stage of life, even donning the latest fashion, bling and friends in tow can leave a heart begging for Siri to point the way.

Feeling inadequate to decide life’s direction will mine one’s inner core, mostly without their permission. Standing here alone, in the middle of an asphalt vein of indecision, which bleeds through the black, rural dirt of eastern North Carolina, I feel as if the wind, that pushes strong across these fields, could lay my bones flat as a pronunciation that I am powerless to decide in my own strength. If I were a famous stage performer, I would seek advice from my “people” to guide my steps, but deep inside, question their motives.

My prayer is, when my decision is imminent in the midst of a wayward heart, I’ll have the wisdom to reach for that ol’ compass and search for good people to push my go cart along. Like Miranda Lambert once proclaimed about her “her little red wagon”, “the front seat’s broken, and the axel’s draggin’”. At least I’m in good country company. My hope is, the bearing I set would point my ship’s bow to veer a little more right, even if the winds of influence are blowing a bit more left.

I miss scratch and sniff books. Although, as an adult, this idea does’t cultivate such pleasant thoughts as it did when I was four. Chocolate, mint, grape and orange were some of my favorites. If only the delightful aroma of bacon, the pork heaven of all hog connoisseurs, existed in these story books back then, like a good bird dog on point, my teacher would’ve found a reason to hit the shock collar to redirect my attention.

For me, it’s my time spent on the beach as a young child and now as a more grey and mature child. There, I find the smell of salt in the air and the stink of cut bait on my hands intoxicating. It’s like southern comfort but not the hundred proof liquor that will turn even the most experienced libation consumers inside out.

The sound of waves tickling the beach, crickets in the dunes and seagulls cackling overhead is the reason why noise machines were made to relax our busy minds.

The taste of a gooey PB&J, which is always better when your mama makes it, and a freshly popped Coke is as good to me on the beach as a fine steak on any given day.

The gritty touch of sand and aged shells under my toes along with the salty ocean veneer on my skin that follows me home is such a sweet gift given by God for me to treasure.

Until the brightest of the bright minds among us develop a scratch and sniff picture book that can capture the awesomeness of what I see before me, you’ll find me here, sitting in my old beach chair, with the Embers and Band of Oz in my ears, watching a fishing line that may never pull, eating a PB&J and sipping on an icy cold Coca-Cola.

As a child, around the time when girls had been cured of cooties, one of the only things my mother insisted I do, even worse than taking a bath, was trying on clothes at the local department store. Because the saying, “growin’ like a weed”, means something in the south, I unfortunately had to endure this torture every five-six months lest my britches seem as if they’re receding from the rising tide. The changing of the seasons was the worst.

Now that I am a mostly functioning adult, I still dread shopping for anything, especially knitted garments. I am ashamed to admit, but I have more than one pair of pants somewhere, buried like an old dog, deep in the bowels of my closet, which I have never worn. Had I just tried them on before I left the store, there would be no need to explain to the First Lady why I only wear three of the ten pairs of pants in my closet. But, because I am not Superman, I have no interest in changing clothes inside a public phone booth.

One would think I would learn, but once home, not being able to snap the button to unite the east and west side around my waistline is a clear sign I should not clothes shop unsupervised. Because I can be lazy, and it takes great courage for me to cross the threshold of any department store, returning my ill begotten purchases is usually not within my purview. I guess those designer blue jeans will just need to remain on my shelf another season. I am sure they will fit one day.

At least I tried…