A Compressed Compendium

The walking areas around the IqAF Flight School are all covered with river-rock -- "small jacks" -- if you're from the Nor'East. Smooth, rounded, water-washed pebbles varying in size from thumbnail to tie-it-to-a-stick-and-it's-a-sledgehammer. Mostly dove-gray with chunks of Concord-grape purple.

It's there so the inside of the classrooms don't wind up covered with three inches of outside every time the wind blows.

Hussan saw me snapping pix of the flightline and walked up with a grin on his face. He picked up a stone and said, "This is *Iraqi* rock!"

Go read what John wrote here, then come back. It's okay, I'll wait.

Hassan continued. "In the old days, this area would have been left open. Breathe at it and you would get a face full of dust. Look at the part of the base that is still as it was in the old days. Bare. It is dust waiting to blow in your face. But here, where the Flight School is, where learning is happening, it is covered to keep the dust down. Here. Covered with Iraqi rock."

He closed his fist over the stone like it was a five-dollar gold piece and grinned.

"*This* is Iraq."

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I was gonna send this out by e-mail, but I figger I'll eliminate the middleman and post it instead:

I'm gonna be busier than a one-legged man in an a$$-kicking contest for the next two weeks, and Generator Cutoff Time will prolly kick in before I get the chance to show up and play. *Good Deal*-type stuff, so don't go spreading rumors that I eloped with the Warrior Princess (she hangs out with me because her *dad* flew in Vietnam, too) or that I got nailed by a bottle rocket. It won't involve thongs or thinging -- thorry, Cathth.

Later, guys.