It Might Get Messy

No matter what your southern friends tell you, Sherman’s march through Georgia and then back up the Carolinas and Virginia ended the war much sooner than it would have otherwise (Jefferson Davis was a nut case who would have kept the idiot slaughter going for years), and cut the casualties and costs enormously. Same situation pertains to the use of nuclear weapons at the end of World War Two, but that’s not why we’re here.

We’re here to consider the abortive southern response to Sherman’s devastating vacation through the deep south. Lacking soldiers for home defense, and infrastructure that could be crippled to slow the Union armies, the Confederates turned to land mines. They called them “torpedoes” in those days [1]. They were explosive charges set under pressure plates, so when the Union columns walked over them, the charge detonated and death or destruction resulted.  It took Sherman and his officers about an hour and a half to realize that if they marched the southern prisoners of war ahead of the Union troops, the effectiveness of the “torpedoes” would be rendered moot. So it was. Sherman sent word to the southern officers that POWs were the first to go, and the “torpedoes” simply stopped appearing. 

I bring this up because causes of death do not have to be obvious to be effective. For example, we usually think of a malignant “tumor” as a kind of blob, an obviously visible, more-or-less egg-shaped, scary-looking growth attached to some part of the body. 

Such well-formed tumors are often easily removed surgically. But not all “tumors” look like tumors. My own tumor, for example, or as I like to think of it, my Death Star, is actually just a rough spot on the palate or upper part of my throat. It’s sort of a reddish, inflamed, nasty looking surface on the throat membrane. Here’s what it looks like.

See, it’s just a diffuse, surface-marked, set of lines on the mucous membrane of the throat. No real “tumor” shaped thing. Nothing to go in and remove surgically without hacking out huge additional volumes of tissue in the palate and sinuses, leaving me pretty nonfunctional. 

And there you have it, sports fans. A rough spot on my throat has the super incredible power of either of the Star Wars Death Stars. Apparently without the “hit me here and I explode” button that the Empire built into both Death Star versions. No, my friends, this picture tells the story. Sometime within the next year or two, this inflamed spot on my throat is gonna kill me. And there’s not a damn thing that can be done about it. Except this. I intend to cook some of the most delicious meals you ever tasted between now and the date this thing croaks me. So get your taste buds ready, my friends. If I HAD any taste buds, I’d be getting them ready. But don’t worry. I can function without them. I’m gonna cook you guys some of the finest food you’ve had since…well, since the last time I cooked for you! I can’t wait!

PS—note tomorrow I’m going to update my professional weblog at http://www.aehsfoundation.org/ . Go to the lower left on the home page and click through to the blog, or go directly there via http://www.aehsfoundation.org/peoplesystems.aspx

Remember everybody, I’m here for you. Until I’m not here for you. Which will hopefully be further in the future than it seems like it might be at the moment!

[1] Shelby Foote. The Civil War Narrative. Red River to Appomatox. 1974. Random House.