A Message to Garcia

When I was a young Lieutenant and a brand-new Platoon Leader, my Company Commander handed me a story at the end of my initial counseling.

“Read this,” he said.  No further instructions, no paper to write, no discussion scheduled for later.  Just read the story.

The packet was only a few pages long, but it took me a while to get through.  The story was called “A Message to Garcia” and focused on one man who, once given a mission, accomplished that mission without asking a single question.  I couldn’t comprehend that.  If I were given a letter and told to wander the jungles of another nation in search of a man by the name of Garcia, I probably would have laughed and asked, “Would you like me to deliver a message to Mr. Smith in England as well?” 

Looking back, I had no idea why my Commander had me read that story.  Did he want me to leave him alone?  Was he the type of leader that became enraged when subordinates asked for clarification or additional guidance?  Didn’t my professors and military mentors teach me that it’s alright to ask questions?  As an intelligence officer, aren’t I always supposed to ask questions?  I most certainly was not Rowan, the messenger in the story.

After a few months in my position, I began to comprehend the meaning behind “A Message to Garcia.”  Most of my platoon was brand new to the tactical Army, their new Military Occupational Specialty (MOS), or the Army in general.  My only seasoned veterans were my Platoon Sergeant (PSG) and a few junior Soldiers (E4 and below).  We started from scratch and were having limited problems, but we were going to be successful nonetheless.

I soon realized that my PSG and I were having a helluva time motivating a select few of the new Soldiers to take responsibility for the missions assigned to them.  I had some great Soldiers, I truly did, I just wish that my Soldiers’ drive could have been instilled in my rising NCOs.  As I discussed some of the problems with my PSG, I realized that our junior leaders were blaming their inability to complete their mission on things like, “You didn’t tell me that part,” or “I didn’t know,” or “You didn’t tell me to look there, read this, or incorporate that.”  In essence, I faced the same problems as Hubbard when he discusses the six clerks.  While Rowan’s character existed in many Soldiers within my Platoon, I could see that those who did not emulate Rowan were in fact the same that continuously failed.

“A Message to Garcia” is a short, but powerful lesson in leadership, responsibility, trust, and accomplishing the mission.  While a leader may expect subordinates to emulate Rowan and his ability to deliver the message to Garcia, it is also the leader’s responsibility to mold, mentor, and teach subordinates.  Leaders want – and need – men and women who desire responsibility, exude initiative, who can follow as well as lead, and who can accomplish the mission correctly, on time, and within the Commander’s intent.

Do you carry the message to Garcia?

Now, You Wouldn't Believe Me if I Told You, but I Could Run Like the Wind Blows

I ran today.  No joke.  I ran.

Imagine not being able to run for almost six months.  Imagine walking so slow that most old people pass you by in a blur.  Then imagine what it would feel like to run.

It was amazing. 

I hope I dream about running tonight.  For the past few months, I’ve been on crutches, using a cane, or limping in my dreams.  Tonight, I hope I dream that I’m running.

Broken Legs

I'm super tired today.  Just blah, you know?  I think we all have those days.  Today is especially difficult because I'm so sore and stiff.  My left foot wasn't bending so well this morning, so even going downstairs was pretty difficult. 

I blame myself, of course.  I probably worked myself a bit too hard yesterday after walking 1.5 miles in 18:26 (then going on for my first 2 mile walk in 24:01!), then hit the treadmill for 10 minutes (only .34 miles there...walking still hurts), then I swam for 20 minutes.  These times aren't stellar by any measure, but I'm proud.  This is the farthest I've come so far since breaking my leg in September.

Long story short: I broke my leg jumping out of planes.  Yes, my feet and knees were together, so don’t bother.  Anyway, this is what the break looked like:

The surgeon informed me that they had to wait so long for surgery because the ER splinted the break on the fracture, forcing the swelling to get worse.  That’s not so bad save for the fact that if they cut me open, they wouldn’t be able to stretch the skin far enough to sew it back together.  At least, that’s what he told me.  This is what they installed in my leg during surgery (it's steel, not titanium like the screws in my right knee...and I still don't set off metal detectors at the airport):

This was me getting stitches out:

Since all of this happened, life has been fairly slow and, well, boring.  Before the break, I was never still.  I'd hike, swim, snowshoe, kayak, run, and above all, be outside.  Alaska is amazing for reminding us about the value of nature.  No matter my mood, I always feel refreshed in the company of water, trees, chirping birds, soaring eagles, and the sound of grass, dirt, or snow under my feet. 

The point of sharing all this is to give you a background and better explain why I'm so happy when I walk a mile or swim 1,000 yards.  It's no big deal for the average athletic person (or even one who was once athletic, but now is the proud owner of a handicapped placard), but it's a huge deal to me. 

Breaking my leg wasn't bad.  It hurt, but not horribly.  When it happened, I actually thought I had only sprained my ankle.  All that aside, the hard part about breaking my leg was laying on my back for so long, not being able to sleep through the night for months, staying inside when the rain and snow fell, watching my unit deploy without me, and fighting the psychological hardships of major life changes.  I'm an extremely independent woman and suddenly not being able to shop for groceries, cook myself meals, answer the door, climb a flight of stairs without a break, take a shower standing up, or even carry a dinner plate to the table killed my spirit.  I've since learned to ask for help, but I'm still not good at it. 

In the end, I feel I'm a pretty lucky gal.  I didn't lose my leg.  It'll come back.  I'll always have nerve damage (I can't feel the top or side of my foot, which makes movement pretty weird), but I'll run and swim and bike and kayak and all that one day.  I'm thankful for that.

Disco Diva (With a Little Funk on the Side)

I.  Love.  Disco.

Yes, it's true.  I don't find it annoying or obnoxious, just, well, uh-maz-ing.  The beats make me want to swing and dance and jump and flirt.  Awesome fun!

On the way to work this morning, my iPod shuffled "Stayin' Alive" to the front of the deck, and all of a sudden I was chair dancing to the Bee Gees.  Usually when this type of event occurs, I picture myself as Cameron Diaz on Charlie's Angels (whose character is appropriately named Natalie...just sayin').  Where's the nearest disco club in Anchorage?  Wait, is there even a disco club in Anchorage?  Or even Alaska?  Eh, probably not.  I suppose my "Just Dance" video game and these clips will have to satiate my disco appetite!

Charlie's Angels: "Last Dance," by Donna Summer

Charlie's Angels: "Heaven Must be Missing an Angel," by Tavares

My roots in disco started with funk.  Yup.  More specifically, George Clinton and the Parliament Funkadelic.  Seriously, I had no idea who these (allegedly human) guys were while I was growing up.  Dad listened to Frank Sinatra, Bing Crosby, and Ella Fitzgerald (having been born in 1929) and mom listened to The Temptations, The Supremes, the Beach Boys, Mamas and the Papas, Aretha Franklin and so on (having been born in, well, she's still 25...).  I first heard the blissful tunes and funky beats of P-Funk when I watched that not-so-underground film, PCU. 

Here's a clip from the film: George Clinton & P-Funk: Erotic City (From the movie PCU)

The band also played "Give Up the Funk" in the movie, but I couldn't find it on YouTube.  I suppose we'll have to settle for the original music video (which is pretty effing entertaining, IMHO): George Clinton and the Parliament Funkadelic: Give Up the Funk (Tear the Roof Off the Sucka)

And there you have it!  Today has been a blissfully disco and funky day so far.  I hope everyone gets the chance to have a chair-dancin' day today.

Kim Jong-Un-Dead

This past weekend, I visited with some girlfriends in celebration of their “Dry Spell.”  You see, all of their husbands/boyfriends are deployed (as is mine) and we celebrated the Dry Spell in lieu of Valentine’s Day.  There was supposed to be an adult piñata present, but I think the wine took priority.  Anyway.

At this party, one of the gals brought up Kim Jong-Un’s assassination.  I was totally taken by surprise, but then thought twice when she said that Fox reported ninja assassins had stormed into Kim Jong-Un’s hotel room in Beijing and killed the poor sausage man (yes, I’m superficial). 

You can find the story here: Twitter Rumor Claims Death of Korean Leader Kim-Jong-Un

One of the gals looked up the report on her internet phone and we realized that the report was Twitter gossip.  ::sigh::  That would’ve been an awesome story.  I bet the show Ninja Warrior would have been a great starting point for police to find initial leads.

After four more Labatt Blues (no light, thanks), the creative juices began to flow.  Kim Jong-Un-Dead!  I’m pretty much a firm believer in the Zombie Apocalypse, so I figured I should add my own rendition of what Kim Jong would look like had he actually risen from the dead.

T-shirts anyone?

If you don't get the "looking at brains" part, check out one man's quest to capture the essence of Kim Jong-Il and his son, Kim Jong-Un:

Kim Jong-Il Looking At Things

Kim Jong-Un Looking At Things

Introductions

Hey!  I supposed introductions are due, so here we go!  I’m Natalie, a blonde gal wandering through life’s adventures looking for that one spot where everything just seems to fit.  I enlisted in the Army on 17 September 2001 (I was 19) and am coming up on my 11^th anniversary this fall.  I’ve traveled the world and the country, met a lot of awesome people, experienced plenty of different cultures, and overall, I’ve enjoyed my service.  Although my service has become a large part of my life, it doesn’t define me as a person.   

Through my travels and adventures, I’ve learned that I absolutely love the outdoors.  I get cabin fever pretty quickly, so even if I go out back, dig my camp chair into the snow, brave 20 below temperatures, and throw snowballs into the woods for the dog, I have to be outside. 

I also love to eat.  I suppose it’s more than just eating and more like enjoying food.  Cooking and food didn’t interest me until I came back from Afghanistan and swore that I would never eat another grilled cheese sandwich with butter painted on the bread, steak boiled then fried on the same grill as bacon and eggs, or deep fried crap.  Now, when I travel, I eat and drink instead of buy knick knacks.  It’s a much better way to develop friendships, meet great people, learn the culture, and enjoy the culture. 

My love of food means that I love to work out, too.  When faced with slowing metabolism and hips (damn you, puberty), I realized I had to give up my crème brulee and paella or start working out a whole lot more.  I decided on the latter.  It compensates for my love of beer and wine, as well. 

And a few more boring pieces of trivia:

I love rom coms.  Yup, I cry, too.

Although I haven’t cried out because of a double rainbow, I get pretty caught up in the amazing beauty that surrounds us in nature.

I love my dog.  Laugh at me, go ahead.  His name is Lance, which is short for his official name, “My Knight in Shining Armor.”  He saved my heart from the abyss of bitterness and anger after deployment.

I don’t do CrossFit.  I don’t like CrossFit.

Doing things alone doesn’t bother me.  Going to eat, seeing a movie, shopping, hiking.  I find a certain strength in solitude.

My family means the world to me.  My family goes beyond blood, always has and always will.

And, finally, my nephew has told me, “You know, you’re pretty cool.  Why do you always come off as a standoffish bitch?”  Hah.  Take that for what it’s worth.  J