I still can't tell you...I'd have to kill you...or you me....

As many of you are aware, I have moved from a rather comfy hotel suite in southern Tennessee to a cramped suite here in Dayton, Ohio. My commitment is to be here for a year; by then, I would have done enough research and gathered enough personal furniture -- "Early American Yard Sale" from others' homes; and items which did not get destroyed from the mold infestation in my parents' basement -- to move into something larger for the last year and six months of my civilian Air Force career.

Someone told me that I really needed to write a book called "101 Things to Keep when you De-clutter". The book would explain in glorious detail all of the great things -- and the bad things -- I have collected and stored away during my many years of seeing the world and doing your bidding -- telling you and the rest of the American people how truly great our military and those who work with our military -- really are. About six years or so now, I de-cluttered, tossing away about a third of everything I saved. The other two thirds are sitting in basement areas waiting their turns to be saved, given away, sold or taken to be destroyed. I truly did not intend on those things being re-warehoused, but over time (and a couple of moves), they were. This summer is the grand purge of those things. as I stage things for one final move at retirement.

At your expense. After all, I am part of your tax dollars at work.

So, it's a matter of new beginnings. At the same time, old, tired endings. I've done this movement around before. A lot. I have almost became a master of the military household goods move. I know that how it works -- how it is supposed to work, for nothing works the way one envisioned it or planned it. A lot of impromptu actions, sometimes spoken in a foreign language and sometimes spoken in a language you nor the movers even understand.

Like the time I moved things from a place in southern Europe. I can't tell you where it was in southern Europe, for the mission I was there for was indeed one of those things that "if I told you, I'd have to kill you". Not that extreme, but close enough -- it was a "classified" assignment. I lived in a town whereby I was one of a handful of Americans, Brits, and Frenchmen -- all of us men -- working on pieces of a communications project. Our boss told us that we would be there for a month and we needed to have furniture in our rooms to give the appearance that we are going to be longer than we have planned.

The Army and Air Force has warehouses full of what is called "quartermaster furniture". Quartermasters are those who handles it, takes care of it, issues it and destroys it if need be. When these pieces of furniture were built by craftsmen in North Carolina, or Oregon, or Texas or Nebraska back in the 40s and early 50s, they were sold to the Defense Department -- the "War Department" -- for a pretty penny. They made a lot of it -- beds, bookcases, cabinets, desks, dressers, wardrobes, end tables, dining room and living room tables and matching chairs. Real wood -- not that cheapo particle board crap. Heavy as all get-out, requiring a couple of really strong armed men (or women) to cart this stuff up flights of stairs or across the floor.

That's what we all had. We made a list of what we needed -- and what we desired -- and the movers came, brought it in and parked it where we wanted it.

The neighbors (and we assumed the "bad guys", our REAL reason for being there) made note of the "permanent furniture coming in to the homes" and after the movers left, the inspectors came around and confirmed that we indeed needed the dining room table with four chairs (even though it was just me living in my apartment); the wardrobe with the extra spanner for my uniforms; the two end tables and the lamps on top of them and all the rest.

The inspector really came to make sure that nobody initially bugged our rooms. We would see him again two more times before he would leave us alone.

The "fun" came when it came time for us to leave. NONE of us spoke the local language...well...we did know some cuss words and some "helper words" like "please", "yes, "no", "thank you" and "excuse me". When the packers came to take and "box up" my furniture, they started asking me in some language (their language) I think "where do you want us to start?"

I grunted, then started speaking in an accented form of some language -- I was making it up as I went along -- gesturing without raising my voice as if that was my "native language". Somehow they understood and started packing and taking things to the large truck on the street. This went onward for about an hour before I guess one of the movers found a supervisor or someone who could speak German. He brought the man in, pointed to me and said something which I "interpreted" as "this fool is speaking some kind of wordspeak to us...we don't understand a damn word he's saying. Can you please try to talk with him in something maybe he could understand?"

The man turned to me and in perfect German asked me if I was pleased with their packing so far.

I pretended to have a revelation. I went over, shook his hand and told him in my half perfect German "yes, I am. I didn't know that any of you spoke German!"

The man then turned and translated our conversation to the lead packer, who raised his fist in success and yelled "YA!!"

We all laughed a little before they went back to work packing everything else up. The man speaking German asked me to sign papers and I told him that someone would could come and sign for me and several other people. Almost on cue, the door opened and the inspector guy came in and looked at me and then at the packers.

"Getting everything packed?" he spoke in English.

I looked at him and said loudly "ENGLISH? ENGLISH?" The inspector guy understood and said "Do you speak English?" to me.

"A little. Baseball. Apple Pie. Chicago." I said.

"Good." Then he changed over to German and started "Do you speak German?" I answered back nodding my head up and down. "Good, we have a common language. I am here to sign for the shipment, is that okay?"

"Absolutely" I said in my best German.

To this day, I don't have a clue what language I was speaking to in order to get the packers to pack my things and get them shipped to the States, but they arrived at Fort Snelling, Minnesota and was put into the storage building with other items from other moves I had to make.

Most of the "quartermaster furniture" went to the second former wife upon our divorce. I kept some pieces but most of the items ended up in Virginia Beach, whereby some was sold for seven or eight times what those craftsmen in North Carolina, Oregon, or Texas was paid for them. If you go to any military "host town" and stop in an antique store, you will certainly run into pieces of that furniture. Not only has it been well made and well-preserved over the decades, it remained its charm and value. A chest of drawers the military valued at $80 is sold in many of those stores today for $800.

No, I still can't tell you where I was. I'd have to kill you if I did. Or perhaps someone would have to kill me if I did. Your tax dollars at work.