When the United States began operations to oust the tyrannical leader of Iraq, Saddam Hussein, it was during the same day as the start of the NCAA basketball tournament. College basketball is a big thing in my neck of the woods and many people were upset that network television preempted the basketball games with coverage of the war in Iraq. As my favorite team played their first round game, it didn't matter to me whether or not the game was televised as I couldn't watch it and do my job at the same time. I did, however, keep up with the "play by play." One of my lab assistants stayed on his cell phone talking to a friend who was listening the game on the radio. All of the details were relayed as they happened. Unfortunately, my team lost.

Shortly after the game, a friend of mine was telling me that he had heard that the team had lost. "Yes, I said." The sad thing is that they lost by only one point. It was a very close game."

"Well," said my friend, "We can always root for the other local team in the tournament."

"I'll probably just watch the war coverage," I said. "At least I know my 'team' is going to win that." I thought for a second and then said, "Maybe I will watch the tournament after all. I don't see the Iraqi military being much competition."

My friend replied, "Hmmm. Maybe you should watch the war coverage. There is something to be said for a good shutout you know."

I often get calls from the local newspaper asking me if I would be interested in subscribing. They find it hard to believe when I tell them I'm not interested because of problems I've had with the carriers in the past. They usually inquire as to what the problems have been thus prompting me to elaborate.

"Correct me if I'm wrong," I said, "but if I send my subscription payments directly to you then my paper carrier shouldn't stop delivering my paper."

"Yes, that is correct."

"Well, the carrier says that when I do that, you don't pay him for my subscription and he wants me to pay him directly."

"I'm sure he gets paid for every subscriber who pays directly to us but it is fine to pay the carrier instead."

"Yes that sounds like a solution doesn't it? However, when I told my carrier I didn't have a problem paying him instead of you, he told me that he didn't make enough money selling newspapers to come by my house and collect the payment."

The sales person assured me that if I subscribed, I would get my newspaper without interruption. I decided to give it another try.

The paper came every day and was promptly delivered to a bush full of briars in the middle of my yard. Every morning I had to put on a suit of armor before retrieving the newspaper from the bush. When I tried to flag down the paperboy to ask him to try and hit the driveway, he just smiled and waved and kept on going. Numerous calls to the subscription department didn't solve the problem either so I decided I simply would not pay my next bill.

It wasn't long before the paperboy was at my doorstep asking if I would like to continue my subscription. "Sure." I said. "All I have is quarters though. Do you mind taking them as payment?"

"I think I'll go home, sit back, kick my feet up, relax and… watch the war." It was the beginning of the coalition's march on Baghdad, Iraq. The coalition was about 120 miles from Baghdad and I was thinking that, for me, it would only be about a two-hour trip. It would be several days before the forces arrived in Baghdad to experience some of the fiercest fighting of the war. I couldn't help but wonder why the coalition force didn't get there in a couple of hours. Then I figured they must be traveling through southern Iraq and, being from the southern United States, I figure they probably were going slow so they wouldn't get pulled over by a southern sheriff's deputy. But would that be such a bad thing? It's entirely possible that being pulled over could work in their favor.

"Okay! Pull it over son! Let me see your drivers license and registration please."

"Yes sir officer. No problem."

"Well General, do you know how fast you were going?"

"No sir, I don't."

"You were doing forty-one miles per hour in a thirty-five zone."

"I didn't see any signs."

"There is a sign posted at the Iraqi border that plainly states that the speed limit is thirty-five unless otherwise posted."

"I didn't see the sign."

"Is anybody in your group riding a motorcycle? Motorcycle riders must wear helmets in this country."

"Everybody is wearing a helmet."

"Are you trying to get smart with me boy?"

"No sir."

"I think you are and I don't appreciate it… none. You and your friends will have to come with me."

"Where are you taking us?"

"I'm going to have to take you downtown and book you for speeding."

"Downtown where?"

"Baghdad."

"Well okay. Lead the way."

Now that my son is almost four, it is a constant battle of wills to get him to eat healthy food. I find myself using the same tactics that my father once used on me, my son and I sitting at the table, me waiting for him to eat his vegetables, him waiting for me to make a deal. "Okay, I'll tell you what. Eat four more bites and you can leave the table."

"One more bite?"

"How about three more bites?"

"Two?"

Alright, two but they have to be big bites."

When I was growing up, my parents hired a woman who would come to the house once a week to help my mother clean. On occasion, she would bring collard greens, a very southern dish, for lunch. She once shared the delicacy with my mother who immediately took a liking to them. The following week, our cleaning lady brought my mom "a mess of collards to fix for us."

My mother, not knowing that the proper way to prepare collards was to cook them in a hundred pounds of pork fat, simply boiled them before serving them to her family for dinner. I took one bite, looked at my dad and said, "Do I have to eat this?"

"Your mother worked very hard to prepare this meal and you will eat every bite."

At this point, my oldest brother, after his first taste, asked the same question but received a similar reply. A moment latter, the same process occurred involving my other brother.

There we sat, my brothers and I, knowing that we would have to eat this horror that my parents called food. My dad finally got around to taking his first bite. My brothers and I watched as my father chewed and chewed, winced and chewed. "Okay, you guys don't have to eat the collards. Honey? I sure could use a glass of water."

I think that the next time my son complains about eating a green bean, I'll just boil up some collard greens and make him at least try them. Maybe he will learn to appreciate his beans. Nah. Probably not.