O Mein Papa

After the craziness earlier this morning, I let Emily watch "Signing Time!", also known as 'baby crack'. She recently signed "police officer" when I was talking to her about her Papa (my dad). This morning's episode of ST is talking about, among other things, cops and firefighters. She toddled over with the phone, handed it to me, and signed "Papa" with great enthusiasm. I can take a hint, so we called her beloved Papa.

Nana and Papa are revving up for our upcoming trip to the Homestead. They have a custom-built home on 14 acres adjacent to Penn State gamelands that will never be disturbed. It's paradise for them, and a total amusement park for kids. There's a target range out of the basement; a pole barn with boats, tractors, and a Jeep; a pond up the street; a tire swing down by the campfire pit; and more wild animals than you can shoot. Deer spotting is what we do from the living room in the evenings.

Even if that weren't all the case, my dad is an amusement park on his own. He's a former Special Forces, 82nd Airborne, Philadelphia PD SWAT/Narcotics/Bomb Squad guy turned police chief who retired from 40 years of law enforcement a couple of years ago. Of course, he was retired for about 15 minutes before heading to Baghdad to train the new Iraqi police force. We all bit our tongues, because he swore he was going to be teaching classes in the US Embassy, formerly one of Saddam's palaces, and would be entirely within the Green Zone.

Right. That lasted for a couple of days. He wound up kind of expanding his job description into several directions, including revamping the training itself and providing both liaison and security detail for some State Department big-wigs. Of course, he also wound up finding other opportunities to, uh, maintain current firearms skills. He was next to the room where two people were killed by a rocket that came from the Red Zone the night before the elections. His favorite part, I think, was becoming the liaison between the Army guys and the police crew, since he speaks both their languages.

Something about your dad talking about a fully armored Tahoe and walking around in 'full battle rattle' is unnerving when he's already been shot twice. Between those incidents, his previous Army life, and some of the crazier things he did as a Philly cop, he's used up way more than his nine lives already. But in his words, "What a way to go! My grandkids could say, 'Yeah, my granddad died in Iraq when he was 63!!'." The main is an adrenaline junkie, but I have to say that he came back with a white-hot fury against what Saddam Hussein did to the people of Iraq and a pretty sober opinion that going in there was the right thing to do, whatever else has happened.

When he left, it took four people to take over the positions he'd filled/created. They want him back in a bad way, even offering to let him essentially write his own job description for however long he'll give them. Typically they require 6 months or a year, but they want him for as long as he'll stay. He was really getting into his Arabic lessons (he has an amazing ability to pick up languages that I wish he'd passed on to me--my German still sucks). He'd love to go back immediately, but due to family responsibilties, particularly Mom's health, he hasn't been able to yet. But I have a feeling it's coming.

Here are a few pics he shared with us as he underwent a metamorphosis from technological Neanderthal to email-addicted computer geek equipped with thumb drive:

Dad's view on the way to the latrines. He tries to tell people that he had just finished stacking these sandbags, though we all know if that had been his job, he would have found a way to get someone else to do it.


Here's an example of fine Iraqi plumbing.


Out in the Red Zone doing protection for State Department folks and Iraqi generals.


Iraqi Ministry of Justice vs. Tomahawk.
(The Tomahawk won.)


Dad found some of the newest generation of his 82nd Airborne guys and made friends. Is it my imagination, or do these guys look far too young to be holding something sharp??


Some of the young soldiers Dad knew "adopted" a couple of young families nearby. They taught the kids to play soccer, fixed up the houses, and brought a special soccer ball to the one girl in the group who was generally ostracized by the boys. Their moms would be proud of these young men.


What Dad refers to in cop lingo as "Van of Concern".


This is Dad's idea of keeping safe in the Green Zone. He went out and made friends with some guys on guard duty and volunteered for a turn searching for "Targets of Opportunity".


Dad at the Hadji Market. He wound up having to send home several Persian rugs to Mom. He learned to be more selective about which pictures he sent home to her.


Dad, uh, "going fishing" like normal retirees.


The Embassy mascot puppy. Dad swore that dog was not coming home with him, but we all know perfectly well that dog was this close to being smuggled onto a C-17 to Ramstein.


One of Dad's favorite Gurkhas in front of a giant head of Saddam that was pulled down from atop the Presidential Palace. All the guards knew Dad and would shout their name for him, Arabic for "old man". He called them, well, a name from South Philly. My dad has never met a stranger.



Yeah, my dad's pretty cool. I'm getting excited to see him and Mom next week despite the thorough and irreperable spoiling of my toddler that will ensue for the following two weeks.