“Matriarch:” ‘tis a title of which I have always held in disdain.  It was common with the American Indians.  My ancestral Clarks, Lees, Henrys, Haneys, etc. and my wife’s ancestral Barrons, Gildeas, McDonoughs, etc., recognized a certain authority and even a domination by their wives in the dim past of Gaelic history.

And ‘tis me, a young vigorous man not yet seventy-one years old, lying flat on me back, with me sixty-five year old snip of a wife parading around ordering me to stay in bed where she put me, even making me put on pajamas.  But I still had me pipe handy, though it didn’t taste right.  Of course I was intendin’ to do that very thing, so it was not as if I was takin’ orders from the likes of her.

We had come a-visiting to this eighty acre farm to babysit with our three grandchildren, while our daughter and her slave, another downtrodden “Mick,” took a business-vacation trip to a warmer climate.  They had left without a care, knowing that hickory-tough grandpa would be after taking care of everything.

We had arrived in typical Ohio January weather, as the temperature cooperated with the snow as it continued to fall.

The bugs got me down shortly after they had left, but I would not admit it until everyone turned against me, including two of my sons who were on their way home and happened to stop by.  They each outweigh me by once and a half, but I can still whip them even if they don’t know it.  And, bad cess to the both of them, they always take sides with their mother.  So, nothing would do them but haul me away to a hospital where they had a doctor take a faked-up picture of me rugged chest, and I’ve no doubt that they bribed him to order me to bed on a diet of nasty medicine, after punching around on me 1 with his needle.  And this, with all the good whiskey they could have bought me for a lot less money.  They even went to the extent of calling my daughter in Dallas, Texas, who is a registered nurse, and the other of eight spalpeens.  And the likes of her, me own daughter, giving me orders over the telephone.

‘Twas a sad day for the O’Haney, with her telling me what to do, and what not to do; as if I wouldn’t know what to do about a little thing like pneumonia.

And with all this scheming and behind the back planning, they dealt me the underhanded blow; they put the Matriarch in charge.  And them knowing all the time that I would be doing the proper intelligent things without someone having to tell me to do this and not do that.

But I have the advantage of them.  I’m remembering that the seventeenth of March is not far away and that me and my Leprechaun will be King for a day; so their domineering ways do not affect my sweet imperturbable nature.

I was watching “The Matriarch” this morning from my bedroom window, which is upstairs where the three grandchildren are under my stern eye while she is out.  She was at the barn feeding the nine head of cattle, the two horses, and a pony.  “Jesse,” the ever guardian Doberman, was with her, having an eye to the animals, stalking them with that proud, fearless demeanor of challenge, that dared even “Sampson,” the two thousand pound bull, to question the least desire of the Matriarch.  The calico cat was also in attendance; a sort of “Maid in Waiting.”

And a vision appeared.  The scene was bathed in early morning sunshine.  The mockingbird we’d fed each day had ‘lighted on the pasture fence.  The Matriarch’s pitchfork became a scepter, the slouch-hat became a halo-like tiara, the too-big coat was robes 2 of velvet and fine spun gold, and the mockingbird’s song became the soft strains of a harp. It was top o’ the mornin’ for the O’Haney and a proud day for himself.

In the Marine Corps culture of MOS job classification there is a hierarchy. As the variety of MOSs is vast I shall restrict this conversation to the combat arms; i.e., Infantry (03XX) and Artillery (08XX). A year ago I could have included Armor (18XX) but since then the Corps has divested itself of that field and benefit and so it may get no more than a passing comment. In this culture, of the two – Infantry and Artillery, the arty guys consider themselves more sophisticated, considering the grunts as lunkheads and bumpkins; necessary but not quite as well heeled and genteel. Despite the cultural differences, the two groups work well together and have made their collective mark on the annals of warfare and the graveyards of our foes.

My initial desire when signing to the men’s department of the US Sea Service was to be a grunt, like Sgt Stryker. As it was, my trek to the 03 community began as a Remington Raider, then Explosive Ordnance Disposal (John Wayne would have done that), then as a Drill Instructor. And then, due entirely to the grace of God, I was accepted into a college program that would culminate in me finding myself graduating OCS, getting the requisite lobotomy, and pinning on a pair of butter bars denoting my entrance to the realm of Officers and Gentlemen.

After proving that I had what it took to be an officer, I joined others at The Basic School to learn how to be an officer – mostly physical training and field work sprinkled with a smattering of knives, forks, and pinkies. At TBS I was afforded the opportunity to become a Naval Aviator (a childhood dream never realized) and as some of my lobotomy did not take as evidenced by my scores on the “So you want to be an Aviator Test” thus indicating that I apparently had the requisite remaining grey matter to decipher the concepts of flight and the myriad of instruments to pursue that endeavor somewhat safely. Now, I do need to note that in the culture of Marine MOSs, the Naval Aviators see themselves as the highest born elite of Corps’ Gentlemen, sitting far higher than their terra bound fellow warriors. But, I learned, much to my surprise, that my heart was not in the clouds but bound firmly on the ground and so, in fulfillment of my original quest, I requested and received transference to the Mud Marines. I spent two years with 1^st Battalion, 6^th Marines (of Belleau Wood fame) before resigning, for family needs, my Regular commission and joining the ranks of the Reserves.  I spent most of my time with Weapons Company, 1^st Battalion, 23^rd Marines as an 81 Mortar Platoon Commander, Weapons Company Commander, and Battalion Fire Support Coordinator. Due to education needs (pursuit of a Ph.D.) I found myself in the Individual Ready Reserve (not attached to any one unit) when Desert Storm hit. I checked with 1/23 and they were full up on personnel and had no openings, and so I looked around for a unit that was answering the call as the proverbial and ever anticipated balloon went up. What I found was Headquarters Battery, 14^th Marines, the Reserve Artillery Regiment headquarters unit. They had an opening and were sending eleven Officers and Marines to Camp Lejeune to augment 1^st Battalion 14^th Marines. This old grunt found a home with the cannon cockers as we headed to war.

Actually, it was Norway. While others were in Desert Storm winning fame, accolades, and the Klingon Medal in the best war since 1898 (more blue on blue casualties than red on blue), we were sent to Norway on a NATO Operation called Battle Griffin (cool name). We froze (300 miles north of the Artic Circle, in February, in tents for 3 weeks), maneuvered along the fiord at Narvic, froze, ate reindeer lips and blood oranges, froze and successfully both kept alive and kept Ivan from coming down from the north and supporting Achmed. Desert Storm came to a successful conclusion while we were yet in Norway. We returned after three weeks and were transported on the aircraft and the buses which had just recently embarked the Desert Storm Heroes and settled down to putting our gear back in shape and prepping for our return home. I did get an interesting two weeks on the James River participating as the Fire Support Coordinator for a Riverine Operation the Marine Corps was testing. Ironically, during the whole Desert Storm evolution, my old grunt unit, 1/23, was parked at Camp Pendleton not doing much.

As we finished getting our gear ready to turn in and return home we conducted a standard Marine Corps Tradition – the Mess Night. And that is when the trouble happened.

A Mess Night is one of roast beef (“Fit For Consumption”), cigars, and several types of wine, stronger beverages, and braggadocios.

The culmination of the evening was a series of remarks from various members concerning our training, operations, comradeship, and liberty experiences. The deeper into the evening and the cups made for more and more interesting comments among the comrades in arms. Much talk of the King of Battle, the role of artillery in history, the necessity and effect of heavy duty close in fire support requested from the needy, ignorant grunts to the ever obliging weaponizers of geometry. Much was said of the killer aspect of math aided as always by prayers to their patron saint, the wondrous Saint Barbara. Barbara, the sainted patroness of the field artillery. Now, theoretically each service branch should have a patron saint to watch over their needs and wants and successes and to pass on to Higher Command the prayers of the faithful, but it seems that only the artisans of artillery make constant appeals to a power greater than their FDC. I looked into the possibility of the Infantry having a patron saint and all I could find was a vague and infrequent reference to Saint Maurice. His name was enough to explain few appeals to his services in the grunt ranks.

Even prior to joining the gentlemanly ranks of 1/14 I had been very much aware of St. Babs as my father was an Army Artillery Officer who went so far as to name one of my sisters after her. Being a Catholic, he had a higher than normal admiration and devotion to the vaulted saintress of HE and Willy Pete. As such, as the evening wore on I felt more and more inclined to rise and sing the praises of the Lass who let me join her and her acolytes and learn the manly art of massing metrics in the employment of mayhem.

And so, I arose with cup raised. For them what know me and are curious at this, it was merely a cup of dihydrous oxide. I get in enough trouble on me own without the aid of spirits.

I toasted, “To my cannon cocker brother Marines, thank you for inviting this old grunt along on your escapdes and adventures to the ‘snows of far off northern lands.’ I am indebted to your fine tutelage in the gentlemanly art of weaponized geometry. During these last months I have sucked long and hard on Saint Barbara’s Teats, and I am the better for it.”

Thinking back on this incident I think I know where the problem lay. I blame the gun line guys more than Fire Direction Center guys as their craniums were more concussed due to close proximity of speeding 155 lumps of love on their way. The FDC folks tend to be more reserved, thoughtful, introspective.

The problem is orthography (spelling for the gun line guys and grunts). The body part of the object of the discussion may be spelled one of two ways; teat and tit. You may ask, “Professor, what does the difference in spelling matter?” Well, my curious one, “much and more!” You see, those two anatomical objects of interest serve two functions, to which the two spellings refer. Teats are meant to provide nourishment of a physical nature – to lactate forth milk to nourish and sustain, and to speed on growth and health. Whereas tits have a wholly different and just as important function. Their nourishment is affection and love and sexual play.

Now, let me make this point in the realm of biblical hermenuetics. In Luke 11.27 we find a woman in the crowd when Jesus was speaking remark, “blessed be the womb that bore you and the teats that nursed you.” (meown translation if you were wondering. I am, after all, a professor). Here we find the nourishing and sustaining function and power of teats. Anyone so nourished knows the truth of this.

Conversely, in Proverbs 5.19 we find, “as a loving deer and a graceful doe, let her tits satisfy at all times.” (again, meown translation, see above note). Here we find their function as providing sexual play and satisfaction at all times. Anyone so noursished knows the wondrous and exhilarating truth of this.

Now, as I mentioned, we had been prepping for our return to our loved ones (6 months away!) and for we who had loving arms awaiting us and our husbandly duties, the spelling of the spousal accoutrements that we looked so forward to is spelled the second way and not the first.

But, of course, when referencing the good patron of the gun guys, the first spelling was my reference, of course.

But some (gun line guys I highly suspect) did not catch this purposeful and entirely well meaning reference on the part of mehumble self and so some were rising from their seats with reddened faces with shouts of, “What did he say about Saint Barbara’s TITS?!?!” (see how they spelled it?). But, fortunately, there were FDC guys near by who calmed them and explained the orthographic distinction so skillfully (and surprisingly no doubt) wrought by the mud Marine. Tempers cooled, folks settled down, and I got both severe sideline glances of poorly tamped anger (gun line guys) and winks of literary and rhetorical appreciation (FDC guys) for my Irish born skill.

And we left that gathering anticipating our return journey with only one spelling on our minds.

Compiled by John Sansom

The Book of Kings and Book level Text Linguistics Paper

Drs. John Burns and Shawn Madden Easy Greek Help Chart