(Discount urn, special deal for two. This side of it shows where Socotra Island is, and where Socotra will wind up. Photo Socotra.)

I was looking at the urn that came in the mail yesterday afternoon. Fine piece of work.

Not the one currently occupied by half of mom and dad, but the one that will hold me when the time comes. I liked it when I saw it: all shiny brass like back on the ship, and marked with a quirky map of the world.

I did not want the kids to get tagged with some funeral director’s idea of something suitable, so I got it to have at the ready. I was putting it up on the shelf next to the ashes of the former marital dog (who I will try to get into Arlington as well) when the phone rang. It was Mac, who wanted to talk about the teleconference that morning, his very first.

It was a technical miracle. Well, no, it wasn’t that exactly, but it was still a remarkable thing. Mac is so filled with vim and vigor these days that I can’t keep up with him, more than three decades his junior.

“I am feeling so good,” he declared with conviction “that I have decided to go for a hundred.”

“Well, your driver’s license is good until you are 102, so why not shoot for that? I am making preparations either way,” I said, looking at the urn on the shelf.

“I just might,” he laughed. “That young fellow this morning didn’t seem to know much about what he was trying to research.”

“You are completely right about that,” I said. “But he was more organized than I thought he would be when I talked to him to set up the conference call.”

It was sort of odd, the whole thing. It was Mac’s first conference call, ever. That is the way we do business now, for the most part, since the concept of dragging people all over Northern Virginia to attend face-to-face meetings has been recognized as counter-productive, energy inefficient and aggravating.

By way of background, the long-suffering business manager (the only badly paid professional staffer we have) had received an email out of the blue from a college kid in Minnesota who was looking to interview a World War Two Code Breaker. Lisa had forwarded it to our vivacious Madam President, copy me, saying: “They are getting scarce as hen’s teeth. But the kid may have lucked out and come to the right place.”

Madam President in turn, asked me to ask Mac, and I had been happy to do so. Feeling as good as he does these days, Mac agreed. He views himself as an Ambassador from an America that used to exist to one that he is a little dubious about. I was proud to be part of it- people like me represent a sort of middle ground, who grew up on the old newsreels and films, and to whom the War is still a defining moment- the cauldron through which all our fathers and mothers passed and emerged into the self-satisfied Fifties that we learned to protest bitterly, sort of like the candy-ass occupiers of today who imagine somehow that life is supposed to be fair, and want it for free.

Anyway, I set up the call with my Leader Pin and waited for Mac to dial in. he navigated the access number- marveling along the way that ‘866’ and ‘888’ have joined ‘800’ as a toll free number to call.

“Everything is free now,” I said. “A complete paradigm shift in how communications work.”

“Oh my, that is true. When I was going through Special Investigator training out in Seattle in 1941, the Navy investigated me for my long distance calls.”

“Were you doing it from the office?” I asked. “We used to go through all kinds of stuff to call back to CONUS from overseas, patching from Government to civilian networks. It was sort of a conspiracy between the operators and sailors.”

“I imagine you were trying to call your girlfriend like I was. And no, I would call from home. I had a girl back in Iowa, and I wanted to stay in touch. The Navy didn’t understand why an Ensign being trained in intelligence work needed to talk long distance every night.”

“That figures. Have you heard the latest? Secretary of the Nay Mabus just announced that they are going to start giving breathalyzers to sailors coming back to the ship.”

“Do tell. They wouldn’t have been able to find many sober sailors back in the real war.”

“I think that was the last one we won. And they are going to eliminate discount prices on cigarettes.”

“Really? I suppose that is a good thing. That certainly is not how we went to war, though.”

“A Navy that drank whiskey and smoked Camels was the one that actually beat the enemy. I don’t know about the new one.”

“The jury is still out on that,” said Mac. “But back then, we all figured the War was coming, and we would be sent to Manila or Pearl or someplace. The Naval Districts in San Diego and San Francisco were training agents just like they were in Seattle.”

“That is what you said this morning. It was interesting to hear the story right through in a line. It was not like Willow, with the conversation veering through all sorts of places. I liked it- not that we haven’t wound up in all sorts of interesting places when the conversation is fueled with decent lager or Happy Hour White.”

“Well, we can do that later this week,” said Mac. We made arrangements to meet on Thursday, and I told him I had to get up early and vote in the Super Tuesday primary.

“Good luck on that. Won’t be much of a crowd,” he said. “But let me know how it goes.”

I agreed that I would, and shut up shop for the evening.

I rose this morning not as bleary as I could have been and drank the daily Dazbog waiting until the polls opened over at the Culpepper Gardens Assisted Living Facility. It was cold enough that I wished I had worn gloves when I ambled over.

It is an open primary, at least in one direction. Any one can vote, but there just isn’t anyone to vote for. I did not have to declare my party affiliation- I do not have one- but it was thoroughly unsatisfying, even though any exercise of the franchise is a good thing.

As you might imagine, the polls were empty when I strode in. “No write-ins” said the sign behind the two volunteers, and once I had proven my identity with my driver’s license to the one who manned the now all-electronic process I was permitted to vote.

What is the big deal with providing ID, I wondered? You can’t cash a check without identifying yourself. Why wouldn’t you have to do the same minimum requirement to vote?

I was handed a card and directed to a lady of a certain age, who took it from me and turned me over to a man of a certain age who activated one of only two machines set up. Blue Arlington was not expecting a lot of Red voters, it seemed, and it certainly looked like they were ready for something less than a storm.

I was surprised by the binary choice. We had talked at length at Willow about writing in the usual folks- Daffy Duck, Harvey the Rabbit, Mickey or “None Of The Above,” but none of them appeared to have met the requirement for filing.

I pressed the screen that said “Next” and saw my binary choices: Ron Paul or Mitt Romney.

That was it. That is the choice the Republican Party was giving me in this open primary. There were so many people I wanted to vote against, and so long before I will get a chance to vote again. So I made my choice, and asked for a sticker to put on my briefcase to demonstrate my commitment to the system.

Super Tuesday my ass. But at least I got to vote against someone. I wish I could have voted for the Duck, though. Or the Rabbit.

Copyright 2012 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com