Serendipity recently has led to three books I've read feeding into the theme of the psychology of war and the military:

--War, the documentary commentary by Sebastian Junger, is dedicated to the realities and psychology of Americans serving in the Korengal Valley in Afghanistan.

--The Human Stain by Philip Roth includes among its all-compelling characters, Lester Farley, a returning veteran of Viet Nam so overwhelmed by PTSD that his own behaviors cause to visit upon him no second thoughts, regardless of their extremity.

--And now Watery Grave, a paperback I acquired somehow. It has that dry feeling about it and is brown around the edges. Its author is Bruce Alexander. It was published in 1996, tauted as A Berkley Prime Crime Book. And where does this book of crime take me? Somewhat to my surprise, directly to a discussion of the psychology of the military.

This time, however, the year is 1769 and the action centers around a death witnessed on a frigate of the English Royal Navy. There, everything is different.

Well, not quite entirely.

In contrast to today, conscription for the English Royal Navy in the eighteenth century as characterised in the book consisted of the brutal kidnapping of twelve to fourteen year old males from shore to shipboard. Once on board, they were expected to work as men, conforming, in the process, to military norms. Those who failed to do so, faired poorly. 

Another area of interest explored in Watery Grave is military law and, in particular, the efficiency of the military tribunal in contrast to the complexity and greater flexibility of English civil law. The results smack of bitter satire, offering by no means a positive comparison for the system of tribunals.

Watery Grave is a fascinating story of the motivations of the classes. And into the mix, a blind judge teams up with a mother willing to facilitate the chance for her son to join the uncertainy of life on a military frigate. In doing so, she hopes to help her offspring to do as he would choose while preventing his uncertain past from hampering his prospects for future. 

As for the Judge, Sir John, an extremely well-portrayed tragic character, larger than life, yet, oh so human.

Roberta in Po-Town, Looking to a drawn down

I am not doing therapy. It is the second week of a two week break before summer school. Still resting up.

The end of the school year was grueling. In the last week I think I wrote for thirty-plus hours over the course four days. If you are not a writer, this may not sound like much of a feat, but as writing is my business (so to speak), I think its a humongous number. For instance, when I am working on a book, my schedule is nine in the morning to one in the afternoon, Monday through Thursday. More than that and I become a zombie. And the more I go over sixteen hours a week the longer I remain one.

But it was an odd end of year. My first in this setting where I found most of the students' evaluations to be either incomplete or outdated. So I wound up with seventeen to do all toll. The eval results helped me to write better IEPs for 2010-2011. But there was no time in the year to write them up. So, in addition to IEP updates and regular monthly summaries on the twenty or so students on my caseload, I also finished some seven evaluation write ups. It was they that did me in.

My experience has been that the analysis of the test results and then the need to summarize the findings succinctly and simply is extremely mentally fatiguing and for me results rapidly in brain-drain.

So the first week I of my vacation rested. No choice. Which is not to say I did nothing. Just nothing too heavily mental like writing . . . although I did edit some paragraphs to be used on the cover of Drum Machine which kept me up until 1:30 a.m. on at least one night. Then on another night I again pushed the envelope by communicating online with Corinne with Smith Publications about developing some kind of a media blitz for Jolt . . .except given my funds for the effort at this time, the word blitz has to be an exaggeration.

But here I am in Port Henry, New York, where there is almost always a breeze. And as my house overlooks Lake Champlain from the west, the weather is generally dryer and cooler than most places around.

Can you imagine? Almost everyone in Port Henry goes without air conditioning. That's because when one might be needed is usually only a week or two a summer. I do, however, have some ceiling fans which I use at times. But last night they were not needed. The temps dropped into the fifties and around three I had to get up to close the windows because the cold wouldn't let me sleep.

I should be doing nothing, whatever that is. But I have this need to blog. Like maybe someone is waiting to hear what I have to say. It's probably an illusion, but no matter, that's me.

Roberta in Port Henry, Workin' on Chillin'