The butter aint going soft.

As expected, I took a little guff from a beer swilling, bar brawling buddy of mine for the “Love Languages” blog. Dirty Dillon acknowledged that I know where my bread is buttered although he questioned if reading books like that allowed me to be the lucky sucker that snagged Miss Dinius’ hand in marriage.

If that were what it takes, I’d do it a hundred times over.

Fear not, I have not gone soft.

I live closer to the 69^th parallel than the 68^th and we are currently registering a “feels like” temperature of 17 degrees on a sunny mid April day. This afternoon I sat on the rocks near the south channel and watched as my students cross-country skied their way south past the fish camps. While the sun warmed my face, I’ll admit I may have gotten a little choked up knowing that in a few short weeks, this will all be a thing of the past. Tough enough to still live in the Arctic. Soft enough to be emotional about it.

Just last week a couple of girls in my class where giving me the once over with a different look on their faces. When I asked them what was on their minds, they wanted to know more about my Harry Potter scar. I then got to re-tell a story of old about a Mountain of a Man when he was a Mountain of a high school junior and how at an early season football practice, his elbow accidentally met my face leaving me with the raw end of the deal and a 3 inch scar across my forehead. The girls came forward to feel the new skin of the five-year-old scar. They counted the dots from the eleven stiches that once held me together. I contemplated digging out a picture of the black eyes and hamburgered incision but thought twice. Their imaginations were enough. They know I am tough. Tough enough to take a blow like that to the head and keep charging on. Soft enough to teach elementary school and dole out hugs and glittery stickers on occasion too.

Still the days tick by as I mentally notch another tally mark in my Kivalina prison wall. This has felt like a deployment, reminiscent of my Marine Corps days. Those four years of service helped mold me in to the man I am today. I think of the difficult times that I thought would never end. The long hours, days and weeks at sea with only weapons maintenance and NonCommissioned TomFoolery to keep us entertained; that and the dangerous patrols and unpredictable enemies waiting for an opportunity to pounce. I am tough enough to have proudly served in the finest fighting force know to mankind. Yet soft enough that I sometimes still weep at the slightest thought of my wife, daughter and sons thousands of miles from where I now roam.

I’m no wimp, D-train. I’m just a man with some time on my hands and some shit to get off my chest. Read a book every once in a while. You might learn something and be no less of a manly man because of it. I love ya brother – but in a tough guy, let’s get together and throw back some Southern Comfort and talk about hockey kind of way.