Katie Annie,

It was another “barn burner” here at Camp Bucca today. We have a system which uses three separate thermometers to gain a sense of how hot it really is.

One thermometer indicated a scorching 114 degrees “in the shade.” Another revealed a no-kidding 135 degrees “in a parked car with the windows cracked.” And another had a “wet bulb” reading of 110 degrees.

I’ll have to throw out the old adage that it doesn’t really feel all that hot because it’s a “dry heat.” Doesn’t our oven use “dry heat” to roast a turkey? All that said, I honestly do think it feels hotter in Valdosta on a Saturday afternoon in July mowing the yard. Water bottles are staged all over the camp, so you can rest easy knowing I can handle the heat without any problem. By the way, please take care of my dogs and make sure they have plenty of water to drink during the day.

Nights are hot here too. Most evenings I take my Air Force folding chair outside and place it up on top of a concrete bunker where I relax with a hot cup of “decaf” coffee. Often times, I play my banjo up there, sometimes I just sit back and imagine being at home with you. Night time is the hardest. It gets downright lonely, being separated from you, my soul mate.

There have been a few special times when I listen to my iPOD with Glen Miller’s Band playing “Moonlight Serenade.” Occasionally, the moon hangs low enough in the desert sky to give it an even “larger than life appearance.” Sitting there, I take comfort in the fact that I can imagine you looking at the same moon where you are. I can’t wait to get back to Valdosta and sit on the front porch with you, so we can look at the moon together. Don’t go sit under any apple tree with anyone else but me, OK? Just you and me!

Mother’s Day is just around the corner and I’m really sorry for not being able to be there for the second year in a row. First Afghanistan and now Iraq. Where next?

I know the kids have something planned because they have been secretly e-mailing me. Yes, Mother’s Day is special. I’ve already sent my mom a present and I hope she likes it. The one from me to you is in the mail.

I want to tell you about an experience with an Iraqi mother this week. Imagine the mother dressed in the traditional Arabic black robe from head to toe and me an American airman medic dressed in body armor with helmet, rifle, and pistol. Quite an image, huh? Six months ago, I was wearing bib overalls sitting in the chair at Northside Barbershop in Valdosta getting a haircut. Now I’m in a small town in Southern Iraq wearing body armor and taking care of an Iraqi child. The world is not so big.

Meeting with this mother and child was absolutely one of the most endearing moments I have ever been privileged to experience. Something similar to our experience when our own son, Jordan, was so sick some years ago.

I was taken to a local Iraqi town where a 12-year-old Iraqi boy was waiting with his mother and older brother for an evaluation. I won’t reveal the boy’s name for security reasons but for the sake of discussion I’ll refer to him as “Mitchell.”

Through the use of a fantastic interpreter, I was able to find out that Mitchell has been a typically active young fellow playing soccer every day and running through the neighborhood with his friends. Mitchell’s mom explained that one particular day he had fallen while playing. He had initially suffered only a bruised left knee. Over time he began to complain of pain, especially at bedtime, on a daily basis.

After a couple of months passed, the knee began to swell. His family took him to a local doctor where his knee was “drained” resulting in the collection of a rather large amount of fluid. Still no improvement. Doctors began to tell the mother that her son’s leg would have to be amputated above the knee. The mother was obviously distraught at the thought of her son losing his leg.

After performing a thorough exam and taking a few pictures to document Mitchell’s knee, we shook hands, exchanged smiles, and prepared to return to our base. As I was about to leave the room, I returned for a brief moment to Mitchell’s mother. I knelt down where she was sitting and extended my hands to her. She took my hands and expressed a concern with her eyes that only a mother can display for a child who is ill. I told her that we would do whatever we could to help her son. She replied — “God willing!”