srj641

There aren’t many things in life that are funnier than a novice on a boat ramp, an inexperienced man and wife backing a RV into a parking space, or the insanity of folks facing a snow storm. The weather prognosticators promised us an end of world snow storm. It ain’t happened yet and we have more frost in our frost free frig than on our sidewalk. That’s okay, but here in Springfield folks have more bread, eggs and toilet paper on hand than ever before. We know as we ventured out to have Sharon’s glasses adjusted and mingled with the hoards.

Our venture to Costco was entertaining. We arrived a few minutes early, and were forced to wait with the other common people in freezing temperatures while folks with the high dollar cards breezed in smirking at us poor folks. A gentleman and his wife were shivering in line ahead of us when his wife complained about how long the 3 minute wait was. Her husband answered by saying he has always told her that 3 minutes was a long time. We all had a laugh. Costco has lots of short aisles with merch piled high, thus creating blind corners. Death traps as folks were whizzing around at subsonic speeds with carts piled high with toilet paper. Courtesy does not exist in such dire circumstances and folks lucky enough to avoid a collision glared at each other with deadly menace.

The herd mentality sets in under such dire circumstances. We watched as folks shopped the bakery displays and noted that if someone grabbed a package of double chocolate cookies, the stack would be depleted in minutes by desperate folks who surmised these cookies were necessary when the end is near. The poor guy at the exit had his hands full looking for an unchecked carton of eggs. You could not sneak anything out of a Costco if you tried as everything is packaged in quantities that defy reason. Need a little Benadryl, you have to buy a 10 year supply to get a single pill. Folks eschewed the produce aisles, instead loading up on enough “comfort” food to cause Dr. Oz and his buddy Mr. Kennedy to faint in disbelief. In a final assault on humanity, death lurked in the parking lots where folks who weighed the most drove like maniacs to get a space a few feet closer to the building. These same folks, who should not venture out without supervision, left their carts everywhere but the cart corrals. We always park out in the north forty, as I abhor door knockers, and had to walk by the hurrying hoards. Our tears of laughter nearly froze on our cheeks as we mingled with these folks who have not had this much intensity since negotiating a prom date in high school.

What did our forefathers do when weather threatened. Not much because they had the presence of mind to always be prepared. Their larders were stocked with flour, cornmeal and sugar. Eggs were always available in the hen house and our grandmothers could put on a nutritious and delicious meal without measuring anything, from deserts to main courses of ball jars of green beans and a slab of salt pork. The milk plant was up and running, 24/7 and needed to be fed and milked daily. They went to the feed store in town on Saturdays to stock feed for the chickens, maybe buy a bag of hard candy and fuel the pickup. They took weather as it came, no panic, no mad dashes to stock up. They were America’s first “preppers”, and didn’t know it. What would they say about today’s mass rushes to buy groceries on the advice of our weather folks?

Is it any wonder that folks in third world countries hate us. A land of excesses, never more evident than when snow panic sets in.

SR

Do troopers find themselves in crazy circumstances when the snow flies? Sure we do. We are human, tend to over drive the conditions when called to an emergency, and err in judgement while working. Occasionally, these errors result in tragedy, but most of the time we are able to laugh about them as we drink coffee in front of the fire, years later.

The year was 1978, and my cruiser was a mammoth, gray Mercury interceptor that would run like the wind but, like a freight train, required a lot of real estate to stop. I had just picked up a probationary officer and turned out onto Interstate 70 to begin our day. It was snowing, but the highway was wet, not snow packed. We were called to a fatality 30 miles west of us and I gunned the big Merc and we were off. Wary of the conditions, I throttled back to 70 or so, when the road turned to ice at a crossover marking the turn around for the Highway Department salt shakers at the end of their district. The road went from wet to ice instantly and the Merc wobbled a bit and left the road, down a steep snow covered embankment, coming to rest between I-70 and the outer road. Miraculously, a tow truck saw my Joey Chitwood maneuver and swung around, quickly extricating us and we proceeded to the accident. When the Merc came to rest, my wild eyed probationary officer, asked if he could get out of the car for a smoke. In a calm voice, I told the officer (Trp. Brad Baker) he could. Truthfully, I have never smoked in my life, but felt the urge out of embarrassment. (I didn’t light up). I carefully explained to Brad, that this circumstance was NOT how you responded to a crash. He agreed. Soon, my police “friends” from Odessa, put a nicely lettered sign on the Interstate, noting this location was reserved for 641 parking only.

Another snow storm found me running low on fuel and I chose the outer road to get to the weight station for petrol. The steep entrance was covered in a deep snow drift that I thought I could “power through”. I didn’t make it and found myself hopelessly stuck. In my best radio voice, I requested a tow truck to help a “motorist” stuck in a snow drift. The radio operator answered my initial call, waited a bit, and asked “how bad are you stuck”. I have no idea to this day how he knew, but the whole troop knew I had ditched my cruiser behind the scales. I paid for my lack of judgement in snide remarks from my contemporaries for some time.

The snow of yesteryear delivered many events that were not humerous. On one occasion another probationary officer (Tpr. Bob Bloomberg) was with me when we were called to a suicide in a small trailer outside of town. The snow was flying and it was unbearably cold. It was messy but we worked it, wrapped in image armor, as the circumstances were terrible. I recall a snowy night, colder than a well diggers butt in January, I was called to an assault at another trailer where an intoxicated man tried to get in the door and was met by his wife with a paring knife. She filleted his hands as he tried to beat her and the blood he lost stood in stark contrast to the snow in the yard. In a true tragedy, a rather large man drove off the road in heavy snow, and slid into a box culvert, upside down. We could not see the car, as it was snow covered and blended in with the culvert. A highway maintenance man found him, frozen solid in an awkward position, in his car. The blood in the car was smeared all over the roof and doors, indicating he was injured but alive, before freezing to death. His position made the extrication difficult and it took 6 of us to get him up the snow covered embankment.

It looks like snow this coming weekend, maybe a lot of it. Snow brings out the best and worse in us, and Troopers are no different. I love snow, but am fortunate in that I’ll, God willing, never have to endure the bad times again. My memories are enough.

I have become fascinated by an elephant. Craig, one of the last “super tuskers” has passed in Kenya, Africa. He was 54 years old, old for a bull elephant, and died of natural causes, not the demise of many elephants who are heartlessly snared and shot by poachers collecting the ivory tusks. He was a magnificent critter as elephants go.

There are literally thousands of photos of Craig in existence. By all accounts, he was a ham, posing willingly with Mt. Kilimanjaro in the background. He was described as a gentile giant, who sired a number of progeny as he roamed about exerting is mighty influence. He was a giant, living within the shadow of Kilimanjaro, Tanzania’s volcanic, free standing mountain, the highest mountain of its kind in the world. Fitting, I think, one of nature’s mightiest creatures under this beautiful mountain.

Once upon a time, I was a very active hunter. I’ve killed game, mostly in Missouri, of every stripe and kind. I can also proudly say I was not a killer, in that I only killed what I could eat, never for the blood sport of simply watching something die at my hand. Try as I may, I simply do not understand the thrill of killing one of these magnificent animals for the privilege of saying you did so. Elephants, with their intelligence and strong herd instinct deserve better, and their killing for the tusks is unfathomable to me.

Craig was closely watched. Kenya’s rangers carefully monitored the old guy, protecting him from being killed for his tusks. Kudos to the rangers, who in the end stayed with Craig as he escaped this life. Elephants grow 6 sets of molars in a lifetime, the last set coming in their 30’s. When this set wears down, they can no longer chew their forage, become weak and drifting off to die peacefully. This was Craig’s circumstance, a death with dignity in the presence of his protectors.

My final thought about the passing of Craig. I have never seen an elephant in the wild, nor did our Lab, Tazzy have this opportunity. I hope it is God’s plan that we can see our pets again. It is also my fervent hope that Tazzy meets Craig. Taz loved all critters from cows to mice, and would be amazed at the presence of Craig. These two deserve to be at the same pond together, splashing about…..

Two of God’s creations, together in the presence of those who loved them. Godspeed Craig, I wish that I could have known you.

SR

I, predictably, am behind on about everything as we enter our third week in our new digs. I should know, having lived a nomadic life since entering this world in an Army hospital in Sendai, Japan nearly 76 years ago. This move, just few miles, would make a hilarious segment on a hoarder’s show. Many friends, knowing I have a broken wing, have offered their help, truth is we’re too embarrassed to accept. You really don’t want your friends to see your crazy.

Sharon is a trooper. There are numerous aspects to moving that require tools, normally my province. Lots of assembling stuff, with instruction written in Chi-English, requiring AI to put together. She is all in, learning to offer Navy quality oaths as she handles this responsibility. The previous owners of this home left it in good shape, however; they did not leave it in Sharon shape. Uh-oh…..

The doctors have threatened to deny all future care if I violate the rules attendant to the shoulder replacement recovery. Truth is, you are going to move your new bionic shoulder even when you use the “good shoulder”, a violation of the code. I am little help, limited to offering supervision (not needed) and advice (also not needed). Another truth, a reverse shoulder replacement is a walk in the park when compared to rotator cuff repair or thumb surgeries. Do not fear this procedure if your shoulder throws ace deuce.

We began this adventure by placing our household in storage, boxing up stuff and placing it, well, in storage. We then moved from storage to the new compound, placing us on the honor roll at the DAV resale store. An example of a failure to plan is our large lawn…..welcomed as I love lawn work. Our terrific Cub Cadet rider is two inches too wide to clear the shed’s over sized door. We are replacing it with a new Cubbie, my Christmas present this year. The deal is cut.

Factor Covid in, which we both have at this point and our resolve is being tested. it is not the killer it once was, but older folks don’t handle it well.

Finally, I am a lousy spectator. Watching a move is far different than participating. It has offered an entirely different perspective, and a deep appreciation for the excesses Americans enjoy. I am frustrated with my inability to contribute to the excitement of setting up a new household and amazed at my farm girl wife’s energy and adaptability. She is getting it done while I sit on my ass howling at the moon……

SR

One of the distinct advantages of having a military (Army) and paramilitary (Police) background is the ability to follow direction. When the surgeon opened my shoulder this week, he described what he saw as a “junkyard”, hardware from the previous surgery and supporting structure trashed as a result of the fall. He cleaned this up and installed a nice new titanium joint. I am always impressed by the intellect and training of these angels of mercy.

I am a veteran of numerous surgeries, 12 to be exact, and the detailed instructions one receives are the result of years of experience from health care professionals who exemplify the “care” aspects of this general title. As an example, I was encouraged to begin using a laxative several days ahead of the surgery to stave off the side effects of the strong opiates necessary after such procedures. The PA who works hand in glove with the surgeon, strongly recommended beginning the opiate regimen BEFORE the block wore off. His advice has resulted in a tremendous reduction of the pain typical of shoulder replacements in general. A licensed physical therapist visited the day after surgery, and in no uncertain terms taught us how to place, wear and remove the immobilizer brace necessary to preclude movement as the shoulder heals. Finally, my surgeon sent me home with a prescription for Narcan, a thoughtful gesture especially if there is any chance of an accidental overdose of oxycodone, which increases in older folks who are more prone to confusion with meds.

Here is the crux of today’s missive. I am recovering nicely because I can follow directions precisely. I am enjoying a smooth recovery as a result of advice dispensed by the terrific doctors and allied health professionals at the Mercy Orthopedic Hospital south of Springfield, Mo. While I have benefitted from the excellence of the prestigious Cleveland Clinic, the care this past week not only rivals Cleveland, but exceeds it in many cases. The patient/provider ratio is extraordinary and I am exceedingly fortunate to be in their care. Should you find yourself in the care of this hospital, take my heartfelt advice and order the charbroiled steak.

Only in America….

SR

It was one of those hard hitting snowstorms that Missouri is no stranger to. From experience, I knew that it was not a morning for elective travel, however; Sharon had a routine procedure scheduled and you don’t miss these things less you are prepared for a long wait to be rescheduled. We hit the road and began the trek to the clinic via US-65, which was bumper to bumper, with the road mostly snow and slush covered. I am a proponent of adequate following distances and noted the profusion of brake lights ahead, indicating an event. I slowed down, the jackass behind me did not and punched the back of our car. The conditions contributed to this event, but having his head in rectal seclusion was the primary problem. Now the fun begins.

After checking on him and his 19 YOA “baby momma” (his description), I quickly ascertained the following. He was a 20 year old man, driving a 2019 Nissan Armada, bearing no license plates, and looking like it was a survivor of Hiroshima. It was an “auction car”, still moving but clearly not far from the crusher. He had an operators license, and for this report, we’ll call him Nick. Nick and his baby momma (pregnant) were actually living in the Armada. Nick had a title that was out of assignments, given to him when he purchased the car in July. His chariot was not insured, no sales tax was paid, and he had no address. I explained to him who I was and he was cooperative with a “what me worry” attitude. I thought it best to summon an officer, as Nick needed to be arrested for one of the myriad of violations that he was responsible for.

As you might guess, no officers were available from the Springfield Police or the Highway Patrol, but when free, a Springfield officer would come. We waited an hour, long enough, so I worked the accident myself and walked the report into the Springfield Police Department. I explained to Nick that had I been an officer, I would have sacked him up for a couple of his litany of charges, including a less colorful version of D.W.H.I.A.

It will be a miracle if Nick is ever found, or suffer the consequences for his actions. Here we have a man who was driving while unconscious, in a car that bore no semblance to legality with no abode. The Missouri Automobile Association is powerful. They have managed to contribute enough money to the politicians running this state to stave off point of sale sales tax collection, which leads to no titling or registration. The ridiculous excuse offered by the department of revenue that it takes years to develop a data base to begin this obviously needed consideration is unadulterated bullshit. Dealers don’t want to collect sales tax as it constitutes extra work and extra money, thus reducing sales. It does not take years to develop this system…….

It was a weather event, and one would expect delays in getting to accident scenes by responding officers. That being said, I worked in these conditions, and it was rare that some police authority did not respond to a crash. Enough said about that consideration, however a citation or two would at least tease Nick into court.

The ultimate assault on our sensibilities is insurance. This jackass hits me and I get to pay the deductible through my insurance, even with our having uninsured coverage. Our system is broken and provides absolutely no incentive for Nick to do anything other than buy a junker and drive it off with little fear of penalty, with a minimal or no financial outlay.

We contacted a dear friend, who came to the scene and picked up Sharon and she made it to her appointment on time. I worked the wreck and filed a claim and made an appointment for a bid on Miss Sharon’s X-3. In keeping with the Mamdani school of socialism, don’t worry, be happy, I’ll pay for your illegality out of my pocket.

Watch the weather, carry plenty of insurance, and enjoy the disfunctional system we live in. Great isn’t it!

SR

I know and have seen things about violence, the result of a long career as a Highway Patrolman. Historically, domestic violence has been with us since Biblical times with a number of references to it in the Bible. I was raised in a military family and spent a year in Vietnam where violence was the order of the day. I am, admittedly, jaded when it comes to the violence we see today. I am also appalled. America has become a very violent part of the industrial world

Kids, back in the day, played cops and robbers, unless you were from Oklahoma, where you played Cowboys and Indians. We had toy guns and relied upon yard tactics to out maneuver one another. It was fun, not graphic, and terribly unsophisticated. Not today. Today, through the incredible tech that is available to us, we can involve ourselves in graphic killing for the sake of killing a multi-faceted sensory experience on a scale not unlike the sophisticated flight training simulators that will leave you shaking as a result of the experience. (Yes, I have sat in a major airline flight simulator and “flown” an airplane through a series of events that are horrifying.)

Next up, we have paintball, a pastime that is all about shooting and “killing” your opponent. We had a similar exercise in the Army, with BB guns and eye protection to simulate reactionary fighting. It was called Tiger Land, and brought the feeling of live fire a little closer. We engage in bloody cage fighting, bare knuckle contests in a confined place, with blood and teeth flying. This is entertainment to some, like the gladiators in Rome, but a ridiculous exercise to me.

Social media is a seething bed of unbridled reference to violence cloaked in the laughable protection of “community standards”. We ignore bullying in young folks to the point of suicide in less emotionally stable children (and adults). Television and our movies make violence a status symbol among the impressionable minds of kids. Vietnam coverage began an era of unprecedented violence brought into our living rooms replete with all the horrors of combat sans the smell of death. The proliferation of road rage today has reached unprecedented levels, teaching our children to curse and threaten other drivers as a normal response to an aggravating circumstance. Today’s attitudes, coupled with the incredible availability of guns, creates a circumstance that makes our streets inherently unsafe. (I am pro gun, but recognize that folks will move quickly to a lethal level as easily today as anytime in our history, conditioned to that response by the facts above.) Our political leadership, in vivid terms is also a cog in the cycle of violence through their assinine display of horrid coping skills.

In summary, America is a seething hotbed of violence, with each new generation growing up with an ever increasing acceptance of violence as a preferred alternative to the peaceful resolution of differences. It is reflected in the news of the day, in living color, with violent crime being beamed into our homes in real time. One of the answers is parenting, where violence is mitigated by the constant reinforcement of a civil response to vexing issues as superior to any form of violence. Breaking this cycle of violence will not be easy, but does involve modeling an appropriate response when confronted by a challenging circumstance. I, in the course of my profession, have employed the use of deadly force on precious few occasions that I might have resolved by shooting the bad actor……the alternative is always better when possible. Violence is always ugly, always.

SR