Month: July 2021

Somebody on a Facebook page this past week asked where the best fried chicken in Springfield could be found. There were about a million opinions, including several vote getters that we didn’t know existed. We decided to take a ride to Ozark and visit a popular choice, Rosie Jo’s Cafe. Upon entering, we knew providence had smiled upon us. Behold a country cafe, packed at 1:30 on a Friday afternoon, with a generation or two of folks who should know something about fried chicken tearing into massive platters of pan fried chicken, potatoes that were either baked, mashed or pan fried, slaw or a vegetable, Texas Toast and your choice of a beverage. More about the menu in a bit.

We also walked into what seemed like old home week. A gentleman who I don’t remember inquired if I was Steve Johnson, the trooper that writes and another gentleman struck up a conversation with us as we waited to be seated. As luck would have it, the second gentleman, a retired coach named Randy Swearengin and I had much in common besides our age. He was seated at the table next to us. He coached in and around the same conference that I played High School baseball in and we knew many of the same people that he coached and I grew up with. We talked John Brown basketball and education then and now, with Sharon able to more than carry her own about the latter. He was with a brother and his father, a retired minister, who knew what it was like to be raised by a widowed young mother in a time when many of life’s needs were in short supply. He is also facing a huge health issue, but it has not drained one ounce of his coach’s wisdom and enthusiasm. Randy talked about a coach’s role in developing character and confronting the challenges of growing up. He was the epitome of a tough, kind, and skilled High School and college coach, the kind of guy who will get every ounce of what you have and send you home for more. He both new and coached a number of young folks who went on to become troopers and other law enforcement officers. In short, he made me proud to have come from a rural environment where not everyone gets a trophy!

Back to this cafe. I noted on Trip Advisor, after we returned home, that a number of folks recoiled at the idea of waiting for honest to goodness pan fried chicken. Sorry, this isn’t the simulated chicken parts you get in a box. Sharon loves gizzards and livers and the platter, too hot to touch, of these delectables was piled 4 inches high, with all the afore mentioned sides. A chicken dinner is four pieces, any combination, from all white to all dark and go boxes are an absolute necessity. They have all you can eat cat fish and the pies had meringue piled high. Pie not your thing, finish with a cup of soft serve, vanilla or chocolate or both. Read this sentence carefully, without pie, our total check was 21.73, with ice cream. Yes, two beautiful pan fried chicken dinners and soft drinks for a 20 spot and change. To be honest, I don’t know what else is on the menu….my cap was set coming in the door when I saw the chicken coming out of the kitchen.

What a beautiful day. Visiting with an old coach who knew so many of the same people in our lives over 50 years ago who shares your concerns with the latest slant in America. Listening to his father, a product of a long ago Missouri where anything you had, you earned. A man who would never abandon our Lord under any circumstance. Mounds of fried chicken with plenty of pan gravy if that is what you want, and a conversation about both education and character involving Sharon at every turn.

I can guarantee you will love Rosie Jo’s if you like chicken. Bring a little patience and an appetite. You will need them both………and you won’t need to wait until payday!

Have a great weekend!

SR

I am currently not following major league sports, instead finding that appetite fed by collegiate activities that will soon be corrupted by money and endorsements as well. When I read the paper, however, I do note the activities of league leaders in batting, wins, and saves by the bullpen guys. It must be nice to hang a nice tidy statistic on whatever it is that you do for a living. Police officers don’t have that luxury. Here is why…….

This morning I read about a 3 year old child that drowned at a swim beach on Table Rock Lake. The child was left unattended and found floating before rescue attempts ultimately failed. This tragedy reminded me of the good side of policing, a facet that gets little attention because you can’t develop a stat relative to your efforts in educating our “clients” the citizenry we protect. Specifically, it reminded me of my Award winning daughter and her tireless efforts at preventing these tragedies as a member of the Marine Division of the Highway Patrol. Her reputation for fair and aggressive enforcement was overshadowed by her zeal and presence in the classroom, delivering common sense water safety and regulation to thousands of folks over her career. Unfortunately, the results of her efforts can’t be measured, as it is impossible to know how many lives were saved by her enthusiasm and skill.

In our careers we answer hundreds of thousands of questions. Seldom, in the day, did we sit down for a quick lunch and not have an opportunity to educate an inquiring mind. Weather conditions, road conditions, favorable routing and equipment advice as well as legal inquiries were usually the topic. How much of this advice made a quantifiable difference? We’ll never know. In my day we placed a manicured Patrol Car in a fire station on the Optimist Cub’s respect for law day. I loved this opportunity to show kids the workings of a Patrol Car and answer hard questions about why we carry guns and what difference traffic and criminal law make to each of us. The response to these events was rewarding but not quantifiable.

We may never know how much solace we provide after the death of someone in an accident. Our authority and ability to bring some organization to the details surrounding an untimely death is not quantifiable. Being an authority figure in these circumstance requires a great deal of composure and brings some degree of certainty to the circumstances, but it can’t be measured.

I have loaded badly hurt dogs in my Patrol Car and taken them to a vet, seeing to it they were either provided medical attention or saved from their suffering. I have stood next to a carnival pony, tied to a mileage marker on the interstate with a broken leg awaiting a local vet’s arrival to put him down. In both cases, we made an immeasurable difference to one of God’s critters.

Finally, there is the consideration of presence. What difference have we made by simply being at the right place at the right time? Years ago, we lived on an acreage outside of Jefferson City where we were in the process of building our home. I drove out there, in uniform, and climbed a ladder to watch the roofers work for a few minutes. They had no idea this was my house they were working on. After watching for awhile, one of the roofers walked over to me and asked how I knew about him (he was wanted). This assumption being prompted by a trooper sitting down next to him as he worked, for no apparent reason other than to arrest him. I asked where he was wanted, climbed down and confirmed the warrant, cuffed him and took him to jail. He asked how I found him and we both laughed hard when he discovered that I had no idea about him and the house was mine. It is where presence, alone, compelled a surrender. How many times has presence, alone, prevented an untoward event? We’ll never know.

To all the defund idiocy that is still wafting about, you have no idea what we do. It is not a life, as depicted on television, of shootouts and incredible enforcement tactics. While these things do happen, we contribute in thousands of ways that cannot be captured on paper with a number. It is usually after you have left the business that you start thinking about the “other” ways you have contributed to the greater good. We were paid to make a difference that cannot always be captured as a statistic.

Have a great week!

SR

In order to satisfy some important educational objective in my freshman year of college, I took a course titled “Art Appreciation”. It was not a good fit for me, as beauty was not in the medium on a classic piece of art painstakingly cobbled together by one of the masters, rather a goggle eye just removed from a Big Piney root wad or a nice buck that drifted a little too close to my deer rifle de jour on a frosty fall morning. Madonna never caught my eye quite like a cute high school classmate as we loaded up for a movie date under the disapproving eye of her mother. The Masters and I do not agree on the definition of art. Probably never will.

Now we live in a world of perspectives, a fifty cent word for “spin”. I suppose we have politics to blame for never really knowing where the truth is these days, but the spin game is played daily. Consider the following masters of spin.

First up, we have realtors. Now to my realtor friends out there, do not be offended by this unmasking of the tricks of your trade. After all, the final decision needs to be made by the buyer and not based on one of the crazy distorted photos that are so prevalent today. There is wizardry in making a shoe box kitchen, with a hot plate for a stove, look like Emeril Lagasse’s kitchen. Realtors are becoming even more creative with the use of drones where a sink hole looks like a manicured lawn and the sunset shades a house that Herman Munster once rejected. They can make ditches go away and the word “rustic” conjure up thoughts of a lakeside cabin and biscuits just coming out of the oven. They are masters at staging a home, to hide the occasional flaw, with expensive furniture as well as providing direction to bring freshly baked cookies out of the oven as the clients drive up. “Quaint” is another word that suggests beauty and comfort…..in what might have been a chicken coop. No offense intended guys, but you are masters of illusion.

Next we have car salesmen. You might be looking at a 10 year old rust bucket, with the exhaust pipe wired to the bumper, but if you show interest, the salesman can assure you the car is a fine “local commuter” or errand car for around town. They will tell you they offer a “limited” 30 day warranty, point out the glass is all good and a seat cover or two will keep your butt off the springs. By the way, they are also very handy with the camera and hype. A little “surface rust” or “one owner” are handy fill ins for a car that may not make it off the lot under it’s own power. The bottom line is that if you show interest, they know how to maximize your interest. A good salesman only needs your perception to close the deal.

Finally, let’s talk optometrist offices. This week I had a lens surreptitiously fall out of my glasses. After realizing that I was not having a stroke, and finding the lens, I popped into my optometrists office to replace the offending screw. The conversations around me where hilarious. Folks who can’t see very well were attempting to pick out frames for new glasses. Never do this alone, especially if you can barely see the wall the frames are displayed on. People wear strange frames, some colorful, some God awful in shape and size, and some that defy any degree of normalcy, at least to the casual observer. It matters not. If you pick out a pair of chartreuse frames with Turkey vultures on the ear-piece and alligator skin nose pieces, the clerk will tell you how good they look on you. When your glasses arrive at a meeting about ten minutes ahead of you, the wearer, you have a glasses salesperson to thank. Again, never do this alone.

Today, we live as never before in a world of spin. Remember this advice. If you are listening to a person that was elected to his or her position, if you are buying something based on perception as opposed to utility, be careful. I try to choose dealing with folks like my physicians, people who tell it like it is, with warmth and honesty. We have been exceedingly fortunate to have several real estate agents who were ruthlessly honest and we generally buy new vehicles, based on research and expert opinion from sources other than sales staff. The last pair of glasses that I buy will be under the approving eye of Sharon, knowing full well she will not let me get out of there with a pair of clown specs perched on my nose. Today, more than ever before, the truth is elusive.

Have a good weekend.

SR

Recent studies have shown that fully one third of road rage incidents involve guns, either defensively or offensively. It matters little here, because either way is gonna hurt you. In the US, there are, on average, 30 murders each year as a result of a road rage inspired incident. There are estimated to be an additional 12,600 reportable injuries annually attributed to rage. It is also estimated that as many as two thirds of all fatal accidents involve aggressive driving, as defined above. Not surprisingly, teenage males lead in the rage statistics but few of us are totally immune. Screaming at another motorist through your steering wheel is a symptom of our vulnerability and a prominent middle finger the ultimate indication of our displeasure. Screaming will address the adrenaline rush, the middle finger will get you shot or run off the road. Hear me out here.

A refresher on the indications of road rage is hardly needed for my readers. It is simple really, any movement made in traffic contrary to existing traffic law qualifies you as a slob driver or rage seized menace. Traffic enforcement is down in America. Covid has taken it’s toll with fewer officers during the pandemic willing to share space and air with folks who might be afflicted. Understandable. This phenomenon has also resulted in a newer generation of drivers who have little fear of police interference in their quest for notoriety. Statistics suggest that 2 out of every 3 fatal accidents involve rage or aggressive driving. Amazingly, 2% of road rage incidents result in one of the drivers attempting to run the other off the road.

Another contributing factor to road rage is the horn. Who hasn’t sat through a light change behind a possessed idiot feverishly manipulating their cell phone? When you are in that position, do you offer a courtesy beep on the horn or do you smash the horn button flat until your battery dies? Where you are when you offer the horn matters. In Dallas or St. Louis there is a certain horn etiquette that is expected and followed. I suspect the etiquette is far different in Portland or New York. Too long on a horn will certainly elicit an un-holstered middle finger accompanied by the wire to your horn being wrapped around your throat. You could, as an alternative, be shot or your car set on fire.

Okay, here is my point. Rethink your aggressive driving tendencies. There are about 393 million firearms in America, every car has a horn and we learn at the age of five what the middle finger means. Listen to this admonition from a retired traffic cop; courtesy taps are okay, the driver next to you may be an armed sociopath, and keep the damned finger holstered and in your lap. Learn to scream without moving your lips and have a nice calming cocktail when you hit the door at home. It takes two of you to create a rage incident, and neither one of you will remember it two days later.

When you get right down to it, road rage is really stupid…..on either side of the transgression. Vehicles cost a lot and all lives matter!

Have a great week!

SR

In the news today, The US Air Force has announced new standards for physical fitness, presumably to accommodate the diversified nature of today’s young airmen and women. It seems the incoming folks can walk, as opposed to run, a mile and a half with other changes such as a planks rather than pushups when demonstrating their physical prowess. Should we be concerned? Hell yes, we absolutely should.

Two times in my lifetime I was required to meet a minimum physical standard necessary to fulfilling the role I was assuming. The first time was in Ft. Polk, Louisiana in the months of July and August, 1969, and the second was upon entering the Missouri State Highway Patrol training academy in July of 1972. In each case my well being was in the hands of folks who understood that preparation to fight a jungle war in Vietnam or a mean drunk on a county road somewhere in the hinterland would require a degree of conditioning exceeding a leisurely walk down a country road or the ability to hold a modified pushup position for a minute or two. Let me explain.

After a rough flight on a Trans Texas Airline puddle jumper, I arrived at scenic Ft. Polk at 1:30 AM. We had not slept since being sworn into the US Army in Kansas City around noon the day preceding. We were assured we had little value as human beings and ushered off to a building that was reminiscent of a cell block in a Southern prison farm. This was the beginning of our transformation from carefree high schoolers to a human being ready to fight for his life in Southeast Asia. The lynch pin in this transformation was one Domonick Petrarca, the Senior Drill Instructor. Sgt. Petrarca hailed from the streets of New Jersey and was as mean as a snake. He was also very effective and after 8 weeks, we had learned the basics of soldiering. Those veterans reading this know what I mean when I say Petrarca could transition from a butt stroke to a parry forward in a millisecond. He was effective and you either left the place conditioned and ready to fight or you got to start over, an experience sanctioned in hell.

My second experience was in the Highway Patrol Academy. This institution has produced many semi legendary physical training officers, and we soon became acquainted with our mentor, Corporal Paul Corbin (later Captain Corbin) who saw to it that every graduating recruit met a rather ambitious physical training standard. We soon realized that conditioning and maintaining control of society’s sociopaths and aberrant souls would, more than occasionally, require strength, stamina and resolve. Police work, like combat, is not for the faint of heart. Although the techniques taught were geared to a civil environment, both occupations require a certain and absolute degree of conditioning.

Back to the beginning. I emphatically disagree with the loosening of standards that seems to be the order of the day in occupations where well conditioned men and women are expected to win in a confrontation. I also am at odds with those who somehow believe that a social worker can talk him or herself through a confrontation with a mean drunk or sociopath bent on destruction. There really was a day, folks, when spitting on a police officer would see you launched right out of your brand new looted Nikes. Respect is gone because we no longer expect respect. Sad, really.

Thank you to my two personal mentors, who knew full well what I didn’t know. The number of really mean or otherwise societally challenged people is increasing and we are relaxing rather than enhancing the standards for confronting and dealing with these people. Our military has come to the point where it’s male members are taught how difficult it is to walk in high heels and how horrible it is to be in a minority or protected class where white supremacy reigns supreme. Believe me when I tell you when you are in a fight for your life, the color of the participants makes no difference, whereas your degree of conditioning and stamina mean everything. Don’t pray for a lighter load, instead pray for a stronger back.

This is one time where old school is best.

Have a great 4th of July holiday!

SR