Author: srj641

This story is about twisted revenge. It involves license offices, which may be disturbing to some people.

I have a history with the inefficiency of license offices, not pretty but colorful. You go there to be disrespected, scorned and challenged by clerks who are apparently recent graduates of a 30 minute training session that earns you a degree in advanced provocation. If I live long enough, I will see a Governor appoint a Director of Revenue not as a political favor but instead to increase efficiency and a sense of public service. Hear me out.

Yesterday, I strolled into a local fee office to renew my Real ID driver’s license. I needed two items that displayed my home address and either the post card from Revenue or my still valid driver’s license. See the irony here? The actual license or the post card is one form of ID and then something else, but you can’t use both. Separately, they are fine, together not so much. I felt the urge for a shot of Irish Whiskey beginning to overtake my sense of fair play. Long story short, I had my registration certificate, and half a dozen other items with my home address, but not the magic document. I left, drove home and cleaned out my files grabbing a handful of documents. I was civil but pointed when exiting the office, and thought I had better try another location. At location #2 I breezed into a room full of people waiting with their number in hand, obtained my number and sat down. I quickly surmised I was number 11 in line for the single clerk working the driver’s license folks. Cue a second shot of Shanky’s Irish Whiskey. The clerk would have rather been in hell than working his/her job ( I’m pretty good at sexing folks, but here had no clue). I talked a bit with a nice couple who seemed to have been waiting for half a day, decided I was not going to wait and stood to leave. A second Gentleman, who had been home twice for documents, was waiting to obtain a title for a truck. The first gentleman stopped me and offered me a ticket that would make me second in line for the clerk. I was puzzled. He told me he always takes two tickets and offers one to pregnant ladies or folks who were exasperated. He had me nailed, as exasperation was written all over my face. (It is why I am not a poker player, my emotion is always on display). I took the damned number, was called up next after them, and made the transaction. The clerk had little interest in my supporting documents and suggested the card and license was really what told the story.

Situational reasoning skill set in. There were countless folks who had been cooling their heels for the better part of an hour, in walks this jean clad old man, barely sits down and is already on his way. As I walked out, I felt the stares, and could hear the murmurs of “how in the hell did he do that” rippling through the crowd. I became a little unhinged when I heard a lady suggest that I must be a local politician. That hurt as I have never been so scorned or accused. Somehow, I ran the gauntlet and made it out alive.

My original number was 403 and providence stepped in and reduced it to 392. After all, I had spent the better part of the day working to renew a license that I went through hell to get in the first place after my birth certificate had been rejected by another office who had never seen one that looked like it (I was born in Japan, US parents, a grave misfortune in the birth certificate world) That fiasco required a call to my Representative, who called the Director of Revenue, who then called the fee office and my license was issued.

License offices are the subject of much ridicule and the basis for thousands of comedic skits every day. I am not proud of jumping the line…..but, in my defense, had no whiskey or a Rx to help me through the experience. My final word…..the detached, bored, irritated, challenging reputation that license offices endure are…….well, deserved in many circumstances. The rules that Revenue promulgate defy logic but they are the only game in town. Finally, the two ticket trick is humorous….and has been welcomed by pregnant ladies and now, an old man tired of bureaucracy. Would you take the ticket……? 😉

Have a great week!

SR

A couple of old men, Taz and SR, manned up to help the Salvation Army on Black Friday this year, only my second experience, ever, venturing out among the hordes of shoppers on this busiest shopping day of the year. We were under the supervision of Sharon who provided her bell ringing expertise and unique ability to relate to the little shoppers as they proudly ante-upped for the benefit of the less fortunate. How was it, you ask?

It was cold, with a sharp north wind to keep folks on the move. Generally, there were slightly fewer contributors, with significantly larger donations this year. We suspect the time of day, 9:00 AM, may have had something to do with the response of folks, who reminded me of the crushing crowds at a State Fair concert many years ago. Folks were on their best behavior and seasons greetings flowed like warm maple syrup. The demographics of our contributors was interesting with folks who appeared to be less economically advantaged again outspending the Lexus crowd significantly. I have never seen such numbers of folks shopping, with the unbelievable crowd augmented by bus load after bus load of Canadians debarking and entering the fray.

Tazzy was again a hit, flirting with the ladies with wild abandon. Note to bachelors who are enjoying little success on the dating scene; get a yellow Lab, put a cute bib on him, and sharpen your date book pencil. Taz is gold. I am guessing the patrons at a huge outdoor sports store would tend to love dogs, never more obvious, as evidenced by Tazzy’s popularity. All the while, Tazzy’s dad developed an even deeper appreciation for the Lycra pant trend this year…….wow.

Mr. Morris was prepared. His store was wonderfully staffed with a number of enticing offers on tables set up in the wider aisles. While there were a good number of people who came for the experience, there were also cartloads of merchandise being expertly wheeled through the store and lot. We also noted that folks with armloads of goods still took the time to visit with the Johnson crew and contribute.

This was our third year behind the bell and, God willing, we will be back at it next year. The generosity of Americans, living through the worst inflationary cycle in decades, is a beautiful thing. We intend to work Black Friday again next year, as the crowds are fun, the atmosphere festive, and the desire to help folks out never more evident. For us, being a bell ringer is not an obligation or chore rather it is a super rewarding experience. The Thanksgiving/ Christmas cycle is off to a great start and Bass Pro is a wonderful venue if you like to people watch and mingle among folks who share your enthusiasm for the great outdoors.

A final note. To those wondering, I have a feeling Mr. Morris covered his expenses yesterday. In fact, I would be willing to guarantee it!

Have a great week!

SR

The end of a remarkable streak of decent fall weather is upon us. The weather prognosticators are saying it is going to be cold and wet next week, which is a little late this year. It is to be expected as is the beginning of the cold and flu season which, according to the experts, is off to a booming start about a month earlier than usual. When you are 30 something, this is hardly newsworthy. When you are 70 something you tend to pay closer attention as these seasonal afflictions can be quite serious. I’m in the latter group and a trip to a local food trough, the Golden Corral, prompted a little research into the business of getting sick. It wasn’t pretty.

Given my extensive medical training (none) and generally fearless attitude (dangerous) I gave thought to just where these pathogens lie in wait. I have concluded that if you are interested in getting a good case of flu or snot slinging episode of the common cold, there are three places where this result can be all but guaranteed. I am likely turning into a germaphobe, but as they say, my work on earth ain’t done yet. I am not about to get into the discussion relative to vaccines, but in this house we religiously take the annual flu shots as well as pneumococcus vaccine. The only comment about Covid I am comfortable making is that it remains America’s 3rd leading cause of death, with old folks leading the charge.

First up on my short list of pathogen palaces are gas pump handles. Everyone touches them and gasoline is not on the list of effective antibiotics, contrary to common misconception. Pump handles are just plain nasty and folks have to buy gas, sick or well. I glove up when pumping gasoline and diesel, more to combat dragging the scent of the stuff into my vehicle than as a antimicrobial tactic. Many times I (and you) have seen folks (men particularly) gag and cough up a wad of God only knows what and spit on what-ever is handy at a pump island. Pumping gas and handling the filthy wooden handles of washer squeegees is a good way to become intimate with the latest flu bug or rhinovirus crawling around.

Next up are shopping cart handles. Another great place to share microbes with your sick neighbor. I suppose I am viewed as a fussy old reprobate when I seize the opportunity to use the ever present antiseptic wipes that give you a fighting chance against the coughing and gagging human Petri dish that just got through wiping his/her secretions on the handle. Remember, sick people have to eat, so they share their misery with the next cart handler out of necessity. A recent study concluded that 70+ percent of cart handles are contaminated with E.Coli, salmonella and campylobacter microbes as well as flu and virus pathogens, de-jour. Closely behind the carts are the touch screens we have been accustomed to at self checkouts. The danger here is apparent. Convenience for you and disease causing microbes.

Finally on my less than inclusive list of pathogen palaces is the neighborhood buffet, particularly the big eateries like the Golden Corral we patronized yesterday. The prices here are such that it is a popular place to showcase our gluttonous inclinations while we share microbes with the hundreds of like minded folks who seek nutrition at a bargain price. When you grab the spoon in the vat of brown beans, you are grabbing the resident microbes of that little old man, who is alternately blowing his nose and wiping his hands on his opposite sleeve. I don’t want to talk about what other places this guy has touched before transferring his collection of antibiotic resistant bugs to that handle where they have been incubating in the warm vapors of the steam table.

By now you get the picture. There are 7 states where the flu is in full bloom, primarily across the southeast, and the real experts are predicting a robust season for funeral directors when this stuff migrates to the rest of the country. In closing I should mention the 6 READILY available antibiotics that stand between you and misery. They are soap and water, bleach, hydrogen peroxide, heat, steam and alcohol. Surprisingly, gargling with hot salt water has shown at least marginal effectiveness against microbes. Be kind, be thoughtful and be defensive when frequenting one of the pathogen palaces mentioned in this article. I love my readers and would hate to see you succumb to a bug that you could have easily defensed against with a little extra effort. To do otherwise is to flirt with misery or, God forbid, the local mortuary staff at the “caring and dignity” shop down the street.

Have a great week!

Veterans Day provides the perfect opportunity to catch you up on the state of affairs in the America that you fought and bled for. Please pass my warmest regards to the other veterans in your company in the Holy Valhalla that you call home. Without yours and the others tremendous sacrifice, I would not be providing this sit-rep.

We are struggling a bit, sir. The Navy, Army and Air Force are falling dramatically short of their recruiting goals with the Marine Corps just meeting theirs, although they are falling short of officers to lead them. I could offer an indictment of the nations youth but that is a small part of the problem. We do not enjoy the service oriented society we once coveted and owned. As you know sir, the service is a little short on instant gratification, thus fails to attract folks who would rather sit back and enjoy a government that is hell bent on providing them with every need up to and including a free education.

I recall your absolute devotion to the rule of law and belief in the chain of command. You trusted your leadership and civilian oversight to provide a clear mission and the ability to carry it out. Given your concerns with the prosecution of your last war, Vietnam, you would be appalled at the feckless state of affairs now, with a commander in chief who utters “don’t” to our enemies and then lets them shell our troops at will with precious little response. Simply put, our military, still the best in the world, enjoys a timid reputation and general lack of respect from our enemies, who are banding together with an eye toward our ultimate destruction. You set the table, Colonel, our government today isn’t filling the plates.

I recall sir, seeing you actually cry when President Kennedy was shot down in Dallas, given his devotion to our military, in particular your old airborne and special ops units. Our President today has little regard for our troops and airmen, evidenced by his utter disregard for them in Afghanistan, and reluctance to engage an enemy that hurls rockets and artillery at our troops in the Middle East.

Israel is under siege. Our streets and campuses are filled with folks who think the Israelis should roll over and not respond to the butchery of a sect of folks bent on their destruction. The superb Israeli Army is on the move with small unit tactics in a hellish environment, seeking out the Hamas subhuman elements and destroying them on sight. This sir was the essence of your very being. Commanders like you, who led from the front and stopped only when the enemy was reduced to a crimson smear on the landscape are at work, but not enjoying the support of an American youth who has absolutely no concept of fighting and dying for their country.

So it is in the early winter of 2023. Your family misses you but you sir, would not enjoy the state of affairs that exists today. My prayer is that you continue to welcome the Americans who have fought, are fighting and will continue to fight for the preservation of a great nation. Rally your heavenly troops Colonel, enjoy a cup of mess hall coffee and rest assured that we still revere our veterans, perhaps more so today than when we faced an earlier segment of society that cursed our return from yours and my last war. Soon enough, I’ll join you in Valhalla, where our concerns will melt as our military brethren remember the good times and great battlefield victories. Good day, Colonel and God Bless.

Have a great week.

SR

This is a time of international melding, a self coined term that describes the shift to technologies that reflect a product or culture that is no longer uniquely American in origin. The world stage dominates the news and, for me, it is time to come home and talk about things that are not adulterated by the international veneer that seems to coat much of our landscape. One such iconic consideration is the Harley Davidson motorcycle, as American as it gets.

There is risk in life. Smart, old folks at some point in life began trading risk for longevity, usually as a result of declining physical and, sometimes, mental capability. For me, the precise date of this recognition occurred on Friday, May 24, 2019, when I handed the keys to a beautiful Harley Davidson Street Glide to it’s new owner in the Steak & Shake parking lot in Lebanon, Missouri. It marked the end of my days of throwing around a behemoth of a motorcycle in parking lots and matching wits with our increasingly careless motoring public. It has occurred to me that I also dispensed with the single most American possession that I owned, a Harley Davidson motorcycle.

Harley Davidson’s are manufactured in America, period. They enjoy a unique sound, feel and look that is often challenged but has never been surpassed. They are built by American craftsmen and women in spotless factories in places like Milwaukee, Wi. and York, Pa. I toured the York operation and came away with a feeling of awe. There was pride evident at every station in the production process. One must remember this is a motorcycle design that has been around a long time, dated in some respects but modernized in many others. Harley has seen hard times, but under the leadership of a German born and trained CEO, Jochen Zeitz, has awakened, realizing greater margins and profitability from fewer total sales. A huge challenge is the rising age of riders and difficulty attracting a younger and more diverse genre. Their foray into the electric motorcycle business was a short one, with the Livewire project spun off into a mostly owned subsidiary. It did not take Harley long to realize the shortcomings of battery powered motorcycles, unlike the automobile industry that is losing billions chasing this under ripe, politically driven technology. The challenge that Harley faces is the ability to stay relevant without losing authenticity. That folks, is no small challenge.

One of the endearing aspects of Harley ownership is the infinite customization potential of each machine. Harleys are a canvass, and the pride stricken owner can and often does make the bike totally unique. There isn’t much you can do to a Japanese or German bike, evidenced by their thin catalogs as compared to a Harley where the catalog is, literally, two inches thick. Harley has also embraced the mantra of “United we ride and not divided we ride”, their challenge to the social polarization we are currently being swallowed by.

My closing summation here is this. Harley Davidson motorcycles are generally big, loud and meticulously built by craftsman who are now part owners of the company. They are not adulterated by foreign (major) components, built entirely in America and reek of leather, steel, oil and gas. They announce their presence with a patented sound and hormone driven panache’ that has not been emulated. When you walk that fine line between risk and the reward of the open road on two wheels, they are indeed a uniquely American way to do it. I was a part of this culture at one time, and am better for the experience. Long live Harley Davidson.

Have a great week!

SR

I shudder every time a madman goes on a killing binge. First, I am overtaken with a profound sadness for the victims and their families. Then like so many of us, I begin counting the days until the pundits roar out of their all knowing alters and begin the assault on the firearm as the reason such carnage happens. As much as I wish it was not true, each of these occurrences weakens our hold on the 2d Amendment, providing another launch pad to scream for additional restrictions on guns by folks who know nothing about armed defense and self preservation in the face of other folks who are no longer rational and slipping into the realm of sociopathic behavior. I am not writing today to discourage the ownership of firearms, instead to bring the reader up to date on the realities of walking out the front door carrying a concealed firearm. Keep this posting, I pray your don’t need the information, but if you do, it will become vital. I have tackled this subject before, however; the issue is evolving and not to the advantage of the armed citizen.

One of America’s greatest authorities on armed encounters was a Marine Corps Colonel by the name of Jeff Cooper. Among his many pearls of wisdom was this thought,

“The purpose of the pistol is to stop a fight that somebody else started, almost always at very short range”.

Folks a handgun is useless in a situation like the shooting in Maine, unless you happen to find yourself suddenly standing directly behind the shooter within a very few feet, having already steeled yourself to place a bullet in the back of his head. It is that simple and leads to the axiom that you need to be a master of avoidance. Along these same lines it helps exponentially if you understand the concept of de-escalation and have a basic understanding of social dynamics and body language. These are critical skills in the police profession but can be learned by the armed citizen as well.

I am a reader of the “American Rifleman” a periodical published by the NRA. They devote a section of this magazine to anecdotal incidents where armed citizens prevail in confrontations. I have noticed that an increasing number of these descriptions end with a sentence stating the armed citizen is not expected to be charged in the incident. Why is this? Because when you shoot someone, even in the cleanest of circumstances, your actions are going to be reviewed by law enforcement and today’s charging attorneys with an eye to your culpability, even if it appears you have none.

In today’s environment , if you shoot someone, you need to zip your lip and immediately contact a good defense attorney. Do not pontificate, not to the 911 operator, not to the police, not to your family member in the presence of the officers and others. I repeat, you must make the second call, after notifying law enforcement of the event, to an attorney. You MUST resist the urge to prattle on, to the police, to EMS, to 911 folks, to anyone until after you are under the influence of a good attorney. Remember, someone has been shot and you have a gun. Do not be a party to your own lynching by running your mouth like a clatter-bone in a goose’s neck. Until you are cleared by charging authorities you are a suspect.

Carry responsibly, never openly. Carry a reasonable firearm, not a flashy “big Iron”. Document your training and range time and never consume alcohol when carrying.

Finally, to those just entering the world of armed self protection I offer another thought from Col. Cooper,

“Owning a handgun doesn’t make you armed any more than owning a guitar makes you a musician”

Carrying today is a complex business that extends far beyond a box of ammo on the local range and a comfortable holster. Believe it……

Have a great week,

SR

We have come a long way. My first firearm was a single shot .22 rifle that I bought from a fellow food transfer and packaging specialist (carry out boy at a food store) in a parking lot transaction. It was in rough condition but a five spot would not buy much, even in 1966. I took the old rifle home, disassembled it and went to work spiffing it up. The stock was made of a mystery wood that closely resemble pine after the walnut stain was removed and the “surface rust” hid any number of pits and deep erosion. The little rifle shot straight enough to gather plenty of squirrels for the pan and a neat, season end collection of salted tails sold to a lure manufacturer to make buck-tail spin baits.

My fishing equipment was comprised of a Garcia Conolon rod and a prized Mitchell 300 reel with enough terminal tackle to fill an old tin box with a single tray. It worked fine, bringing a good number of blue gill and an occasional channel cat to the table. I will never lose my love of rods and guns, but the landscape has changed. Successful couples must have secrets. Before harping on the sanctity of marriage and full disclosure, my secrets involve what is behind the door to the gun safe and hidden away in the lockers on a bass boat. It is wise to keep your wife out of the safe and away from all those dangerous treble hooks and toxic bait sprays hidden from view in the rod lockers. Downsizing from a 21’ bass boat to a 12’ kayak was challenge enough, but the inevitable assembly of pounds of tackle and over 20 rods in one place was traumatic. It is hard to explain to anyone who has not been rabidly afflicted with the urge to match wits with a piscatorial foe or wiley grey squirrel. In the photo accompanying this piece, an astute observer will note 3 rods that have never been used and many more that have seen limited duty. Shameful comes to mind. I held a garage sale this past year in an attempt to re-home a number of rods, reels and lures, but failed in this retail exercise. Folks would rather buy new stuff, colorfully assembled in China, than rods and reels of US origin, decidedly better quality, but not as cheap, by a long shot.

I tried to explain that all hobbies have expense, relying on my perceptions of golf as an example. I asked her if she had ever priced golf balls, considered the vast array of clubs, bags, shoes, green fees, nifty hats, cart rentals, etc. This ploy was ineffective. I explained that golf club designs were on upward trajectory with synthetic shafts and exotic alloy heads and such, requiring constant rotation in the duffers arsenal. Her response was to the point. You can’t afford to add golf to your list of pursuits. The lady has a point. Best to stick to fishing and gather a little red meat for the slow cooker.

I’ll end this piece with advice for those that are similarly afflicted with a passion for hunting and fishing. Don’t let her near your gun safe. Secret your stores of ammunition in a number of different locations lest she see the myriad boxes of ammo that will go to your heirs for disposition. Hide your rods and reels in various locations, the tool shed, garage or buried in a locker on the boat. Never allow your baits, spools of line and other assorted tackle come to rest in a single location. When she puts it all together, something is going to get painted, furniture is going to be replaced, new kitchen gadgets are going to appear and she will begin dropping hints about the miles on her car. All embarrassingly practical and impossible to defend against. Secrets are okay, but when the lid comes off, and it will, be ready. Your wallet is going to take a hit and there isn’t one damned thing you can do about it! It is why we love them…….they will level the playing field, trust me.

Have a great week!

SR

Monday through Friday, with rare exception, I drive over to the Meyer Center, an orthopedic facility affiliated with Cox Hospital and spend the first hour or so of the day in their excellent gym. It has taken awhile to morph into a regular gym participant, which is a pretty good way for a foodie to burn calories and fight the muscle loss that challenges all older people. One of the many advantages of life in a urban environment is a plethora of restaurants and shops delivering table fare of all descriptions. My route to the gym takes me past one such wonderful outlet known for gastronomical excellence, the Supreme Bakery, located across and slightly north of the Meyer Center where it rests in seclusion in the middle of a strip mall along National Avenue. Trust me when I suggest patronizing this bakery. You will thank me later.

First, I should explain the title of this piece, a line borrowed from the Lord’s Prayer, our Christian mantra. I am sure that Jesus, the original author of the prayer, as described in the Gospel of Mathew, had in mind a number of temptations to be avoided, and probably a good bakery wasn’t one of them. It is worth noting, however; the Bible also teaches us to honor our bodies, and if you hang around the Supreme Bakery scarfing up their incredible array of confections, cakes, cookies, pies, fritters and tarts, you will not be honoring your body. Their offerings are as addictive as anything known to man, that is if you enjoy sweets in any form. They present a temptation every time I drive by them evidenced by my weak attempts to ignore their presence save an occasional drop in for a Kringle, a favorite of both Sharon and I. This morning I popped in and picked up one of their signature offerings, a truly wonderful peach and creme cheese Kringle. For the uninitiated, a Kringle is made of some 39 layers of dough and filled with any number of delectable fruits, and/or nuts and cheeses. In every sense of the word, their Kringles are decadent temptations. With all due respect, a Supreme Kringle will never be confused with a day old Wal-Mart doughnut, ever.

If you have occasion to visit our fair city, and manage to survive our ill mannered drivers along this busy corridor serving the medical mile, swing in and visit the ladies in their crisp white bakers uniforms and peruse the several cases of offerings that rival those of any city in America. They smile broadly at new customers, enjoying the confusion that accompanies the selection process from a huge assortment of fresh baked goods. If you are sufficiently confused, opt for a Kringle, but only if there is at least two of you to share these big guys. A cup of good coffee is an absolute necessity when enjoying this treat. They are located at 3314 S. National, and enjoy a brisk morning trade, with lot’s of folks dropping in who are medical providers of one sort or another, and like me, should know better. Too much sugar? You bet….but oh so good!

Have a great week!

SR

I make no apologies for what today is called a “point of origin”. I was the son of a company grade mustang officer and a sharecroppers daughter, both from the South Carolina low country. I was raised to appreciate nature, taught to handle a sporting firearm safely and introduced to fishing at a very early age. Our tackle in those days, 60 years ago, consisted of a couple of long shanked hooks, a few split shot and a cane pole, all procured at a local shop that sold crickets for a penny apiece. The best of the cane poles were varnished and one selected just the right one with the care that today’s angler bestows on the finest rods made from exotic epoxy’s and synthetic materials. In a sense, I am returning home to enjoy the excitement of a day on the river as in my first days as a fisherman. Reconnecting with one’s past holds the promise of high adventure.

Since those early days, I have owned and fished from a selection of boats, from aluminum Jon boats to sleek and very expensive full dress Ranger bass boats. With fearless resolve I have blasted up and down the big lakes in Missouri including the tree filled Truman Reservoir that has claimed an untold number of lower units on boats piloted by folks who lacked the prerequisite experience to master this lake. Often the boat riding superseded the fishing, with occasional boat races thrown in for good measure. Age is slowing me down, and the expense of owning and maintaining today’s Uber fast bass boats stretches credibility. In today’s economy, it is hard to justify a boat that costs house prices, and that burns 4 dollar gas at an alarming rate…at least on the income of a teacher and trooper who are both getting long in the tooth. This summer has seen us become reacquainted with the Missouri rivers we love, sitting on a kayak. This conveyance is not unlike the carefully handmade, one man boats I enjoyed in Carolina, catching a mess of “bream” and dropping them into a live well built into the bottom of the boat. I don’t remember ever seeing alligators, but vividly recall snakes as thick as your arm, gliding by as they monitored our intrusion into their kingdom, a backwater swamp.

I own three kayaks, an inflatable guaranteeing portability and two plastic marvels, one of which I took delivery of yesterday. In a concession to technology, this boat is equipped with sonar, a blue tooth controlled trolling motor, and a 360 degree swiveling seat. It is a mini bass boat in a lot of respects, but can still be managed with a kayak paddle when not pulling a long eddy into the wind, where the drop down, lithium powered troller save a marginal back and arthritic hands. The primary means of propulsion is the river current, as it should be, however, if one chooses his launch location carefully, you could easily snatch a crappie or two out of one of our reservoirs. My daughter, who has forgotten more about boats than I ever knew, reintroduced us to the joys of fishing from a one man conveyance, a simple and profound pleasure. If you even think you might enjoy nature from a few inches above the water, slip down to one of our float streams, rent a kayak or canoe, and spend a few hours communing with our greatest treasures, our clear Ozark streams.

Today’s float boats (kayaks in this case) are mostly made from roto-molded plastic, are virtually indestructible and relatively light. They can be fast and tippy or slower and stable, you will have to find your own sweet spot. My latest acquisition will easily handle a 600 pound load, with plenty of room for Tazzy to provide his guide service and observational skills. You won’t have 6 or 8 rods arrayed on the deck as in the old Champion, nor will you need them. If you still have a competitive nature, there are a number of Kayak tournament trails that you can complete in. At my age, competitive fishing holds little interest, replaced with a deep appreciation of the water I am on. The transition from high powered bass rigs to a one man boat has been a blast and is perfectly suited to a man whose blue flame has been extinguished by Father Time.

Have a great week!

SR

Insurance companies and drug manufacturers exist in an inflation proof world. When times get tough, they raise prices and there is little you can do about it beyond trying to stay healthy and eliminate hazards around your home and vehicles. Like many folks, every two years or so, we assess our current expenditures with an eye toward fiscal responsibility and select quality insurers who offer a more competitive rate. This was our year and we selected a nationally recognized insurer and began our association with them. They asked if we would place one of those little plastic electronic devices in each of our cars that reports on our driving habits, a consideration that could result in an additional and substantial reduction in premiums, already very competitive. We said yes. After all, if you can’t count on a retired state patrol officer and his primary school administrator to drive properly, then who can you trust? Now the fun begins!

Each trip behind the wheel produces a report card that assess your skills. Speed, cornering, braking, acceleration and cell phone use are closely monitored and your grade is produced on a 100 point scale. I am amazed at the accuracy of this little white demon. We are doing very well, but the demon doesn’t like how I corner, and even hands free cell phone use can be a problem. Along with your score, the company produces a empirical dollar amount your next premium will be reduced if your grades are good enough. Has it changed our habits much? Yep, I’ll explain.

In todays urban traffic pattern, a careful and compliant driver is either going to get his butt run over or suffer a middle finger rebuke. I have always stopped at stop signs, which is not popular with following traffic and speed limits today are merely advisory in nature, with folks routinely busting the limits for their “convenience”. The demon will give you 8 mph over before sending you to the principal’s office. The smoothness of your stops is assessed, and if you are in the habit of hard braking just before impact with the car ahead of you….the principal’s office again. Ms. Sharon brakes hard (there is just so much her trooper husband can do). She is, however, adapting. The demon does not like my cornering, the precise reason I drive a European car renowned for it’s cornering ability. It wants me to corner as if Ms. Daisy is enjoying her tea in the back seat as I drive around. In Springfield, when negotiating a right turn on yield at an intersection, you had better be hauling (butt) when you make the turn or you’ll become a grill ornament on the front of a Lexus piloted by a soccer mom late for work. So it goes when you hand your conscience over to an insurance company for evaluation.

Here is my take on the experience so far. The best driver examiner that I have ever known was Highway Patrol Senior Chief Examiner Dale Shikles who I was associated with back in the day. He presided on one of the biggest days in the life of new driver’s who were about to wet themselves making the examiner happy during their drivers’ license test. The guy could measure inches from his position in the right front as you tried to squeeze your car into a parallel parking space and could feel a tenth of a mile an hour in the seat of his pants as you approached the speed limit. We have named the demon on our windshield “Shikles” in Dale’s honor. We actually like the challenge. Where, in life, can you see a financial reward for consistently obeying the law and driving reasonably?

So far, it is all good, however, I haven’t recently been challenged by a 18 year old in his mom’s Taurus who thinks I am just another old man in a Beemer. I am thinking that Shikles won’t care that once upon a time, I drove like a bat out of hell, catching folks who thought little of traffic law. I’m old but not dead behind the wheel!

Have a great week!

SR