Author: srj641

Bob was emphatic.  Grab your morning cup of coffee and be at my place at 5:00 a.m., and we’ll be on our way.  He said it looks to be a perfect morning with just enough wind for the dog to catch a scent and a light frost.  “We should get in them”, he said with his clinched cigar grin. I jumped at the opportunity to enjoy a quail hunt in north Missouri with my early mentor and arrived on time.  We hopped in Bob’s Silverado and turned onto M-13 for the drive to the Bethany area, where his family farm awaited us.  

Money was tight in those days, and my bird gun was a newer 870 Remington, improved cylinder 12 gauge.  It may as well have been an engraved Perrazi, replete with knurled Italian walnut.  I was careful with the shotgun, keeping it cased until the dog was out and the hunt began.  When I arrived at Bob’s house, he instructed me to throw my shotgun in the bed of the truck, behind the dog box, and asked if I needed a coffee refill.  I accepted his offer and began nursing the strongest cup of black coffee I have ever drank.  I did not see Bob’s shotgun in the back of the truck, but was not concerned.  The bed was not the only place in the big Silverado to secrete a shotgun.  The conversation was as expected.  The sage old Zone Sergeant and his eager scribe engaged in banter about the things that were important in that day.  I became familiar with the differences between a Homelite and Poulan chainsaw, important as I was considering the Poulan’s price advantage.  “Poulan is a pulp wood chainsaw”, muttered Bob, “real good on pine in the Mississippi swamps, won’t last on Missouri hardwood”. We talked about patrol cars, and our affable and tough circuit judge, Roger Slaughter.  We talked at length about the Patrol, but I don’t recall the specifics of that conversation.  Bob was a country philosopher and a keen judge of people, you could take him to the bank when he talked about the personalities in Lafayette County, on both sides of the law.  Understanding people was his strength. 

We finally arrived at “the farm” and I immediately began sizing up the ditches and fence rows, taking judicial notice of a couple of particularly menacing, hulking Angus bulls that were eyeing us with suspicion.  We exited the truck and turned the dog out as Bob retrieved his shotgun, a battered old 12 gauge, Browning Automatic.  I was stunned to learn that I had been resting my feet on the shotgun as it was in the floorboard of the truck, under a half dozen paper feed sacks!  Bob blew the dust and grit off the shotgun and fed it three loads of 7 1/2’s.   He was grinning broadly as I carefully uncased the 870 and fed it.  I was grinning too, there was nothing to be said!

We hadn’t gone far when his long legged pointer locked solid at the edge of a ditch.  Bob sent me in to flush and I hadn’t taken ten steps when a nice covey exploded, the birds were jittery and in a hurry to avoid us.  Concentrating on a single bird when twenty are up is a skill that only good wing shooters have, but somehow I was able to focus and knock a rooster down.  The bird elected to glide a bit, with a leg down, before falling into the pasture where the aforementioned bulls were stationed. Nice.  Bob assured me the bulls were gentle and I slipped carefully under the electric strand that served as their temporary fence.  I walked gingerly over, picked the bird up and the show began.  One of the bulls took exception to me, my orange vest and/or attitude and decided that I would be fun to trample (I am guessing here on the bull’s intent).  A quick calculation suggested the electric fence was my best option and the race was on.  I made it to the fence with no time for the low crawl negotiation that got me into the bull’s paddock, and attempted to gingerly step over the strand. I would have been better off taking my chances with the bull.  I have never seen Bob laugh as hard as he was laughing as I was unceremoniously being electrocuted by the strand that I was straddling. My shotgun received it’s first scratches and my leg, as I write, is twitching just a little as I recall my brush with death.  Bob and his venerable old Browning had scored a clean double on the covey rise, both birds dropping in the lane adjacent to the ditch.  Bob was very measured in his gait but could flat out shoot.  We ended the day with 10 or so birds between us, enjoyed lunch at an eatery that has long since escaped my mind, and started back just before dark.  It was a tremendous day shared between two men with common interests who were both living the life we wanted to.  

It was our only hunt.  The Highway Patrol, in those days, was a cruel mistress.  We did not have the Fair Labor Standards Act to protect us from the inevitable overtime necessary to get the job done.  With absolutely no regret, I can remember many weeks that we worked 60 hours.  The unstated commitment that our generation made to the Patrol left little time to enjoy activities together in a zone beyond the occasional bar-b-cue or dinner.  I was fortunate to enjoy the guidance and friendship of Sgt. Robert (Bob) Plymell for 5 too short years before we drifted apart as our careers took different trajectories.  Bob Plymell was a credit to the Highway Patrol and the hard working farm culture of rural Missouri…….

……..and one hell of a wing shooter.  I wonder where that old Browning is today.

The first shot caught me just above the collar, on the right side of the neck.  The next shot struck my right hand, before a multitude of shots hit me in the back and the cheeks of my butt.  No, they were not rounds from an AK-47 or SKS, just BB’s from Daisy BB rifles and I was at Ft. Polk, La., not Cu Chi, Vietnam.  I was in the middle of Basic Training, participating in a course that was affectionally named “Quick Kill”, designed to prepare you for a fire fight in a village in Vietnam.  The BB’s stung like the devil,  and helped bridge the gap from the abstract concept of dying to a realistic impression of just how it happens in combat.  I have not been shot since, and owe the Master my heartfelt gratitude for my good fortune.  For those who relate to numbers, America has lost about 651,000 military personnel in all of our wars, out of approximately 42 million personnel who have served in wartime.  In Vietnam, we lost 58,220 of America’s finest….and today belongs to them.

Ft. Polk was a hot, humid sand trap in August of 1969, when I arrived courtesy of Trans Texas Airlines.  It was a stormy night, and a number of the inductees on the airplane were otherwise occupied with filling up the little sacks conveniently placed in the seat back ahead of them.  Beer, fear and a good deal of turbulence related to the pilot’s attempts at dodging the various storms along our route contributed to this rather unglamorous entry into the United States Army.  I volunteered for this and was seriously considering my flawed life plans as we touched down.  Basic Training was a character building experience.  My veteran readers can identify with this unique happening, although I am focused on a different time and place today.  For me, the next chapter began at Oakland Army Terminal a few months later, the beginning of my experience in a real war, where the BB rifles were replaced with far more lethal weaponry in the hands of either the Viet-Cong or the NVA.  

We were delivered to what can be described as a gigantic warehouse, where literally hundreds upon hundreds of soldiers were housed awaiting their assignment to a flight to Southeast Asia.  The lights were never turned off and you slept on any empty bunk you could find.  The PA system interrupted what little sleep you could get with announcements that “the following personnel are to report to section A for final processing and your flight”.  It was an Article 15 offense to miss your name, and we quickly formed buddy systems to avoid that unpleasant experience.  The warehouse smelled of sweat, new jungle boots, uniforms and fear.  It was chaotic and organized at the same time.  Character building, again, comes to mind.

My flight, on Global Airlines, arrived at Tan Son Nhut air base, not far from what will always be Saigon to me, at 3:30 AM.  When the cabin doors were opened we were greeted by a blast of humid and peculiar smelling air, and a young MP who provided instructions as to what to do if we received incoming fire.  In short order, you were conveyed to an inprocessing center where you were then assigned to a combat unit, based upon your MOS (military occupational specialty).  I was assigned to Division Artillery in the First Cavalry Division, in a scenic little village named Phuoc Vinh.  I was trained to compute the data for the various artillery pieces, thus insuring that we place our devastating artillery capability on the heads of the enemy as opposed to anywhere else in your area of operation.  This skill also earned me a trip to various fire support bases when a a fire control specialist was needed to fill the boots of a soldier that either rotated out, or no longer needed boots……I did my job, and had little time for the demonstrations and political considerations that brought this unfortunate war to an end.  We fought for the man next to us.

I survived unscathed and returned home, able to walk off of the airplane in St. Louis and see my daughter for the first time.  I was lucky, as were the other 9,000,000 or so military personnel,  who served in Vietnam without being memorialized on the wall.  To be sure, I was shot at and survived a ground probe or two while on a fire base, but we were ready and the enemy failed to grasp the significance of direct artillery fire when you are conducting that probe.  Character building, yet again, comes to mind.

I write to honor those folks who arrived home a different way, carried in a flag draped container to their final resting place.  I also write to honor those who served and survived, some scarred for life both physically and mentally, who still walk among us.  Someday, just as in previous wars, our numbers will diminish, and the Vietnam War will be just another chapter in our military history, however; not today.  

Brothers and sisters, bound by a shared experience with life changing implications.  It is a fraternity that I am immensely proud of…

..and the initiation was hell.

There have been tremendous strides made in the engineering of today’s automobiles.  In the mid 60’s, when I began driving, the big news was collapsable steering columns and side marker lamps on our cars, with lot’s of angular surfaces in the interior of cars to insure your demise despite the steering wheel and marker light innovations.   These improvements to our fleet are intended to improve the odds of avoiding serious injury and death in the crashes that are inevitable.  In spite of these successes, crashes, which are a function of numbers and opportunity, will continue to happen and people are going to be injured and killed until the last car is manufactured and we exhaust every energy source that power them.  

While there have been numerous marginal improvements in the design and functionality of our vehicles, there are a number of improvements that have really made a difference.  Stay with me for a bit, and let’s talk about them briefly.  I might surprise you with my final destination in this piece!

1.  Collapsible steering columns.  These were mandated in 1968 by the US Government.  Good call, because seat belts that were also mandated were not being used much, which is unfortunate as they significantly reduce the value of a collapsable steering column.

2.  Disc brakes.  Folks old enough to remember the days of drum brakes understand their inherent inefficiency.  By today’s standards, drum brakes were slightly better than Fred Flinstone’s foot dragging halt in his stone-mobile.

3.  Safety glass.  When things get serious, and you and glass are going to expend a little energy together, safety glass will save a trauma surgeon hours of getting your body parts reunited.  It is that simple….and effective.

4.  Anti-Locking Brake Systems (ABS). ABS removes the necessity to become familiar with the basic principles of brake management, something young drivers today know absolutely nothing about.  Of course, power brakes are included in this arrangement.

5.  Airbags.  The Holy Grail of safety innovation.  When combined with seat belts, which serve to keep you in close proximity to the bags around you, they will keep you together in all but the the really nasty, speed exacerbated, grinders.

6.  High strength steel.  Cars today are lighter and stronger as a result of the alloys in use today.  Watch the collapse of the passenger cage in the cars tested in the 50’s and 60’s and you will understand this development.

7.  Radial tires.  When I became a car pilot, the tire that was coveted by my fellow drivers was the Atlas Plycron, noted for it’s high mileage and wet road characteristics. It is still a good tire, but isn’t in a league with the modern radial tire. The difference in radial and bias ply tire construction, from virtually every angle, is immeasurable as are the handling characteristics.

8.  The Cage.  This concept had it’s beginning in race cars, whereby the driver was incapsulated in a carefully engineered “cage” so as to minimize the collapse of this space and the accompanying collapse of the individuals within it. See my remarks on the use of steel above.

9.  The three point seatbelt.  The real key to surviving a crash is to remain within the cage and within range of the many safety features designed into this area.  The features mentioned in this piece will do you little good as you exit a rolling automobile through a window or other opening to take your chances with terrain features and the other vehicles around you.

My purpose in writing this piece revolves around the beginning of the serious motorcycle season, already underway in our part of the country.  A review of the tremendous innovations mentioned above and a moment of reflection should lead the reader to the conclusion that motorcyclists get little benefit from these innovations with the exception of ABS, radial tires and disc brakes.  Our innovations include Kevlar inserts in our riding jackets and an evolution in helmet engineering that does enhance survivalbility in a crash.  I am also painfully aware that motorcyclists contribute to their own demise far to often, and choose to ride without benefit of these innovations, however; an alert driver, in the other vehicle, is our biggest asset.  I have worked a surprising number of accidents, some fatal, where a driver swears they looked, but obviously did not see the other vehicle.  

It is not enough to look, folks, but you must also see………..

Thanks for reading….

Hollywood recognizes the appeal of police work, war, romance and the old west.  These enduring topics find themselves subjected to the big screen year in and year out, and enjoy popular appeal to those who eschew the high tech mayhem that appears to be the preference of movie goers lately.  Sharon and I attend movies quite frequently, and look at each other with nothing short of astonishment at the trailers for most of the schlock being proffered these days.  We are, admittedly, stuck in a time warp and still enjoy a good, old fashioned western, whether it be a romance or action oriented offering.  Our preferences have led to this piece that explores cowboys, and yes Mildred, they still exist!   

First a disclaimer.  I am not a real cowboy, although I have flirted with the notion on occasion.  I owned an ornery Appaloosa and cared for a Tennessee Walker, Poco Prince and Kentucky respectively.  Naturally I also owned the appropriate tack, a well worn saddle bought from an out of luck cowboy who desperately needed to sell to fund his divorce, and a newer saddle from a tack store close to home.  The old saddle was smooth and supple the newer one a torture device that looked good on a saddle stand but was awful to sit in.  I became familiar with horse care and management, the local large animal vet, the differences in forage and feed and a good ferrior, a big strong Mennonite fellow who also happened to be a horse whisperer of sorts.  I learned to shovel stalls, vaccinate my horses, and check on them daily to make sure the water tank was clean and filled and they had no particular needs that required attention.  I owned a couple of beautiful Stetson hats, and several pairs of boots, my particular favorites being plain old Justin ropers in a variety of colors.  My South Carolina piedmont feet are not particularly suited to the exotic, true western boots made out of the hides of various hard to find critters. I developed a basic understanding of halters, bridles and bits and the inordinate amount of time necessary to the maintenance and care of leather.  I thoroughly enjoyed my flirtation with this side of life……….but was never a real cowboy.  I have known a few real cowboys and believe me when I tell you there is a difference between showing up at a rodeo or any horseback event and riding in them.

I loved my horses and nearly cried when circumstances related to a transfer necessitated the selling of Poco. This horse belonged to a real cowboy from Russellville, Mo. who sold it to another real cowboy, Bill Darnell, a close buddy who then sold the Prince to me.  Not long after I acquired the Prince, Bill died from leukemia, and the Prince attended his funeral, standing at graveside as the services were concluded.  I find it strange and disconcerting that not long after leukemia claimed Bill, the Prince died, quietly in his pasture……from equine leukemia, a relatively rare occurrence.  It may be that Bill, in the endless expanse of green pastures that only departed cowboys can appreciate,  needed a good horse.  The lesson here is that cowboys do not like being separated from their horses.   (The photo is of Bill Darnell and Poco Prince)

Real cowboys are fine with replacing the shiny sole dressing on their boots with horse manure. They may step carefully in the stall, but are not offended by an occasional misstep.  The smell of hay, mixed with the sweet aroma of manure and dirt replaces a fifty dollar bottle of Polo black and is far more comforting.  Real cowboys will tend their mounts before they worry about dinner on any given evening.  Real cowboys can say one hell of a lot without saying anything at all.  They enjoy a nearly mystical ability  to convey profound thought with a simple knowing glance between themselves.  Think not?  Walk among them and watch their eyes, smiles and subtle gestures as they size you up. Real cowboys view weather, horses, women and open country with reverence.  When offended, they will walk away unless the offender steps in the way……….at which time a real cowboy will quickly display the speed and reflexes one must have to manage livestock.  Real cowboys see a fence entirely differently than folks who have no experience stretching wire.  They know all about corner posts, gaucho and red brand, with an understanding of how it all goes together.  They also know that old pick-up trucks, old dogs and old guns have character that has been earned, not awarded.  Their gloves, generally cowhide, will tell many stories, each marked with a nick, or a stain whether it be blood, sweat or the strong, black coffee they prefer. They also have the ability to cut a phony out of the herd rather quickly.   Finally, overwhelmingly, they tend to be very pragmatic and intuitive.  In today’s world, these qualities aren’t found on every corner.

My hat is off to this vestige of Americana.  I am proud of my cowboy friends and have learned from them all.  Thanks Doc, Marvin, Bill and Cal, for letting me into your world.  What a hoot!

A Facebook friend opened a topic this week that elicited a number of responses relative to the foibles of men and women in uniform.  Before I jump in, bare my soul and offer a glimpse into the lives of those folks who can stand at carside and deliver a directive seeking perfection from the hapless citizen he or she has stopped for a violation, I thought it best to come clean and admit………officers have their lapses too.  We are chosen to be representative of the population we police, so naturally we have our fair share of “misfires” while in uniform.  Let’s have a look……

In early 1978, I warmed my unmarked Mercury cruiser up on a frigid morning after a heavy overnight snow storm.  I promptly entered I-70 and drove east to pick up the rookie that I was breaking in, noting the poor condition of the interstate in spite of the efforts of MoDot to clear it.  Naturally, after picking up my cub, we were called to a fatal accident on the west side of the county and immediately started back west on the interstate.  I was pushing the big Mercury as fast as I could do so safely while working the radio to insure the appropriate resources were on their way to the crash when the road changed from “wet and partly covered” to a sheet of ice, just past a highway department turn around in the median.  The highways were cleared by each respective district, and the salt shakers would turn around just past their district line and go the other way.  Nice.  the Mercury bobbled just a little, then exited the highway abruptly and down a long embankment we went, coming to rest along side the outer road in waist deep snow.  The rookie was a smoker but knew the rules and dutifully exited the car into the deep snow to smoke and calm his nerves.  Luckily, a wrecker happened by almost immediately, stopped and pulled us out, resulting in a short delay in our getting to the crash.  The rookie said nothing, God love him, and I broke the silence by declaring emphatically, “that is NOT how you do this….and remember that road conditions are never consistent”.

Another snow storm, still in progress, resulted in deplorable conditions, but thankfully little traffic when I decided to enter the truck weighing scales near Odessa on I-70, to refuel. I chose to enter the scales from the outer road, behind the scales, and noted the large drift across the entrance as I attempted to power through……resulting in the cruiser sliding sideways into a shallow ditch at a rather awkward angle.  I was stuck, badly.  I mustered up my best radio voice and called HQ requesting a wrecker for a motorist who had slid into the ditch behind the scales.  The radio operator, after a long pause, said that a local tow operator was enroute, and in a voice reflecting his understanding of the situation, inquired calmly, “is your car going to be driveable when they get you out?”  I loved this radio operator……and he had me.  We laughed about this over the years on a number of occasions.

The lady was hysterical, however; I was not going to let her hysteria deter me from issuing a citation for speeding, a lot.  My attempts to calm this lady were to no avail and I finally was able to hand her the citation between her sobbing and wailing about my destroying her perfect driving record, and retreat to my cruiser, parked behind her and offset so as to avoid traffic.  It was our custom to remain parked behind the violator until they re-entered the roadway, thus providing some degree of safety with our flashing lights.  She did not understand this and continued to flail about and sob as I patiently waited for her to leave.  I exited my cruiser, walked up and verified that she had not induced a coronary with her emotion,  and re-entered  my cruiser, deciding to leave as my presence was obviously not comforting to this lady.  Needing a little clearance, I put my cruiser into reverse, and backed up to gain this needed space………into a guardrail situated just behind my car.  A hasty call to my retained “body man” set up a 6AM appointment at his establishment to repair and paint the quarter panel.  As a footnote, this lady wrote the court with her mail-in fine and mentioned in her note how considerate I was when issuing the citation……

Scale houses, in my day, were pretty much the same squat little cinder block affairs throughout the state, situated along side major highways for obvious reasons.  Our zone offices were often located within these little buildings, providing a desk and room to prepare reports and handle the administrative details inherent to police work.  It was the last day of the month and myself and two other troopers were parked one behind the other on the scale platform ramp, busy working on end of the month reports when radio called and dispatched us to yet another fatal accident some 35 miles south of our location. I was the Sergeant and happened to be first in line behind the closed bar across the scale platform and the other two officers were behind me, in a neat, tight little row.  We all exited the scale house and began entering our cars, with me being just a little quicker than the other two, and closer to the door.  I hopped in my cruiser, put it in reverse and backed into the first patrol car behind me, pushing it into the third patrol car behind it, with the two astonished officers standing half in the doors of their cars.  I exited my car, clearly embarrassed and asked if we were going to the wreck or just lollygag around the scales.  I am sure they laughed all the way to the wreck……..and I was reminded of this lapse for years to come……..

Police officers rely on humor to get them through their careers.  This humor can have unintended results.  It was the Friday before the 4th of July holiday, and traffic was building quickly.  I grabbed a quick sandwich late in the afternoon at a favorite eatery located at the junction of !-70 and M-13.  When I exited the restaurant, I noticed a MoDot crew patching a rather large pothole in front of the restaurant on M-13, with hot mix being shoveled out of the back of their truck.  I knew these guys well, particularly one of the shovelers who was known to be a little “goosey” or jumpy.   With the traffic noise and activity at this location, he did not see me ease up behind him and touch my siren just as he began to toss a shovel full of mix into the hole.  This gentleman was sufficiently startled to cause him to throw the hot mix, still in the shovel, into the side of a beautiful newer, white Buick 225, bearing Iowa license plates.  The gentleman driving the Buick pulled into the parking lot and began walking toward the hapless MoDot employee, necessitating my immediate intervention.  I stepped between this gentleman and the MoDot fellow, looked at him and told him that I could explain what had happened, but that he would not be particularly impressed with my explanation.  To my amazement, he accepted my honest explanation and laughed at the predicament that I had place myself in.  We struck an agreement after I gave him my business card and telephone number, whereby he would have his car repaired and send me the bill.  He did just that, and my attempt at humor cost me a little under 400.00.  In the 70’s folks, that was a lot of money!

In anticipation of writing this piece, I searched my memory to come up with situations that might be interesting to my readers.  I came up with a rather long list of happenings involving me or witnessed by me, but chose these to illustrate the point that I am trying to make.  I, and my fellow officers are adept at creating hilarious situations at the expense of each other, dead snakes in the mailbox located at every gas pump, mace on sunglasses and the removal of the red lenses on our light bars resulting in four, blinding spotlights revolving about on your first night traffic stop after you left the zone office.  The next time you see an officer solemnly going about his or her business, suggesting a buttoned down approach to life, remember…..

There is, indeed, a human behind the badge……….

I am an easy mark for folks who work at anything other than standing on a corner with a sign summarizing their terrible existence, often the result of not really working in the first place.  So it should come as no surprise that I would extend this kindness to two college age ladies standing in my driveway, talking to Sharon when I drove in from running a few errands.  These ladies patiently explained that if we would let a representative from their company come into our home and simply vacuum one room, they (these two ladies) would be paid 25.00 and all would be well.  They assured us that nothing need be bought, and after the floor was vacuumed, the sales representative would be on his way.  With this introduction, we let a Kirby vacuum salesman into our home.  I can honestly say, I have never seen anything like the fiasco we unleashed and never hope to again.  So, this story begins!

At about the same time a previously ordered pizza was delivered, a van drove up and expelled two young men who promptly set about unloading a demonstration Kirby vacuum cleaner, carefully boxed in a manner that would make a Chinese furniture packer green with envy.  The driver shook my hand and promptly departed in the van, leaving his protege’ to handle the sales pitch.  That our salesman was now stranded should have been a clue, but what the devil, just vacuum the room and jump in the soon to return van and be on your way.  The two girls will have earned their 25.00, we will enjoy our pizza and life would be good.  Except…….that is not the Kirby way.  At this point, I should note that Sharon had the good sense to stress, in terms that Tazzy could understand, that we would NOT be buying a vacuum cleaner, under any circumstances.  Period, as Fred Sanford would say.

After unpacking his shiny, aluminum alloy vacuum cleaner, the salesman, a young man that I would judge to be about 25 or so, carefully made a production of displaying 50 or so round, white discs that resembled coffee filters.  He also assured us that in spite of our efforts to maintain a clean home, we were living in filth, which he captured on these filters one at a time, thus proving we were next in line to have my office declared a Haz-Mat site.  All the while he chattered on about the virtues of his vacuum, the superior suction, quietness and the comparative lightness of their proprietary new alloy machine.  Simultaneously, the salesman was flipping through a binder, a prop designed to emphasis the absolute necessity of owning a Kirby vacuum.  We were patient, but unmoved.  Sharon, sensing my rising displeasure, dispatched me to the living room with instructions to begin eating the slowly congealing pizza, which was under the protective gaze of Tazzy.  She was within earshot, and I clearly heard her again carefully inform the salesman we would not be buying a vacuum, even if it repainted the office and dusted the bookcase.  The salesman was undeterred, and bantered on, while I enjoyed a slice or two of pizza.  The pizza had a calming affect on me, and I walked back into the office and told young Lee Iacocca to pack his vacuum up and leave my home, giving him 5 minutes to accomplish this prodigious feat, of which two minutes were already used in the delivery of this ultimatum. He began packing, but was still on message, explaining that we could not possibly go on living as we do without his vacuum.  Then after packing, and still chattering incessantly, he announced he had no ride. Not a problem I said, use the cell phone in your pocket and call your vacuum, uber van and tell him to haul ass over here as your life is in danger.  “I can’t”, he said, “my phone has no SIM card”. We retrieved one of our cells and dialed the number provided for him and he then used it to explain that his customers (us) were getting increasingly frustrated, and that he (the van driver) should expedite his efforts to retrieve him.  We helped him and his vacuum to the curb and waited for the van, which had already driven by once without stopping.  The van finally stopped and in the time it takes to load a vacuum cleaner and a salesman, Sharon delivered a blistering summation of their tactics and product to the driver, presumably the “Team Lead”. I was proud of her ability to deliver such a crisp, succinct and horrifying summation in 30 seconds.  I learned some new words and have now been schooled on tone and inflection!  I should note that young Iacocca thanked me for not beating the crap out of him as he drug his ultralight vacuum down our driveway, a clear indication of some situational reasoning skill.

You may be wondering why we just didn’t buy the vacuum cleaner, and use it as a spare behind our very efficient current device, if for no other reason than to be free from this plague we had brought upon ourselves.  The Kirby he was hawking retails at $3,500.00, give or take!  Kind of takes your breath away, doesn’t it?  So, if a couple of comely shills stop by and suggest they are working their way through college by lining up a vacuum job for your home, don’t take the bait.  Gently close the door, cross yourself even if you are not Catholic and sweeten your offering the next time you visit your church.  Some acts of kindness are clearly counter productive…….

In January of last year, I wrote a short essay acknowledging my addiction to coffee.  In that piece, I mentioned that various heart mechanics have pooled their knowledge and suggested that coffee, in any measureable quantity, is not in the best interest of folks who have a shaky motherboard in their heart’s hard drive.  Imagine my euphoria when I opened the latest edition of the Harvard Heart Letter and read where a number of recent studies indicate that coffee in moderation is not the evil elixir that is all but banned by cardiologists who all have coffee on their breath when they lean in for a good listen to your heart.  We need to get serious about this popular beverage……really serious.

The founders of Starbucks, folks with the colorful names Baldwin, Siegl, and Bowker, are the clever guys who started this wildly successful business back in 1971, just about the time I began earning my vast fortune as a Highway Patrolman.  A fellow named Schultz, with marketing skills that would shame P.T. Barnum, has managed to turn Starbucks into a vast coffee empire that is often emulated, but never matched.  This great enterprise had it’s beginning in Seattle, presumably as a result of the incessant rain there, forcing folks to suffer quietly, indoors, with a cup of coffee to keep depression at bay.  How well has Mr. Schultz done, you may ask?  The answer is simple; revenue in 2015 was 19.6 billion, with the number of locations as of November, 2016 at 23,768 and growing.  Mr. Schultz has managed to magically transform your mother’s can of Maxwell House or Folgers Premium Drip Grind coffee into various, flavorful elixirs going for around five bucks a cup…..and the world is lining up, two deep, to pay this outrageous price for a single cup of his brew.  I confess, we have an app that allows us to flash our phone at a colorful little box sitting between us and the barista and debit an account that reloads as needed to make sure we support Mr. Schultz’ enterprise.  Folks, when your coffee expenditures exceed your gasoline expenditures each month, it is time to rethink your priorities.  Cue the creative use of the pod coffee maker and home espresso machine.

My admiration for Mr. Schultz’ marketing skill has recently been tempered by his foray into the world of social engineering.  The retail establishments that I frequent are not selected on a social or sexual preference basis.  If the product is good, the pricing fair and the location convenient, I likely will trade there, and gladly stand in line with folks who may or may not share my generally privately held views on such matters as same sex marriage.  How folks choose to live their lives is of no interest to me when I am buying a cup of coffee, and I believe Mr. Schultz’ recent ramblings suggesting that folks who embrace only traditional marriage are not welcome is a marketing mistake. I choose my coffees, sir and I choose to associate with whom I please.  You embrace refugees, I embrace veterans.  My limited resources will always support the needs of our veterans over the needs of refugees.

To this end, Sharon and I have embarked on a home based crusade to expand our skills in the brewing of a really good cup of coffee for somewhere between two bits and a buck.  We have carefully perused the unbelievable variety of coffees available through internet sales, and have amassed quite a collection of both pod coffees and bags of coffee, all of which can be brewed in our pod machine.  A few years back, we acquired an expresso machine and have begun experimenting with it, the results of which have been surprisingly good.  Among our favorites are coffees such as Black Rifle, a company started by an Afghanistan combat veteran, Victory coffee, developed by a Navy Seal, and our particular favorite, Mystic Monk Coffee, developed by a group of Carmelite Monks who reside in a monastery in Wyoming.  Just opening a shipment of Mystic Monk Coffee is a spiritual experience…….the aroma will ease your mind and calm your soul.  I am hopelessly addicted to vanilla, in all it’s forms, and really enjoy the Vanilla Nut Medium Blend coffee, an organic grind from The Bean, another on-line coffee company.  Like an addict who uses clean needles, we prefer coconut milk in our expressos, somehow assuaging any remaining angst over our addiction.

Just as Henry Ford could not imagine the plethora of automobiles available to people today, the Ethiopians in the 10th century could not have imagined what they were introducing to society when they first boiled coffee beans and drank the elixir that resulted.  As for me, I am finishing this piece with a steaming cup of Mystic Monks, Royal Pecan Rum coffee laced with a jigger of Baileys Irish Cream.  My hat is off to the Ethiopians and pulled down tight as I walk by the next Starbucks, secure in the knowledge the Monks or veterans are going to see to it that I enjoy my next cup of their best coffee…….super coffee!  When you are around, feel free to drop in to the Yellow Dog coffee Company, and enjoy a cup of super coffee on me……you won’t need an app and the company is good.

I love fire, in a non pyromaniac sort of way, whether it be a camp fire on the bank of the Gasconade river, a dancing fire in a fireplace or the gentle controlled burn in a wood stove.  When we occupied the “house on the hill” overlooking Truman Lake, I smiled when I caught the scent of woodsmoke curling from the chimney when we returned home in the evenings on a cold Ozark winter night.  There is something reassuring about that scent, a promise of warmth, security and the ability to keep the cold night air at bay.  Last night, I sat in front of another kind of fire to read, deriving a certain manufactured satisfaction from a perfect burn in front of a gas fireplace at home.  It just isn’t the same.

I have arrived at the realization that how one perceives a warming fire at home is directly related to how one was raised.  I have a brother-in-law, raised with wood heat, who appreciates the old adage that firewood warms you twice, once when you work it up and again as you burn it, a little differently than I do.  He talks about trudging through snow and freezing rain to bring in wood and remembers keeping the stove cleaned out and up.  The novelty quickly wears off at zero dark thirty when snow is topping your boots as you slip and slide with an arm load of wood.  I suspect that I would quickly change my perspective if before we enjoyed a hearty breakfast we first had to bank a fire in a wood stove and “bring it up” to an unregulated temperature to cook that breakfast.  My brother-in-law prefers the kind of fire I enjoy here at home where with the flip of a switch, a carefully orchestrated burn, in and around faux logs, springs to life, looking exactly like it did the night before when the same switch extinguished the fire with precision.  Admittedly, it beats nothing…..barely. Give me woodsmoke.

We were never in any danger of freezing in the house on the hill.  We enjoyed central, electric heat courtesy of the efficiency of a heat pump, a pellet stove in the basement and a Jotul wood stove in the great room, located in front of the windows providing a panoramic view of Truman Lake.  The Jotul was a cast iron beauty, with a re-burn system to keep the EPA from swooping in and placarding the house.  Cast iron stoves get hot, really hot, but are not inclined to creak and crack with the expansion that plagues boiler plate  stoves.  This stove, built in Sweden where they know a lot about burning wood, had a precise damper system, resulting in a burn that could be controlled with nearly the precision of the aforementioned “flip the switch” gas burn.   When you opened the door to feed Mr. Jotul, a reassuring puff of woodsmoke greeted you with that familiar and comforting scent that I love.  The burn pattern, viewed through the expansive glass door, was never the same from burn to burn, resulting in a mezermizing affect as you watched it dance.  A perfect stove has a glass “wash” feature engineered into it’s construction whereby air is cleverly drawn upward and in front of the glass to help preclude the inevitable blackening of the glass.  There is another Jotul in my future, necessitating yet another move at some point in our lives.

My readers know that among my many vices is an unhealthy appreciation for internal combustion engines.  Fortunately, chainsaws are built around small, powerful and efficient little two stroke engines that are wood eating marvels.  They are also powerful reminders that mental lapses can result in spectacular results.  I have been to the emergency room, courtesy of a lapse when I carelessly touched a still moving chain to my leg.  A precise surgical incision was not the result, rather a jagged little mess that prompted the triage nurse to utter one word as I entered. She looked at my leg and, without prompting, flatly stated “chainsaw”.  I now wear those funny looking chaps, along with a hard hat, face screen, and  hearing protection.  A boot full of blood makes a peculiar squishy sound as you walk…….disconcerting is an apt description.  This being said, I enjoy working firewood, cutting, bucking and splitting (courtesy of another internal combustion engine on a tow behind log splitter).  I can see the promise in a carefully stacked cord of firewood, the result of honest and hard work. Cordwood doesn’t talk, but if it could, I suspect it would tell you that when the snow flies, it will have your back.  

Later today,  Sharon and I will likely adjourn to one of our favorite eateries, the Cracker Barrel, where we will ask for our preferred table, the barrel with the checkerboard on it in front of the fireplace.  There isn’t much leg space, but the warmth from the ever present fire makes up for the inconvenience.  Something about sitting in front of the fire, in a rocking chair and enjoying a meal cooked home style.  It is fun to watch folks stop and turn their backs to the fire, soaking up the warmth as they comment on our table arrangements…….

They say you never forget your first time.  I can remember it all too well, the shaky hands, rapid heartbeat and quick, shallow respirations as the actual moment approached.  It mattered not how much research you had done, or what those who had lived through the experience had to offer. The anticipation, fear and expectations were all tossing about wildly in my head. You have looked forward to this moment with dread, a degree of self loathing and deep concern about the effect this was going to have on the relationship that you have worked hard to nurture.  Wild expectations aside, you steel yourself……..gaze downward and begin slowly, making every effort to avoid discomfort as you……..pick up the razor and begin shaving your head.

I should have seen it coming.  Had I not been so self absorbed, I would have realized that I chose the wrong parents……Paternally and maternally, there wasn’t enough hair in my lineage to make a skirt on a crappie jig.  The luxurious mane that Richard Gere flaunts or the thick, nailed down precision of a Tom Selleck haircut was never in my cards.  As the realization set in, I avoided the tense moment described above by relying on the ageless duo of denial and avoidance.  When in the barber’s chair, I would wave off the handheld mirror proffered by the sympathetic hair meister…a ritual by which you offered your approval for the precision of the man ( or lady) in the final trim around the hairline and ears.  I should have noticed the time in the chair was shrinking, ever so slowly, and that I no longer required the layering of the cut that accompanies a full head of hair.  I adapted subconsciously.  First there was the pathetic attempt to capitalize on the thicker hair that circles the head, you know, the hair that looks good when you are wearing a hat, but elicits gasps when you remove your hat and the folks around you see that you are growing taller than your hair.  Then there are ever shorter cuts, again relying on the “monk circle” to carry the freight for you.  I will never forget a dear friend in the office, standing in the coffee line ahead of me on a Monday morning, turning to face me and gasping at my mall procured cut, done out of frustration, and asking me if I had cut my hair myself.  I knew then the time was near.  Finally, the services of a barber were really no longer necessary…….a horrible time in the life of those of us who welcome the barbershop banter, sound of clippers and the smell of talcum powder on the brush used to wisk the clippings from your neck.  You reach for the handheld mirror, gather your courage and look squarely in the big mirror at the vast expanses of skin that used to be covered in hair.  Sharon had been pressed into service to keep my neck clean, a exercise in futility, usually executed on the back deck.  One beautiful spring morning, she squared up, walked in front of me and suggested sympathetically, “it is time……you are out of usable hair.”

The advantages of shaving your head are many.  It is neat.  You no longer waste time in front of a mirror worried about the part line or mussed hair that accompanies the constant on and off activity associated with wearing a hat professionally.   When queried about hair color on license renewals, it is fun to respond “transparent”.  You are in great company with the likes of Cal Ripken, Vin Diesel, Charles Barkley, Shaq and Albert Pujols. You discover how resilient the scalp is.  It doesn’t cut as easily as you might think, although it will bleed you out if you do nick it.  I must acknowledge there is far more maintenance than one would think, the razor is applied every other day lest you look like you are developing a form of mange.

If you are not hair challenged, good for you.  Being ordinary can be a blessing.  For me, I prefer the style and flair of Dennis Franz or the Blue Man Group.  I know that the 70’s are never coming back…….

……..and neither is my hair!

The resilience of America is on display.  Never mind the mind control games that have been perpetuated by the media who would have us believe there is a crises at every turn.  Please don’t be misled into thinking we have become the laughing stock of the rest of the world when, in fact, the rest of the world recognizes the unbelievable success and fortune of our country.

We are entering the New Year having identified a number of “things” and people that have captured our attention and provided the fertilizer necessary to fostering a feeling of doom and helplessness.  Let’s charge on with a new mindset and burn energy changing the things we can…..and ignoring those we cannot.  For instance, lets……

…embrace our new political landscape.  Conservatives have lived through 8 years of  liberal control…..a blue print for the liberal faction today, who are now beginning a similar experience…we all approach the same life in different ways…

…..ignore the folks who kneel during the National Anthem and otherwise disrespect the symbols of our democracy….they are not worth our time……

…..expend energy evaluating the message…not killing the messenger.  Snitches are not the problem……never have been.  Nobody likes them, and that is a heavy cross to carry….think message, message, message…..not messenger, messenger, messenger…

……encourage our children and grandchildren to understand and manage adversity, not shrink from it.  It is never going away……weeping and avoiding the unpleasant is not in the recipie for leadership and success…..life is not a rose garden….

…..galvanize our contempt for those who harm our police officers….when an officer is killed, the butterfly effect guarantees that untold numbers of our citizenry will suffer accordingly…..it is never okay to harm an officer….never

……be passionate, not stupid….there is room for differing, intelligent argument on everything under the sun…..it takes energy to be passionate….it takes very little to be stupid….

…..recognize that freedom has a very sharp edge…..those that would destroy us from within exist and there exists no magic lens to identify them before they strike….so…..be careful…..when driving…eating…….playing….always

Finally…be a part of the solution…..if you are not…..you are a part of the problem…..

Happy New Year