Author: srj641

It is windy and cold on the lake today, too cold to fish and too windy to fly but a perfect day to catch up on my reading.  I picked up a national publication that enjoys a very good reputation and began reading about the 10 best places to live in America.  As happens all too often, Missouri failed to make the list…..not even honorable mention for any of our cities, towns or regions.  Let’s talk about their extreme short sightedness.

To be sure, St. Louis isn’t going to make many such lists.  The crime rate will only qualify it for other, less prestigious lists.  This in spite of being a beautiful old city with a terrific baseball heritage and home to some of the finest Italian dining available anywhere outside of Brooklyn.  Kansas City, the real gateway to the west, offers up a decidedly western appeal.  Tremendous bar-b-cue factories, great (these days) baseball and football traditions and a city that is relatively easy to drive around in.  The crime rate is typical of any city this size and it offers an abundance of architectural and educational opportunities.  Having recognized these two cities for what they are, let’s discuss the real appeal of Missouri……the countryside.

Missouri IS a melting pot.  There is a strong German influence, particularly in central regions, and our people are friendly, practical and tremendously diversified.  Our standard of living reflects our hard working, middle class heritage.  Our summers will scald the hair off your arms and winters frost your very soul.  Our landscape is western plains to the north transitioning to Ozarkian timberland to the south with a little southern, bootheel charm thrown in for good measure.  We are home to many of the nation’s prettiest lakes and are blessed with drop dead gorgeous float streams.  Missouri walnut is a prized export and our oak covers floors all over the world……floors that have endured the indignity of fine bourbons  aged in in casks crafted from the same oak forests being sloshed upon them.  We know a thing or two about building cars, motorcycles and boats…..and raising pigs, cattle and grain. Our wines are winning awards every day and we brew alot of beer.  We could care less about Rodeo Drive and Broadway….preferring fairs, country and western concerts and great family entertainment venues like those clustered around Branson.  I paid a lot to fish the San Juan River in northern New Mexico and afterwards, offered to show the guide some really good trout fishing in Missouri……..The scenery in the Badlands of South Dakota is remarkable but not as remarkable as wood fire smoke silently curling above an Ozark cabin on a cold winter evening along the Big Piney River.  Our springs invite you to sit down awhile and thank the Lord for the privilege of being able to sit there.  No doubt the Master created Missouri to be the crossroads it is, where east meets west and north meets south.

Why not Missouri? I would like to invite the writers who drool incessantly over the great San Juan River, the Texas Hill Country and Boise,  Idaho’s bike trails to spend a little time among our folks up and down Route 66.  Rent a canoe, it won’t cost much, and drift silently through the eddies and shoals on the Gasconade or Niangua River.  Missouri hasn’t changed much in the last hundred or so years……..not out in the country where our folks are friendly, skeptical and damned real. Drop in one of our taverns, enjoy a cold beer, burger and conversation with any one of our “locals”.  I guarantee it will beat the hell out of a bean sprout and spinach salad on Rodeo Drive…….

Admittedly, I am a lightweight when it comes to distilled spirits. I enjoy such libations as a good Pina Colada, Margarita, Tequilla Sunrise or Fuzzy Navel as opposed to a shot of bourbon, neat, on the rocks. Occasionally, I can work my way through a Whiskey Sour or a Baileys and coffee……but never scotch.  To me it tastes a little like a shot of liquor the dog has peed in that was left too close to the campfire……..

My father, a man of respect, drank scotch. He took his drink with a little water and occasionally a jigger of Drambuie, a drink known as a Rusty Nail……surely named after the source of the tetanus infection resulting from stepping on the same.  My friend, Ralph, is a top shelf scotch drinker….a practice that shows class and dignity when barside, and results in me finding a quiet corner of the bar to nurse my “umbrella drink” less I embarrass the big boys quaffing scotch as they recount tales of daring.  To the casual observer, it would appear the tears in their eyes are resulting from the memory of past accomplishments and battles won…….in truth, the tears are from drinking scotch, smelling of peat moss and fireplace ashes, the pleasure of which they paid handsomely.

The very first time I was intoxicated, it was the result of drinking a fine scotch whiskey named Clan McGregor.  I chased the awful stuff with Coke…..a combination that causes purists to wretch uncontrollably.  I didn’t know any better in those days, when a six pack of Country Club malt liquor, a small fresh pizza and two bucks got my date and I into a drive-in movie.  My fervent, red blooded American male strategy was centered on the premise the pizza and malt liquor would result in missing much of the movie……..but that is another story.  Perhaps my first experience with a scotch whisky that could be bought for four bucks a fifth, mixed with Coke,  began my distaste for the stuff.

All scotch must be made in Scotland.  Google any article or description of the stuff and you will quickly find the common denominator for it’s production.  Some comes from the highlands, some from the lowlands, important as all scotch has a regional flare to it.  What most of the world doesn’t know is where the water that is used in the distillation process comes from.

One early fall evening, after being forced to drink the awful stuff following a successful crappie expedition, and looking for a suitable place to throw up my last shot of a premium scotch, I stumbled on two kilted men, carefully ladling water out of old discarded tires into clay jugs.  Upon inquiry, they explained they were obtaining water to use in making scotch.  The water from radial tires went into premium, top shelf scotch……the water from tractor tires and bias belted tires into the lesser expensive blended scotches.  They swore me to secrecy, never a wise thing to do to a wretching, scotch soaked fisherman.  I signed nothing so……..now you know.

No doubt, my revelation concerning the origins of scotch will offend the purists among us that have “acquired” a taste for this smoky, peat moss filtered libation, and admittedly, my memory isn’t what it once was….but the vision of the two kilted gentlemen carefully ladling water is what I saw…….

That is my scotch addled memory of that fall evening, yet another reason not to drink the stuff, and I am sticking to it.

I am in phase three of cardiac rehabilitation, the result of a bad mitral valve and a crosswired electrical system.  The valve issue is old news, first diagnosed during the initial Highway Patrol physical in 1971.  With deep respect to Paul Corbin and his reliance on Dr. Kenneth Cooper, these problems really are not exercise impacted and were both solved by the wizards at the Cleveland Clinic.  I know, you are looking at the title and wondering what this has to do with the notorious Whitey Bulger.

Two weeks ago, I was dog trotting along nicely on a treadmill at the Lake Regional rehab facility when a gentleman checked in and immediately climbed onto an elliptical and began his routine which, I think, is designed to burn the damned thing up.  He was the  spitting image of James “Whitey” Bulger, the infamous boss of the Winter Hill Gang in Boston, Mass.  A cold blooded killer.   Not close, folks, but really, spooky close.  A chiseled chin, swept back white hair, stamina and a great smile…..a smile that could say “I’m getting away with something”.  I stopped in my tracks, not wise on a treadmill, and rolled off the back of the thing, all the time watching “Whitey Bulger” pounding the elliptical.  I knew this could not be Whitey, he was snatched in Florida back in June of 2011 by the FBI…………wasn’t he?  I recalled he had been an FBI informant, a clever man capable of working both sides of the street….and that he was supposed to spend the rest of his life in prison…..wasn’t he?  I introduced myself and asked if he had ever been told he resembled Whitey Bulger.  He smiled expansively and responded with “Whitey who”?   Not reassuring, believe me.  Still smiling, he told me he would Google this Mr. Bulger and read up….I grabbed my cell phone, quickly found a picture of the real Whitey Bulger and showed it to this gentleman and he smiled again, looked me squarely in the eye and said, “it makes you wonder who they really have in jail doesn’t it”………..

It was a awhile, but my heart rate finally dropped to a level that I could clear the cardiac RN’s desk and head out, another very good session in the books.  This Bulger look alike is really Mr. Bob King and he resides in Camdenton after a career as a managing engineer, mostly in Kansas.  He is an affable fellow, with a ready smile, and a great sense of humor.  During our short interview, I asked Mr. King if he had ever been to Boston.  He smiled and said………..”only on business”.

I really like Mr. King………but I am not turning my back on him, not before I read some more on the capture of Whitey down in Florida.

Think about it…….

I awoke this morning with a powerful urge to hop on the pontoon and yacht to a favorite waterfront hamburger establishment for a thick, juicy burger, fries and a light beer……I am guessing that 11 degrees and a brisk north wind has the burger joints shut down so I’ll settle for a cup of coffee in front of the fire.  That is life on the Ozark Riviera……my Neanderthal urges were likely the result of watching the KC Chiefs work their magic yesterday.

I feel sorry for the folks who are dealing with life on the other Riviera….the one over by St. Moritz, right close to St. Tropez.  What do they have to look forward to?  They will awaken looking out over spindly olive trees, with little woodsmoke as opposed to mighty oaks and the friendly smell of a hardwood fire.  It rarely frosts there, with an average low in January of 42 degrees.  Their average high temperature, in August, is 83 degrees……..boring!

While we enjoy a hearty dinner of fried chicken, maybe ribs and pulled pork or pan fried catfish, they are thinking about eating bait…..stuff like squid, snails and lots of vegetables.  To really spice it up, they will poach, POACH a fish to enjoy with a handful of nuts and more vegetables.

They are a snobby lot, thinking they have the market on tourism cornered, what with 14 million or so visitors annually…..nothing compared to a holiday here on our Riviera when St. Louis, Kansas City, most of Illinois and half of Iowa show up.  They know nothing of testosterone, too busy with trimming the sails and puttering about drinking delicate glasses of wine on their cute little sailboats …..we know horsepower, cold beer and ear splitting exhaust……

They have their Grimaldi Castle, we have Ha Ha Tonka, they have the Prince of Wales (their schools can’t be much, it is WHALE not wale) we have our Prince of Crappie ( rumored to be Ralph Biele).  They have their delicate little seaside cafes, we have the Olean Testicle Festival……

Relatively few are fortunate enough to experience life on the Ozark Riviera and Ozark Americans are among the most genuine folks on this earth.  It is up to 12 degrees now, time for the Ozark Diet’s staple start….biscuits and gravy!