Author: srj641

Leave it to an old cop to stress the importance of this day of recognition. Yesterday, June 7 was the day we pay homage to a treat that at once drains your salivary glands and clogs your arteries. I know no-one who doesn’t enjoy a doughnut or two and cup of coffee when the urge for sugar overwhelms them. Their attraction is every bit as compelling as cocaine is to Hunter. What about these little triglyceride bombs? Here is the lowdown.

They made their way to Colonial America courtesy of the Dutch. Their actual origin is a mystery, but sometime around 1847 an American named Hanson Gregory invented the machine that would punch holes in the little wads of dough, resulting in a uniform finish in hot oil. It is believed the moniker “doughboy” bestowed on our troops in France during WWI was derived from the cooking of these treats in their helmets. We also know that ladies working for the Salvation Army prowled the front lines supplying the troops with this morale boosting treat. (The USO ladies in Vietnam were often referred to as donut dollies, but I don’t recall ever seeing an actual doughnut while there.)

There are well in excess of 30 varieties of doughnuts recognized worldwide. A few of the more popular are, yeast, cake, glazed, sugar, powdered sugar, churrus, crumb, chocolate covered, creme filled, fruit filled, jelly filled, Boston Creme, crullers, long John’s and bear claws. Tazzy has a strong preference for the “holes”, perfect morsels for his Labrador appetite and an easy toss over the seat. I am sure every reader will have their favorite donut store, but the occasion is as important as the pastry. When I patrolled the Interstate Zone around Kansas City, my go to was Lamars, I think on Troost. A close patrol colleague, Ernie Raub, and I once polished off a dozen of the triglyceride bombs on the way home from a Gaming Commission meeting in Kansas City. The crime scene was a Krispy Kreme in St. Charles where the box was too hot to hold on to. Who could resist?

Forgetting my lack of standing as an officer from Missouri, I displayed terrible judgement while on vacation in Florida, going the wrong way on a street to enter a Krispy Kreme, also the wrong way in the drive through, to keep from missing a “Hot Now” sign that was of particular interest to the grand kids. You have to do what you have to do….and the doughnuts were wonderful!

How popular are these belly bombs? Krispy Kreme rakes in around 450 million a quarter in total revenues. Of course there are many other venues, all doing, I am sure, very well. Think about it? Do you have a particular favorite purveyor of these timeless delectables? I hope so…and urge you to catch up on celebrating this important day if you missed a treat yesterday.

We are entering that magic time of the year when you can enjoy life on every level that does not require snow. Get out, grab a cup and your favorite doughnut and smile. I think there just might be a Krispy Kreme in heaven……….where every day is Doughnut Day!

Get out and go….

SR

When I took off my gun-belt in early 2000, I became just another retired cop with some administrative skill and a fair measure of street smarts. I have always felt that everyone should have a marketable skill, and the realization that my skill set was limited was troubling to me. I settled on carpentry as my next adventure and hired out at a ridiculous wage to a local contractor with the understanding he was to teach me to build a house from the footings to the finish. It must have worked, as I converted those lessons into a large home on Truman Lake, both as the general contractor as well as hammer man when I could. It was a nice home that we sold at a tidy profit, overbuilt by today’s standards. I determined a couple of things along the way. I left the electrical, plumbing, roofing, and concrete work to the professionals. My framing crew was a sight, held together by their boss, a short man who was referred to as the Field Marshall, a result of his quick temper and German heritage. Remember my lessons? Concrete work was as demanding as any aspect in construction, capable of breaking the strongest man down quickly. Fast forward to our latest experience.

I am old(er). We are tired of exterior wood maintenance and decided to replace an aging wooden deck with a concrete patio. The demolition was taxing. Sorry, it was a real bitch, as we endeavored to save the wood for re-purposing rather than a burn pile. We accepted a couple of bids on the concrete and settled on TJ Rose, a local concrete contractor. His demeanor in the bid process influenced our decision. He and his Hispanic crew were tremendous to work with, with an emphasis on work. TJ is a contractor with his cell phone in his pocket and a tool in his hand. He and his guys hit the ground running and kept moving until the day was done. He is what I describe as a “working contractor” as opposed to a guy who sits in his air- conditioned truck observing from a distance. We got our money’s worth and could not be more pleased with the finished project. I am going to let the pictures do the talking.

In summary, this task was accomplished with efficiency, expertise and the preservation of my yard and fence.Working people are my favorite folks in this world, and these folks work. Around Springfield? Need concrete? Give TJ Rose a call. Next up, an all-aluminum pergola, on order.

Have a great week!

SR

Memorial Day is upon us. It is that wonderful American holiday when the living honor the dead who have set aside a part of their lives to preserve our existence in the greatest country ever conceived on the face of the earth. We are free to perceive Heaven as we think it should be. Before they adopted Christianity, the Vikings believed Heaven was compartmentalized, with a special hall dedicated to their warriors who were known to be fierce and incredibly brave. When you put on an American military uniform, your bravery is on exhibit and at least once in your life, you threw the dice with your blood on the line. The parallels between Valhalla and our Heaven are many. Let’s have a look.

Valhalla is where the Norse God, Odin, housed dead Viking warriors. The roof of Valhalla was said to be made of Viking shields supported by rafters made of spears. Every seat was made of a breast plate, scarred in mortal combat. The gates were guarded by wolves and eagles soared above keeping watch. These warriors drank the finest mead and ate only the meat of fierce boars and stags. The feast was a daily occurrence, enjoyed after a day of fighting, and all wounds were healed before retiring for the evening.

Valhalla was located in Asgard, the equivalent of our heaven, and was known to all Nordic people. Admittance to this special place was at the choosing of Odin, and only warriors were permitted. Not a warrior, you could still enjoy the rewards of Asgard, but not in this hall. The preservation of the Norse culture required warriors who were willing to shed blood in mortal combat for their fellow Norsemen, and died doing so.

In my mind, there is the equivalent of Valhalla in our heaven. On this earth, as we know it, fighting and dying is always going to happen and precious few have actually agreed to carry on in the fight to preserve what we enjoy. In Norse lore, it was an honor to close with the enemy and vanquish or be vanquished to protect their way of life. While we owe a tremendous debt to our veterans who have died in the defense of our country, they also owe our countrymen for the opportunity to enter our Valhalla. It must be a glorious place.

May God richly bless the veterans who died in the service of America. They are enjoying their heavenly reward having been admitted to the equivalent Valhalla in our Heaven. We would not exist without them.

Enjoy the Holiday and never forget.

Madison Avenue’s advertising geniuses are adept at promoting foods that are attractive to the eye, and laden with sugar, the stuff that inhabits the inner aisles of our grocery stores and the outer aisles of our vast C-Store empires. In a conversation recently, Sharon and I talked about the mistakes we have made in nutrition and our late entry into the world of food that our parents and grandparents accepted as a way of life. The deadliest place in America is not the streets of Chicago or New York, rather it is the inner aisles of your local grocery, America’s real Death Valley, where sugar and processed foods reign supreme.

We spend billions searching for the magic bullet to cure or block cancer and metabolic disease, and billions promoting the sugary garbage found in Death Valley where we cruise through pushing huge carts to haul our assortment of glittery packaged foods that give rise to the research into curing our disease processes rather than preventing them. You don’t need advanced degrees to understand what folks with these degrees are talking about when they warn us to clean up our dietary habits. I just read an article in The Epoch Times, perhaps the cleanest source of factual information currently available to us, about the latest discoveries by cancer researchers that have finally uncovered the mechanism that definitively links cancer to our diet. All the science you need is found in these words, “MGO, a glucose metabolite, can temporarily destroy the BRCA2 protein, reducing its levels in cells and inhibiting its tumor-preventing ability”. Let me help you with this thought, sugar kills you in more ways than you can count.

I was privileged to reside in Okinawa for three years. Okinawans seem to live forever. Indeed it is a blue zone, where folks routinely live to see 100 years. Their diet sees little sugar, in spite of America’s western influences promoting the garbage we refer to as food. They eat vegetables and seafood, mostly, with a little meat thrown in once in a while. The renowned Mediterranean diet is not Little Debbie cakes and Fruity Pebbles.

Remember your grandmother’s table? The garden, either direct to the table, or out of a Mason jar, was ever present. She would not have fed Ramen Noodles or Coca Puffs to the chickens out back. Cancer was less prevalent in those days, mostly enabled by genetic predisposition or the chemicals we bathed in enhancing agricultural production, not so much sugar.

Sharon and I have cleaned up our food choices in the past decade or two, but honestly, it is like showing up at a house fire with a fire extinguisher. The damage is done. Talk to your children and grandchildren. If it is wrapped or boxed and the ingredient list is more than 3 items long, help them to understand the danger. Teach them to stay out of Death Valley. Metabolic disease and cancer is, as they say, a hell of a price to pay for surrendering to Madison Avenue and a food industry intent on killing us in the name of profit.

Have a great week!

SR

Words have meanings and meanings change, depending on the part of the country you are standing in, tradition and custom. These subtle aberrations in the spoken word are referred to as colloquialisms, language outside of rigid, literary or formal language. They often find themselves in written language as well. Linguists can determine the region that folks are from by listening carefully to the nuances of their spoken word or by studying their written words, assuming the writer isn’t hung up on formal discourse. Here is where I am going with this.

A gentleman works out at the gym most mornings that I am there. The guy has thin legs but is a hulk from the waist up and constantly engages in an exercise designed to strengthen his legs. He picks up an incredibly heavy free weight, the kind that slides onto a bar, and cradles it while walking the track. His gait is steady and determined and he walks for quite awhile. We exchange pleasantries as I walk past him after my exercise regimen, and I usually offer a bit of humor as I pass him. His regimen takes me back to the age of 10 when I was challenged by my grandfather to pick up a watermelon from our South Carolina watermelon patch and “tote” it to the house where we would break it open and eat the sweet center or “heart” of the melon before I was to “tote” the remainder to the pig pen to the delight of the hogs. In the Deep South, in those days, you toted stuff….not carried. “Carry” was reserved for another kind of movement.

On our Saturday morning drives into town, McIntyres Feed store specifically, if I was to go along, I was “carried” to town not driven. You carried folks in the old truck, which was a half ton powder blue Ford, with a bench designed for a driver and two passengers. If a person needed a ride, the offer was to carry him, not drive him. In Missouri, generally speaking, tote and carry mean entirely different things.

I told my friend at the gym this story and when we see each other these days, we agree he is toting the weight in deference to my southern heritage. We agree on another aspect of my experience as a boy. We would each much prefer to tote a weight as opposed to a watermelon. You can hold on to the weight in a variety of ways but a big watermelon is a pain to tote very far. Japan has recently perfected growing square watermelons, seriously, which would make toting much simpler!

There are hundreds of regional colloquialisms out there, but they are being screened out of our discourse by the incredible mobility of today’s population. Missouri is where north meets south, and the variances are less apparent, but there is a remarkable difference in language patterns from, say Michigan to South Carolina. I was fairly adept at correctly guessing the home region of folks I encountered on the road after just a short conversation, but could nail it if they offered tote and carry in the southern tradition.

Have a great day!

SR

The difference in males and females didn’t interest me much until about 1960, when I hit the age of 10. We were living in Okinawa and I developed a fascination with a classmate named Joanne Kaneshiro. Joanne was cute as hell, dressed well for a kid that age and possessed a confident way about her that captivated me. She was also smart enough to keep boys out of her realm, preferring the company of other girls who shared her aptitudes. Sex wasn’t on my radar scope, just the allure of cute, cuddly and totally aloof. I had no idea this fascination would follow me my entire life, providing some wonderful memories and, being fair, same damned tough times as well.

Enter the ‘60’s and my fascination took a dramatic turn. It was then I understood why the Master made boys and girls different and equipped us with mean little glands producing testosterone and estrogen with a few other hormones thrown in. It has been a whirlwind since. In High School I was truly thankful, in Biblical terms, for the differences between a man and a women. I was fascinated by baseball, fast cars and pretty girls , and not necessarily in that order. The laws of nature be damned, I knew full well that fastball, belt high, down the middle, to a good hitter, was gonna lose you a baseball over the fence. I knew there was always a faster car out there when you slipped out onto I-44 and paired them off in an illegal “speed contest upon a public highway”, and that pretty girls could play hell with your judgement and previously established course in life. I outgrew baseball, quit street racing when I entered the Army and am still confounded by the mystery of the female mind and allure. That is as it has always been.

The point is this. In the golden age of sexual politics, we knew who the players were. With rare exception, I could readily identify the closest human being as a male or female. Sexual aberrations existed, but tended to stay within the lanes. Males were males and females were females. Today, you are going to get your ass in a crack (so to speak) by prejudging gender by appearance. As an example, I try to compliment people that I interact with, which sets a nice tone for the interaction. We drove through one of the myriad of coffee purveyors last week, and the comely young roadside barista had really gorgeous nails and other wise seemed to comport to the standards of an attractive young lady. I complimented her on her nails, and in return in a distinctly male baritone voice, HE thanked me. I was stunned…….she was, at some point, a he and I assumed otherwise. Sharon smiled, sensing my disbelief, and as we drove off reminded me to never assume when it comes to sexuality. I like the old days better, when I, beyond a reasonable doubt, knew what or who in the hell I was dealing with.

It is complicated out there and I am getting old. It is not fair to challenge a 70+ old man with sexual ambiguity. I still admire a confident, attractive lady at any age, but don’t need the added responsibility of establishing gender in an effort to rely on the appropriate pronoun when addressing them. To the ladies before this confusing era, who were proud of their gender, God bless you. To the gender shifting folks that have become popular today, my apologies. I was relying on old, reliable science when I made the assumptions that are sure to offend you. Now I have this to worry about!

Have a great week!

SR

This year’s Masters Tournament reminds us that Mother Nature is in charge. She is, however, off her meds, evidenced by the winds this spring, which are playing hell with just about every pursuit in the great outdoors. We keep flags in stock as the wind destroys even the best triple stitched offerings from US manufacturers. Wind always presents a problem for folks who fish, hunt, boat, canoe, golf, motorcycle jockeys, pilots and folks who drive convertibles. In fact, outside of buzzards, hawks, sailing ships and wind farm owners…..there are really few admirers of wind.

To be fair, wind has some advantages. It disperses plant seed in a process called anemochory, as well as pollen. When plants are dispersed by the wind, they release a hormone, “auxin”, that stimulates cell growth. Enough botany, the point is you have to really look to find the positive attributes of wind. Botany aside, a little science is in order.

Wind is the product of the uneven heating of the earth by the sun. It is also the movement of air from a high pressure zone to a low pressure zone. The average wind speed in Springfield is highest between October 15th and May 17th, when it averages 7.6 MPH. So far in 2024 it has averaged 11.6 MPH. Climatologists love labels, climate change, weather cycling and such…but we Ozarkians will tell you we have had a hell of a lot of wind lately. My instrumentation is comprised of a flag on a pole and the effort to paddle a long eddy against the wind on a float trip. My suspicions are confirmed when I drive a topless Orange Crush in a cross wind, and have to hold my hat on much like Junior did for Sheriff Justice in Smokey and the Bandit. My anemometer is a long pole with a crappie jig and a big bow in the line resulting in the necessity for tired old eyes to watch for the “tic” in the line telling me the slab has it. City folks need a meteorologist to help them with the weather, while hill folks step out the door to check their weather rock. We learned a long time ago what wind means when you pee outside.

Wind, at its most destructive as in the Hurricane of 1780 which killed some 20,000 people in the Caribbean, or the 1970 Cyclone in India that killed 300,000 people is nothing to be trifled with. We are fortunate (outside of our experience with tornadoes) but still prefer wind closer to the old averages. I can’t imagine life in Dorothy’s Kansas, where the wind never stops. Enough with the wind, Mother Nature, we want to go out and play!

Have a great week!

SR

The real costs in today’s economy were driven home this past week. Throughout most of my life, I have avoided paying someone to do what I could do for myself. Age and circumstance have reduced the range of everyday considerations that I once was able to tackle with a little guidance and research, to an embarrassingly short list. As an example, working off a ladder is not in my wheelhouse any longer and I never had the aptitude to mess with electricity or anything that water runs through, but could tackle a minor plumbing issue or reset a breaker. This week, I was exposed to the cost of hiring pros to do jobs that I could not handle. You, too, may find yourself in this dilemma.

Earlier this week, I drove the Orange Crush to my local tire shop for a routine tire rotation, included in the outrageous price of the run flat, low profile tires required on the little car. The wheels each had a locking lug bolt (European cars have bolts, not nuts). The locks were frozen, and the key did not budge them. Off to the BMW dealer, who has master keys, who promptly broke two of his master keys leaving one of the lockers intact. The service manager was kind, and since they were unable to complete the job, sent me on my way for a nominal charge. I then cruise into my mechanic who had the tools to drill the lock bolt and remove it. He did not need to drill, as one of the techs was experienced with this problem and was able to remove the bolt. This adventure cost over 400.00. I go back to the tire shop,where we discover one of the non-locking bolts is also very tight, and now rounded off. They sent me to yet another shop, where a tech had a special tool for frozen nuts/bolts and 10 minutes in, removed the bolt, without drilling. I have no idea what this charge was as it was passed directly to the tire retailer, who by the way is the only place the lug bolts on this car have been touched. My tire dealer, Discount Tire, has been gold relative to this adventure, stepping up and paying for the bolt problem in the form of a credit at the store, covering the exorbitant expense to date. I have installed new, non-locking bolts and will never use the locking kind again (they were original equipment on the car).

We are doing a gradual re-model and asked an electrician to offer a cost proposal for a list of some 7 routine issues. Installation of a hard wired range hood being the most challenging, with a new entry light fixture and a non functioning porch light socket and replacement of garage door lamps being included. It was easily a day’s work for an experienced tech. They came back with a proposal of over 4,000 to handle these projects. My response was hell no. The problem is, this job is apparently a nuisance to the guys making good money on big projects. We are still looking although the last company wanted 70.00 to come by and offer a proposal.

Let’s wrap this up. At our Ram dealer, the hourly rate for a mechanic is just under 150.00. The hourly rate for a tech at the garage that freed the sticky bolt is 168.00. US Automotive, that was able to remove the frozen lock bolt is 128.00. These shops all demand, and are getting, north of 130.00 to change the oil in the Crush. These are tasks that I did for myself once upon a time, but are no longer within my capabilities. Do I begrudge these guys. No……..with emphasis, I do not. It is the price of living in the vicious inflationary climate that exists today. We are all in this race, and unless something tames inflation, we are going to sink. All things are possible with enough time, money and tools. Tell that to the 176 folks just laid off at the Bass Pro boat manufacturing division, because of “inflation, interest rates and the economy”. (We have a chance to flatten this trajectory in November….)

Experience and skill has a price.

Have a great week!

SR

This week started out pretty normal for a couple of aging middle Americans enjoying good health and many of the advantages that living in a conservative state offer. There is no evidence of defunding our police and we are free to own whatever appliances and cars we want to, within reason of course. We are not washing our clothes on a flat rock in a creek somewhere and our water comes through a pipe and not out of a cistern or hand dug well. We have however, reached the conclusion the conveniences of modern ordinary Americans is undoubtedly in the hands of a genie, like the Wizard of Oz, sitting at a console someplace, whose job it is to keep us grounded in reality and level the playing field.

When you get ahead a bit, the genie checks the work sheet and sends a reminder not to get complacent and confident. When Sharon slips into a room and calls me SR with just the right inflection and tone, I know something is off the tracks. This week was an example of the genie (probably sitting in China where most of what we use today is manufactured) catching us up on sticker shock and reality.

Our washer and dryer was in appliance hospice. Weak but functioning, with anybody’s guess as to when it was going to throw ace/deuce and put us in panic mode. Sharon listed the tired old appliances on a Facebook marketplace and gained 16 responses in 30 minutes. We recouped a pittance toward the purchase of new stuff priced high enough to require a stout Gin and Tonic and a moment of reflection. It was installed and promptly began leaking (drain hose improperly affixed to the machine) which is a good thing as we then discovered the dryer vent hose was not properly connected to the outlet. (The installers are connected to the genie)

Wednesday of this week, Sharon walks into my office with that easily recognized “SR’ and told me the microwave would not heat her coffee. It was, in fact, dead, making all the appropriate noises with no function. It had been repaired, under warranty, about a year ago. The warranty was expired (late March). We are replacing the microwave with a range hood and going to a table top model. Anyone working in an office knows these last for years, weaker but functioning.

Yesterday I slipped out to get the first rotation of the tires on the Orange Crush. The tech walked into the waiting area and told me they could not get the locking lug bolts to break free with the provided key. I took the car to the local BMW dealer who has master keys to handle this job. The tech found me after a bit and told me he broke two master keys but one of the bolts would not break free ( I wanted all lock bolts removed and thrown in the river, replaced with normal lug bolts.) He said they would likely have to drill the bolt out and ruin the wheel in doing so. The estimate was $1,498.00. My response was, with emphasis, “oh hell no”. I am still researching my options here. (Before you ask, the tire dealer assured me the bolts were hand torqued when I bought these tires 6 months ago.) Any ideas out there would be appreciated.

The genie has exacted a toll this week and we need no further evidence of the inflationary cycle we are living in. I want to find him, buy him a drink, and send him to Jeff Bezos’ place where money is not a concern. We have replaced nearly every damned appliance in our home and I have asked Sharon to please approach me carefully when the HVAV system goes on the fritz. We plan to take every extended warranty we are offered, something I have never considered before now, just to provide some peace of mind. Our neighbors have asked us to not touch anything major in their home and to put in a word with the genie if I can find him.

I mean nothing personal if you call me by name and I respond with “hell no”. It is a conditioned reflex and I am a little jumpy these days. Such is life in the middle class where convenience comes with a price!

Have a great week!

SR

At 74 YOA, you would think I could be trusted to go out in the world and buy a dozen doughnuts, or God forbid, a washer and dryer. It turns out that I am woefully unqualified for either endeavor, having failed to grasp the nuances of venturing forth in the retail world. These things become apparent when an ordinary buyer, me, marries a consummate shopper, Sharon. I have been schooled, but sincerely doubt I’ll meet the standards for membership in the exclusive group of folks who strike fear in the best sales representatives out there. Let me explain.

A week or so ago, in our quest to sample the table fares of eateries in Springfield, we hit a little eatery that was, well dismal. We saddled up, and decided on a doughnut to assuage our hunger. I was driving and slid comfortably in the drive through at a local Krispy Kreme. Then the wheels, so to speak, fell off. I thought a half dozen doughnuts with a single creme filled kicker, ought to do the job for Taz, Sharon and me. If you are up to speed at this point, you are a buyer, not a shopper. Between the ordering kiosk and the window, I learned that I had botched this entire experience up. I learned that if you order a dozen instead of merely 6, your next visit would net you a free dozen. Who would have thought it. I also learned the deal was for glazed and the creme filled kicker killed the deal, unless ordered in addition to the dozen not in place of one of the dozen. I next learned the creme filled was not what I wanted, rather I wanted a Bavarian Creme filled. Finally, the cost of 6 of the cursed things was just a few bucks less than a dozen, which Sharon earmarked 6 for our neighbors who liked doughnuts. If I am able shake this experience off, I am going to ask my attorney to go with me the next time I have a hankering for a doughnut.

Shaken, but not undaunted, Sharon and I ventured out to buy a washer and dryer to replace the 10 year old machines that had served us well, but were exhibiting signs of imminent failure, ready for washing machine hospice. I thought that learning to fly was challenging but it is nothing compared to selecting a new washer. Sharon, again, was well ahead of the curve in her research, schooling me on the differences between impellers and agitators with a subtle reference to hybrids, reflecting both features at once. Next I was schooled on the merits and demerits of top load vs. front load, and now can carry forth with the best washer salesmen (women) out there. Finally, I can cite facts and figures from a number of reputable sources as to the performance, reputation and serviceability of the major brands on the market. I was ready to write the check after the first of 6 stops in Springfield, which would have been a critical error. Sharon, with her research and study of no less than 10 reviews, telephoning of friends and relatives literally all over the country, was focused, leaving me feeling like the guy tossing balls at Bozo the clown at the State fair. She finally settled on exactly what she wanted and Costco will be delivering it next week.

It is always this way. I am a buyer, a mark to even the most inexperienced sales staff out there. My union with a professional shopper has saved me from the blissful, challenged man at home choking down the wrong kind of doughnut while his new washer clangs around, using too much water and not deep cleaning as some of the newer technology does. The washer would have been too small to knock out a comforter and Tazzy’s blankets and certainly would have been configured incorrectly.

I am a buyer in remission. She is my perfect companion, with her deft ability to steer me away from dreaded buyers remorse, likely a fatal malady at my advanced age. God bless you kiddo and stay close. I appreciate your allowing me to buy guns, boats and tools….although experience has taught me to run even these things by you!

Have a great week!

SR