Uncategorized – srj641

Old Sol…..

I am on the deck early, enjoying coffee and thinking about the coming few days in the company of Old Sol, a sometimes friend and often a nasty companion. It is 82 degrees at 5 AM and promises to be a mid 90’s day with plenty of humidity to ice the cake. My thoughts have drifted to the times when I was unbearably hot, marveling at our ability to adjust and survive.

I spent several of my early years in places like rural South Carolina and Okinawa. Both locales will dish out plenty of heat, but when you are a kid, it makes little difference. Growing up leaves little time to worry about the weather, and my memory of those years is dim. In another trip down memory lane I recall several occasions when I seriously wondered if I was going to make it.

I began my Army service with basic training in a sand trap in July. Sorry, but that is how I remember Ft. Polk, La. July and August of 1969 were hell on earth with heat indexes off the charts, a matter of passing concern for the US Army. We were face down in the sand for calisthenics at day break, sweat pouring off you and consuming a steady diet of salt tablets. Our uniforms were covered in sand, sweat and the white residue from the incredible amount of salt deemed healthy back then. We cooled off by marching to some training area in the company of Old sol, thirsty but alive. One blistering day found us in a line, arms bared walking between two medics nailing you with those pneumatic vaccine guns popular in that era. A number of my contemporaries passed out, not a popular thing to do under the circumstances.

Another memorable experience was climbing into a Cessna 162 with my instructor, building time and gaining experience. There are two tiny air vents on the side windows of these little jewels and it was so oppressive, my instructor, a super pilot named Jeanne’, thought to bring iced towels in a cooler to lay on our necks. Really small airplanes are like greenhouses when you are buttoned up in them.

There were about 300 of these hotboxes built before Cessna gave up on them

My listing is not inclusive, however two other occasions had me at my survival limits. As a young trooper, I was called to an accident on I-70 involving a car full of folks, a Buick, turned upside down in a ditch with the makings of a picnic lunch all over them. It was nearly a hundred and there was little air down in that ditch as we extricated these folks through a back window, not seriously hurt but covered in potato salad and beans. Obviously it didn’t kill me, but I am sure St. Peter was standing at the top of that ditch just in case. We wore long sleeve, wool shirts in those days.

Finally, I vividly recall an outdoor wedding feast in the Florida Keys, a beautiful evening, however: the Keys were under an excessive heat advisory. Need I say more? I soaked through my tropical attire……and lived to tell the story by way of ice water poured on my wrists discreetly under the table.

We all are here, better for the experience. A famous man once quipped, “If it doesn’t kill you, it makes you stronger”. Old Sol has tested all of us at some point and I take pleasure in your presence to read these remarks. We beat him…..now is not the time to quit.

Squeaky Wheels..

Yesterday I authored a post expressing my utter frustration with insurance, Medicare and a recalcitrant provider system, so we went to work on the phones for a couple of hours. We started with my very patient Doctor’s office, all of whom have to be in counseling over the handling of the governments so called “bridge” program. This program is designed for old people like me to gain access to the GLP-1 medicines to manage weight. You must meet a couple of requirements related to health to qualify, conditions that most of us are familiar with. There was some urgency as when I became involved in this quest, the prescription for Zepbound I was taking at my own expense was cancelled. Competent physicians and insurers frown on multiple Rx’s for a given med. If enough time lapses between doses of these meds……you start over with micro doses……the physiology is the domain of medical specialists, not me. Thus the urgency

The issue was simple. I could not find exactly where my new Rx was in the food chain. It was the tweed ring on steroids, everybody pointing at someone else as the cause in the delay. Sharon and I began working the phones, asking pointed but reasonable questions, always polite and deferential. I know when I am being blown off and, well, Sharon is a walking polygraph. Answers were like assembling a picture puzzle with pieces from different boxes.

We determined that Mercy Medical relies on an in-house “prior authorization group” to obtain prior approval. The system has your records and they can do the research, submit the forms and make life easier. This is a secret place. The word is mum and they will not tell you what is going on with a given request, however you can plant the seeds of discontent. We also managed to get to the right person in Mercy administration which immediately prompted their dive into the problem on our behalf. Next is our insurer. They could not have been nicer or more efficient but knew virtually nothing except that Medicare had to approve this med and then they would cover it. Next was Medicare where you need a law degree, medical degree and the tenacity of a bulldog with a toothache. We finally learned my request had been received and was in queue……

The conclusion to this novel. We must have stepped on the right toes as suddenly my pharmacy received the documentation necessary to fill the script under the bridge program. I will have the med Monday.

The saga isn’t over. Out of concern for a gap in using this medicine, I thoughtlessly ordered the med from one of the recommended online providers, sent my money and, on the same day, tried to cancel the order because the bridge came through. Their adds say you can cancel anytime but they don’t want to refund my payment for a 3 month supply. Believe me, they will or I will turn their lives into a living hell online. I DO NOT recommend you go this route and I did so against the sound advice of both my physician and pharmacist. PM me and I will explain why, beyond the obvious.

Thanks for indulging me and maybe this treatise will help you. I abhor incompetence and was subjected to it in this process. In summary, the problem lies with Medicare, not my provider, not our insurer and not Mercy systems. all of this occurred yesterday, a day’s work.

The squeaky wheel gets the oil!

Steve

The Horizon….

Explorers have long looked to the horizon in anticipation of what lies ahead. It is a wise man who keeps his eyes on the horizon as not only beautiful things lurk beyond it, but evil and stupidity also lurk just beyond.

Under the Biden administration, a grant was granted to the National Institute of Dental and Craniofacial Research, a subsidiary of the National Institutes of Health which funded an item titled “Integrating firearm secure storage counseling into dental practice: opportunities for dental practice-based research.” This program was published in the May 2025 Journal of the American Dental Association. This nonsense was the brainchild of former Attorney General Murthy’s stewardship, in short another angle in the attack on gun ownership. Dentists, it was suggested, should inquire about the safe storage of firearms in the home, thus providing an opportunity to lecture them about gun safety.

Holy smokes, somehow oral hygiene, to these small minded people, is related to gun safety. To a gullible electorate, firearms were being treated like some dread pathogen and needed to be eradicated. They have actually conducted studies concluding that gun violence is more prevalent in poorer neighborhoods who lack access to dental care. No kidding. These studies and conclusions were conducted on your and my dime, absurdity at its best. These folks actually believed that dentistry had the potential to be at the forefront of reducing gun violence. These are the same rocket scientists that believe it is a good thing to teach your 1st graders about the benefits of sex change, so they may be prepared for the confusion that may occur later in their childhood.

Say what? I have a toothache and you are worried about my neighborhood and gun safety????

Why do I talk about this? The Democratic Party, where liberals cohabitate and produce more liberals, have not gone away. They are wounded by the realities of conservatism under the current administration and are currently hiding under rocks and in shallow holes until the tempest passes. They are in fact, lurking just beyond the horizon. The real problem is that such idiocy as this sucker punch with Dental professionals, is the tip of the iceberg. They will stop at absolutely nothing, as evidenced by the political successes of suited up clowns like Mamdani and the bright blue haired freak that walks the halls of Congress. These folks, remember, allegedly garnered a majority of the vote somewhere in America.

The current administration is burning time and elections will again be the talk of the times. You want to be lectured by your dentists about gun safety and the need for male athletes to shoot up with various hormones and kick your daughter ass in a track meet? Easy, get up, put your blinders on and leave these decisions to the idiots who will soon be digging out of their holes and attempt to convince you that cavities and gingivitis can be stopped cold by storing your firearms safely. That is the new horizon.

“Speaking of oral hygiene, where do you keep your firearms?”

We enjoy a wonderful nation, governed by a flawed but somehow effective process. What a great place to live…..but it requires maintenance. Never drop your guard. Be ready for your dentist to back you into the chair while he or she explains how your handgun, if not locked in a safe where it is useless when a thug is standing at the foot of your bed, drooling over your wife, is going to result in the necessity for a root canal.

I kid you not…..

Holy Smokes……

Last night, actually this morning at 2AM, we were awakened by an explosion. I kid you not, I hopped up to see which house in the neighborhood was leveled by what had to be a horrible natural gas explosion. I was wrong.

Somebody, one street removed, and surely liquored up, thought the middle of the night would be a great time to set his fireworks off. This explosion, rivaling the blast of incoming mortar rounds in Vietnam, was followed by 3 more similar bangs. I will check this morning, but would not be surprised to find the street in front of their house cratered. He (she) surely has access to dynamite from a construction site. Such was the blast(s). I am no stranger to blasts, and this was a dandy series.

The wife of a Patrol colleague, many years ago, operated a fireworks stand on the Missouri line up north. He was modest about the profitability, but I suspected she did very well. On every corner, it seems, around Springfield, there is a tent, mostly bigger than ever, where fireworks are sold. In 2024, not an Anniversary year, America spent about 2.7 billion on fireworks. Listen up, 2.3 billion was spent by the consumer (tents) leaving a paltry .4 billion expended in commercial displays! Wonder which state is the fireworks leader? Look no further than home, where in 2025 Missourians spent 13.84 per person on fireworks. About 30% of these expenditures were online.The average back yard display set the shooter back between 200 and 500 dollars. Missourians, one hell of a patriotic folk, is just ahead of Nebraska and Kansas in sales. We have lots of rural ground and are flyover patriotic reflecting our love for this country.

Uh oh. The down side. In 2025 there was an estimated 13,029 fireworks caused visits to an ER (nationwide). Folks under 30 made up 63% of those injuries. I’m guessing they are more likely to to say “hold my beer and watch this”. Breaking this down, predictably, 29% of these injuries were to the hands and fingers and 19% to the head, face and ears. Eyes made up about 16%.

But wait, there is more. Americans while lighting them up, consumed over 150 million hotdogs, this in spite of 85% of folks grilling hamburgers and steaks! Wow, have times changed. Americans spent 8.9 billion on food on the 4th with about another 3.7 billion spent on alcohol. Finally, 56% of these expenditures were from Wal-Mart.

On a personal note, I worked many, many 4th Holidays while on the road and they all seemed to generate a tragedy, namely death and destruction. For me, it was the worst holiday period in a calendar year.

America is 250 years old. Enjoy this special 4th Of July, celebrate wisely, keep the Pepto Bismal close and stay out of the ER’s.

America has it going! Charge on……

Age And Circumstances….

Off and on deluges today have provided the perfect opportunity to sit around with the Command Staff (Sharon and Kai) and think about my age and circumstances and how they co-exist. The males in my lineage do not enjoy longevity, making me an exception to the early demise plague in the Johnson line. Still yet, I am having as much fun as is possible, seeing new things and enjoying new experiences. I would, however be less than candid if I failed to note things I miss in my life over the years.

In the outdoor world, I really miss the sound of the transom of a bass boat as it first slaps the water on an early Truman Lake morning. Arthritis and hand surgeries (4) have precluded the sound of a bass breaking water when hooked up or the gentile plop of a crappie jig in a promising spot. I recall with a smile a momma goose scolding us as we got the boat too close to her nest. I will never forget breakfast in a mom and pop restaurant with my fishing friends and the anticipation of a day on the water. I no longer burn wood, thus have sold my chainsaws and splitter. The scent of woodsmoke from an old stove should be bottled and sold as cologne. My hands have long ago negated the early morning summer rides on a motorcycle, catching the familiar smells of farm country where freshly turned earth and mowed hay offers the security we take for granted.

Honestly, I miss the feel and excitement of a Patrol Cruiser as you break 100 MPH in pursuit of a violator or handling some exigent circumstance requiring a police presence. An early breakfast and coffee stop in a local cafe, in uniform, always resulted in conversations with the locals who appreciated your presence, and I theirs. The sound of a jail cell door closing behind a miscreant, particularly a drunk driver, always made me smile.

Interviewing perspective guests for a free night at the county jail!

I miss the drum of a big green tractor as you till a field or the sound of a barber apron snapped open before a haircut and catching up on the news of the day in banter with the barbers. Finally, I suspect I have seen my last pain free day, arthritis and surgical corrections of a recalcitrant shoulder remind me that I am deep into the “golden years”. Please do not consider my musings as complaints or regret at today’s existence. I am in the middle of a good run and thank the Lord for giving me what I prayed for as a young man. Our life is as good as it gets…..given my age and circumstance and I hope you can say the same.

Have a great week!

Happy Father’s Day….

A short note today to wish all the father’s out there a Happy Father’s Day. There exists a lot of confusion today on the definitions of a father, to be expected from a society that his having a great deal of trouble discerning the difference between a man and a woman, both necessary to produce a child, thus the holiday “Father’s Day”.

Around our compound, a week or so in front of a holiday, the question hangs in the air like a dense river fog on the Gasconade on a summer morning. What do you want for Father’s Day? (Mother’s Day, birthday, etc.) More about that shortly.

Being a father isn’t easy, not to take away from being a mom…..I am confident my father, not a patient man, gave occasional thought to eliminating my presence as a favor to the world. It all came together, though, I became productive and fulfilled his vision early on that I would end up a “cop” or game warden somewhere, as my interests always were thus focused. He did not choose those vocations, but demanded productivity. It is all we can ask of our children, as their choices in life are theirs to make.

Kids are vexing. Of that’s there can be no doubt. Dad’s wander about wondering why it is we can not put their knowledge and experience to work for us, before remembering they suffered the same lack of focus. It is a fate that will forever remain wrapped in mystery.

Here it is. Thanks dad for imparting the wisdom I needed and did not ignore. Thanks for emphasizing the importance of reasonable behavior, sometimes at the end of a belt applied with love, and for honest assessments of situations I managed to get myself into. Thanks for pointing out the obvious, and starting my productivity cycle at the age of 15 in the form of an introduction to my first employer at the Ft. Leonard Wood Commissary where I mastered the art of bagging groceries.

Being a dad isn’t easy…..except when it is!

With all my heart, I wish you were still here. I hope I met your expectations. As for what I want for Father’s Day, the answer is simple but impossible. I want my life to continue as it is, two terrific and responsible kids, four grandchildren who understand productivity, a patient and knowing wife, a house and a young pup with lot’s of promise, and more years to fine tune that existence. I want those around me to respect me and at least give deference to the opinions I deserve to have. Is this too much? I think not…

Seventy-Six Years In The Acquisition Business…

I was languishing around the pool yesterday, a great place to avoid Sharon and her siren cry “honey, I need your help a minute”. At my advanced age, I still fall for the “minute” part. “There ain’t no such thing” my Ozark buddies would say. The pool is a first for me and I likely wouldn’t have one if Miss Sharon were less compelling……and she was right all along. My thought processes gravitated to the many things that were first acquisitions for me. A look back …..

My first shotgun was a Remington 1100, 12 ga with a 26” improved cylinder barrel, bought at the Ft. Leonard Wood PX (post exchange). My first rifle, from the same store was a 94 Winchester .30-30. I managed to dispatch a truck load of game with these “weapons of war” as the liberals would say. My first knife was a Schrade Old Timer, a dandy, but tough to keep sharp. My first rod and reel was a Garcia Conolon rod sporting a Mitchell 300 reel. My first “bass lure” was a bag of Creme Worms, purple in color, accompanied by a bag of 1/4 oz slip weights. It was deadly on the Chattahooche river that ran close by. My first dog was a fawn Boxer, whose full name was “Count Beano of Somerset”. I liked Beano, but had yet to develop my love for dogs.

My first chain saw was a Homelite 150 with a 16” bar. It was weak but light, a perfect saw for a novice sawyer. My very first hammer was a Estwing and I still have it, although the rubber handle is now hard as rock. My first power tool was Craftsman 1/4” drill, weak as a kitten. My first car, owned for a couple of months, was a red Simca, made in France and an abomination. It was followed by a red ‘67 GTO, still in my dreams to this day. My first owned home was a 12X60 mobile home with a Coleman furnace, mostly frozen plumbing and cooled by a window A/C that managed to cool the front room only. My first tractor was a high wheeled, Massey 65, gas, wide front. I am lucky to be alive as I mowed a hilly piece of ground with the damned thing, designed for perfectly flat row cropping. My first garden tiller was an Ariens front tine. It would beat you to death, but worked fine and was bullet proof. My first TV was a Zenith black and white, with a cable that ran from a pole mounted antenna. My first radio was a Sanyo transistor at the age of 13.

Each acquisition, back in the day, required a capital layout that strained a very limited budget. Credit cards didn’t exist as it was cash on the barrel head. I began gainful employment as a carry out boy, then EM in the service and state trooper. In the day, such employment left little room for extravagance. Since the beginning, I have owned an embarrassing array of cars, guns, tools, sporting equipment and fine knives. You might say blessed in a different way than Elon Musk, America’s first trillionaire businessman. You wouldn’t know it though…… it has been a good run….if not shamelessly materialistic. We all have a story…..think about your firsts….

Have a good week…

Pool Rules…..

Carnival Cruise lines has warned their guests that one needs to be careful what kind of swimming attire is appropriate for some of their ports of call. Monokinis, string thongs, and manikinis is are frowned upon. Forgive me, but we decided that before the summer season starts rolling, our pool needs rules. After all, we are first time pool people. Bear with me.

No running unless you are wearing a hockey helmet and non slip combat boots. If you fall and cut yourself, bleed on the lawn, not in the pool.
Swim at your own risk, your lifeguard is easily distracted.
Uttering “hold my beer” or “hey y’all watch this” is prohibited.
If inebriated, kindly throw up on the lawn and not in the water.
We are old, skinny dipping when we are cold sober is prohibited. We do not have a defibrillator. We do have a privacy fence, but our neighbors have ladders. You’ll end up on YouTube.
Deck chairs are not pool toys.
Our pool does not exist for us to care for your spawn from Satan kids.
Men need to remember that “my God she is only 14” needs to be understood.
We have swim wear rules too. String bikinis are prohibited if you are over 50. Men of all ages are prohibited from wearing banana hammocks. Your gift from God is your business not our guests.
If you have open sores, lacerations or loose bowels, please go to the Urgent care and forgo a day in our pool.
We provide red solo cups for you and us to enjoy your beverages of choice that you have brought. (Don’t forget ice)
Kai, our pool dog, lifeguard and companion will join you in the pool at his convenience. Do not give him alcohol.
Bring food. We love wings and pizza. Grandmas casseroles, soup and funeral potatoes are discouraged.
If you have no idea whether or not you are a man or woman, stop by, we’ll provide a map to the James River where you can swim too!

There you have it. Bring cold beer, pizza or a tub of wings, leave the kids with a sitter (unless really good kids) and come on. (Bring a chew toy for the lifeguard) Call first, I’ll have to wake the lifeguard!

Pool Administrator

Image Armor…

While attending the FBI National Academy, I chose an elective entitled stress management. It was taught by a couple of FBI psychologists who were supremely capable of delivering the sobering news. Policing is a high stress occupation and one where we often mask our true feelings. This mask was deemed “image armor” and recently my old agency experienced the true meaning of this descriptive.

What is the difference between an emergency room physician and a police officer aside from the obvious? ER docs tend to be in absolute control of their emotions, reacting mechanically to the event confronting them. They are wrapped in the trappings of extensive, grueling training in emergency medicine and are surrounded by a team of like minded professionals and the latest in technology enabling them to make life saving decisions on the run. Even so, they do not always enjoy success in their personal lives.

Police officers are often confronted with the same gruesome circumstances in a world where they are not supported by an immaculately trained staff, have only rudimentary equipment, often with families present and hellish circumstances they have no control whatsoever over. The stoic image we attempt to project is just that, an image. We are trained to respond coolly, maintain control, administer basic life saving measures while lending dignity to scenes that leave little room for such. In addition to the world we protect, the internal pressures of life in a paramilitary career can be taxing, and expectations that exceed normality are firmly in place. The political realities, alone, can be hellish with internal competition taxing to the orderly mind.

Each other is the ultimate police support system

The physician practices in a defined arena, staying in his or her lane as much as practical. The police arena is anything but defined. I recall talking a wife down from a hysterical plateau after cutting her drunken husband’s hands to ribbons with a paring knife, leaving him sitting on a concrete stoop in freezing temperatures. He was attempting an entry into their modest trailer house, thoroughly soused and enraged at some injustice, and she stopped him with the little knife. On another occasion, I was asked to help guide a young mother in the decision making process to harvest her 9 year old son’s organs as he lay dead in a cubicle mere feet from her in an ER. She had pulled out in front of a car, was broadsided and her son killed as a result. The conversation took its toll on my thought processes for years afterward. These are but two examples of what officers confront and keep bottled up inside, ever aware of the image they present.

I am not a psychologist, but am a retired police officer. Rural troopers are tasked with the full gamut of police services from homicides to suicides, from wrecks to family disturbances, from sudden death to marriage counseling and must project image armor in all cases. We are not always successful leading to an inordinate number of police professionals who are overwhelmed and terminate their worldly existence. The true tragedy is that more often than not, those around us have no clue as to what we feel. It is Image Armor that’s provides the insulation from reality. Our support systems are mostly internal as we are loathe to seek help when help is desperately needed.

What we project is often not what is real

God bless the modern centurion who strives for dignity in every situation and who may be suffering silently. It is not easy and leaves scars on one’s psyche.

From the heart..

The Ubiquitous Fence….

I have seen them all. Barbed wire, woven wire, mud, rock, chain link, vinyl and wood. Fences are everywhere, to no one’s surprise. Springfield is home to miles of wooden privacy fence, more than a little of which is ready for the burn pile. Nothing says caring like a properly maintained wood fence, often forming the first and lasting impression of the property laying behind.

When we contracted our current home, we recognized the fence was not up to our standards. It was supported by wooden posts, the pickets were pine and it was painted with a water based product. The gates were in terrible repair, eliciting oaths on every occasion when put into use. The fence had to go. We have a large yard, and a new fence was no small consideration. My research began. The choice of materials was easy. In virtually every respect cedar is superior to pine. A quick google search will tell you why. Our previous fences were pine to our chagrin. We live in a wind tunnel and our yard is irrigated. In virtually every case, wooden posts are inferior to hot dipped galvanized posts of the schedule 40 variety. Wooden posts succumb to wind pressure and wet ground. My years of fishing Truman Lake reminded me of the durability of cedar, as I have left hundreds of dollars worth of baits imbedded in cedar trees that were submerged for nearly 50 years. Cedar cost is about 30% more than pine, and for good reason.

So, we researched local fencing companies that offered steel posts, state of the art fastening systems and steel framed gates that are infinitely adjustable instead of the cheaper gates, some steel framed, that offered zero adjustments while sagging unmercifully.

Steel framed gates, totally adjustable if needed

A second experience based observation. There are a number of companies that offer water based coatings for your fence. Do NOT do it. Wooden fences need to be finished with oil based, penetrating products unless of course you want to paint them with alarming regularity.

We chose a company, Ozark Fence and Supply, offering 60 years of experience, steel posts and cedar pickets. Their crews know just what in the hell they are doing. We could not be happier. They removed our eyesore and replaced it with a state of the art, penetrating oil finished cedar fence, hung on galvanized steel, and schedule 40 posts DRIVEN into the ground 3 feet deep. Our installers, Scott Robinson and his understudy, Justin, believed that perfection is just good enough. Their fence is superior in every way to our previous pine fences hung on 4X4 pine posts, sporting gates that sagged from the beginning. Thanks guys, your care and precision says volumes.

All cedar from cross rails to pickets, pre-finished with a penetrating oil stain

This writing represents a fraction of the knowledge gained researching fences and installations while living with pine fences. Take my advice, choose wisely and enjoy the quality of like built fences for years to come. In ten years, you’ll thank me.

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