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

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 Often the boat riding superseded the fishing, with occasional boat races thrown in for good measure.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

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

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

Have a great week!

SR

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

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

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

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

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

Have a great week!

SR

In the late 70’s there was a place in Missouri where I could return to my beginnings as an avowed outdoorsman. Once a year a few of my Patrol friends and I would load into a vehicle and make a trip to Bass Pro Shop in Springfield, Mo. It was a candy land for us, a place where even the limited budget of a new trooper could enjoy shopping and spending a precious few dollars. I never lost the feeling of excitement that envelops folks when they enter this Mecca for hunting and fishing enthusiasts and am blessed to have settled down in a home just minutes from their front door. Much has changed with the addition of America’s favorite aquarium, fabulous firearm displays and a plethora of boats, fishing tackle and clothing. Johnny Morris’s retail genius has resulted in a multi-billion dollar empire that supports nature all around the world.

This past week I dropped the Beemer at our local garage for an oil change, hopped in with Sharon who then dropped me off at the doors of Bass Pro. I had with me a bag full of handguns and ammunition for an early morning session on their range where active and retired LEO’s are made welcome. Before heading down to the range, I sat back with a cup of coffee and drifted back to the day when 25.00 would buy a credible rod and an additional ten spot would cover a spool of fresh monofilament and handful of crappie jigs in colors that likely attracted far more fishermen than fish. Bass Pro has morphed into a destination where you are sure to find the tackle you need, or not, as I still own hundreds of dollars worth of terminal tackle that has never been opened.

On this beautiful early fall morning there were few customers roaming the store, save for a gaggle of young Amish boys who were obviously enjoying their visit. The smell of freshly made fudge and sugar coated nuts wafted through the air, and I was positioned so as to watch an aquarium full of crappie doing things crappie do around cover. I silently thanked them for the hundreds of their kin that have taken their last swim in my livewell before being turned into a cornmeal coated, peanut oil fried delicacy fit for royalty.

Life has served up a reversal of fortune, but I am not complaining. Back in the day, I could only lean on one of the aluminum boat packages that was a cornerstone of Morris’s success. My early beginnings didn’t allow for such an extravagant consideration. Today, I have owned the finest Bass Boats that exist, still own a wall full of rods and have enough terminal tackle on hand to open a Bass Pro annex. All of this when age and arthritis has made a casting rod difficult to operate and my reflexes a are just a little behind blasting up Truman lake, dodging timber and cutting channels with ease. My fishing today has dwindled from a few days at a time to a few hours at a time however my enthusiasm has not, nor has my appreciation for nature and particularly nature in Missouri.

My experience this week marks the culmination of a search for just the right micro 9mm pistol for concealed carry. After owning a half dozen of the little guns, I finally found the right combination of conceal-ability and good trigger to suit my purposes. I enjoyed a productive range session before quaffing that all important second cup of coffee and heading home. Thanks Bass Pro for the ride along in life. I hope that every hunter and fisherman (woman) can enjoy a day in the Grand-Daddy of outdoor stores, where dreams come true. When it is my time, I hope Miss Sharon will slip my urn into a cart and wheel me through the aisles of rods and such on the way to my final resting place. It would be a fitting end to a dream fulfilled.

Have a great week!

SR

Last week Sharon and I enjoyed two great days floating the Niangua river in central Missouri. It was a rather traditional float, even as I was breaking in yet another kayak designed for river fishing. The weather was terrific and the late summer folks enjoying the river were in abundance, particularly the younger crowd drifting along on big inflatables, rafted together enjoying music, Fireball liquor and other adult beverages. What was new was the pungent purple haze from marijuana, now legal in Missouri, but still not federally, surrounding these rafts. They were well behaved and appropriately mellow given their mind altering drug of choice. This experience prompted me to ascertain where we stand in regard to the impact of cannabis on health in the short time since it’s approval for recreational use in Missouri. Uh oh……

The legalization of this drug followed a predictable and proven trajectory. Open the door medicinally and push through a referendum after that door is cracked open. There may well be legitimate medical applications, but they have not been broadly accepted by the medical community. In fact the impacts of marijuana use on the cardiovascular system are beginning to surface, and the news is not good. Dr. Zara Latif, who is a Harvard affiliated physician, in a 2020 review in the Journal Of Clinical Medicine, has succinctly addressed these issues. He notes a major concern with the strength of today’s strains of the stuff which eclipses that of 30 years ago when we were cracking heads over ditch weed, stuff you would have to smoke a bale of to get a buzz, or so we are told. The latest concerns are enumerated below.

Cannabis contains over 500 chemicals. That is a lot of chemistry to wade through. Using the stuff alters how your body metabolizes prescription medicines, thus affecting the blood levels of these legitimate medicines with predictable results. Cannabis has been implicated in heart attacks, especially in younger men with no cardiac history. Case studies are strongly suggesting that cannabis use triggers heart rhythm disorders including atrial fibrillation and is precipitating stress cardiomyopathy. (This is brought about by the rush of adrenalin, which, in turn, causes heart muscle damage). High dose cannabis use has been linked to arteritis, an inflammation of the walls of arteries. Studies have shown that tokers are 34% more likely to develop coronary disease compared to non users. Another big finding is that cannabis users are enjoying between 17% and 24% more strokes than non users, (American Heart Association). A recent Canadian study has shown a dramatic increase in emergency room admissions among medicinal cannabis users and in Amsterdam, folks who showed up at ER’s with cannabis intoxication often presented with heart issues including chest pain and fainting. All of this so you can enjoy the high of a drug we really don’t know much about. You’ll notice I shortened this sermon so as to not bore folks with the awful stats states are racking up related to criminality and the carnage on our highways caused by users who “mellowed” a bit before hitting the road.

As a guy who has never smoked or ingested anything illegal, (not to be confused with demon rum……) and who has had a valve job and timing adjustment on his heart, I have to wonder why anyone would challenge their cardiovascular health with this stuff. The fact remains, though, the tokers and tweakers prevailed at the polls and it is, after all, their hearts to do with as they please. It is interesting to note that folks floating our rivers and lighting up (and/or drinking) are not drowning, probably as much due to their pulling one another out of the water as anything. If you are one of my friends who surreptitiously fires up an occasional fat boy, be careful. The stuff is not good for the heart, and trusted friends are in short supply.

Have a great week!

SR

The evolution of policing in America is an interesting story. It is a profession desperately needed as a buffer between a peace loving people and elements of our society who seek to interrupt daily life with behaviors that range from middling nuisances to life threatening actions with little regard for consequences. Often the officer finds himself or herself in circumstances that are called into question by the public, his superiors and our court system. In spite of this scrutiny, officers soldier on in an environment where every action is subjected to instant review and evaluation. Officers are, after all, trained observers.

The day you are sworn in to a police agency is a day of pride after successfully surviving a complex training regimen and demonstrating a basic level of competency and familiarization with the tools of the trade. It also marks the beginning of a slow but sure process transforming everyday folks from a philosophy suggesting the glass is half full to one that sees the glass as half empty. This thought occurred to me while driving to the gym this week and watching the usual early morning traffic in Springfield drive as if there were no laws governing the movement of cars, and certainly no fear of traffic enforcement. In short folks have dispensed with common courtesy and the need to properly license their vehicles. There is little significant traffic enforcement these days, partly due to the shortage of officers and the accompanying lack of discretionary enforcement time, where traffic work gets done. Specialized traffic units don’t exist in numbers necessary to deter bad behavior, with the exception of a few Highway Patrols, such as the superlative Ohio State Patrol, always visible and engaged.

When you are commissioned and hit the streets, your life revolves around illegal and or dangerous activity. You begin morphing into the habit of viewing virtually every circumstance in life through the filter of propriety or legality. In short, you are constantly looking for what is wrong or ugly with what is in front of you with little regard for what is right and beautiful. After years of viewing virtually every aspect of life looking for something wrong, illegal or simply out of place, you are hopelessly scarred. I am entering my 24th year post retirement and have still not shaken that mindset. It is a way of thinking that is ingrained into your very being and damned hard to quell. It has taken me over twenty years just to realize my jaundiced view of life is like a proverbial albatross hanging from my neck. I call this phenomena the “Curse of the Commission”. This curse is exacerbated in retirement by your inability to do anything about the aberrations around you. No wonder police officers do not enjoy the retirement longevity of folks wearing rose colored glasses especially those professions that revolve around the good in life as opposed to the bad.

Hopefully, now that I have acknowledged my jaundiced approach to observing mankind, I’ll be able to overcome the tendency to look for a defect and see the good side of folks and circumstances. I would warn my friends, though, the odds of me becoming a Pollyanna are not good. Retired police officers are all candidates for an intervention, but then again, they have earned the right to acknowledge the imperfections in our society. I’m working on it……but have a ways to go. Meanwhile, I am not talking to myself when behind the wheel…..in fact you wouldn’t want to hear the oaths and offers of in flight adjustments that are crossing my lips. If only I could accept that it is no longer my circus out there…….

Have great week!

SR

This week saw the first Republican debate with the field being limited to 8 hopefuls vying for the nomination against the elephant in the room, Donald Trump. Trump, with a commanding 40 point lead sat this one out, and while arguments can be made for and against this strategy, he enjoys success as a matter of routine when the odds are stacked against him. Rather than suggest a winner and loser, I thought I would take a different approach and drive over to Lightning Ridge and see what old Uncle Remus thought about the debate. Here is how he saw it from his porch with his dog, Biscuit, laying by his chair.

1. Gov. DeSantis had a good outing. He was as keyed up in the beginning as cousin Ed was the day he got caught by the missus on the back porch of Ms. Sally’s gentleman’s club. He has solid conservative creds, was definitive in his standing on several key issues, and wiggled a bit when pinned by the moderators. He conveyed strength and is now raising more money than Hunter at an art sale.

2. Gov. Burgum, standing on a freshly torn Achilles tendon, looked and sounded like he was standing on a torn Achilles tendon. He appears to be a good guy but failed to branch out much from the obvious safe conservative talking points. He will likely not generate enough cash to stay in the hunt. Sad as it is, folks in Chicago don’t care much for what a Governor from Dakota says.

3. Gov. Chris Christie is a good debater, but is snarky and mean spirited. His experience in this forum shows, but he hit a wall castigating Trump. This was not the place to bash the Donald, there will be plenty of time to do that later. He did however do a good job on the asinine question about UFO’s. He’ll be around for awhile, but needs to chart a different course in terms of strategy. His pomposity about New Jersey and his success there is laughable. The state is, was and always will be a train wreck. Remus doesn’t trust him……..

4. Gov, Nikki Haley played well. She is experienced and was reasonably tough on a stage full of testosterone. She has solid foreign policy creds, was thoughtful and articulate, but her snarky, condescending tone with Mr. Ramaswamy hurt her, probably an attempt to show how high she can pee on a post with the guys. She’s in it for awhile……time will tell.

5. Gov. Hutchinson will be able to tell the grands and great grands he ran. He is low key, was considerate and shot himself in the foot lambasting Trump prematurely. When you are in a scrap, DeSantis will have your back, old Hutch will hurry like hell to find someone else to have your back. Not an enviable place to be in todays violent political environment. Remus remembered that a fella named Clinton was from Arkansas………

6. VP Pence is filled with self admiration. Had Brett Baier not all but threatened him, he would still be talking. He learned a lot of things from Trump, pomposity was one of them. He also learned to attack when threatened and all but slapped poor Ramaswamy from the stage. How dare a successful businessman hold forth on a political stage. Pence forgot from whence his old boss came. He will hang around for awhile, but is going to run out of gas (and cash) soon enough. He came across as self righteous……….enough said. (Remus didn’t like his haircut….says it tells you a lot about a man…and ole Biscuit growled)

7. Sen. Scott is a MUCH more capable version of Jimmy Carter. He has a keen understanding of America and it’s needs, is considerate and should make it to the final stages. I am afraid his admirable demeanor is going to get him in trouble. Reagan was capable of eliciting a warm response while going behind the curtain to get the job done (can Scott?) Remus thinks he has more ability than of any of them to reach across the aisle, unfortunately Congress doesn’t play that way today. He is absolutely perfect Vice presidential material, but then again, a setting hen would make a better VP than the old chrone in there now.

8. Mr. Vivek Ramaswamy is whip smart, articulate and able to mix it up in the Boardroom. He didn’t amass a fortune by not understanding folks, motivations and realities. He has already loaned his committee 15 million dollars and is not a politician……endearing qualities to everyone but politicians who, unfortunately, don’t make outsiders welcome. He is a new rooster who needs to be damned careful around the old roosters in the barnyard. Old roosters are hell to pay when you step onto their barnyard says old Remus. Biscuit liked him…….

Uncle Remus sees it this way. Change is coming, unless the 30% of Americans who allegedly think Joey and his Cabal are on the right track, suddenly morph into a majority at the polls next year. I’ll check in with old Remus from time to time, when he is not busy thinking about fishin’ or delivering a fresh watermelon to Miss Sally’s Gentleman’s Club. He’ll know….and is hard to fool!

Have a great week!

SR

I had been looking for a convertible for some time. My preferences run toward BMW evidenced by having owned two of these German works of art over the years. Sharon and I have travelled across the state and into neighboring states for just the right one, gently used, low miles and the right color. I was open to a roadster, remembering my Z4 with the vaunted M-31 inline 6 that delivered ferocious acceleration and great handling, however, if the right little car surfaced in a little more sedate configuration, I would consider it. So it is that I was returning home after running a few errands when Sharon called to alert me to a 2017 230i, that was allegedly in pristine condition, at our local BMW dealership. It was, she said, orange in color. I assured her that I had no intention of driving an orange car, but would swing by and have a look. It was love at first sight.

She was on the front row, a Valencia orange 2017 230i, with just under 6500 total miles, zero damage history and not so much as a rock chip or door ding. The car was purchased new by some folks from Oklahoma, kept in a climate controlled garage, and thought to have never been rained on. It is powered by a 4 banger with a twin scroll turbo, boosting the horses to 250 with an 8 speed auto trans finding the power curve. The little car will fly, with the effortless precision of Teutonic engineering. The lady who drove the car enjoys a lifestyle a cut or two above a retired trooper and his elementary administrator wife. She wanted the same car, only blue in color. The car was promptly certified and followed me home after a short negotiation. I refer to her as my “gym car” as convertibles are made for daylight on summer mornings. The operative question is why would the original owner trade this little jewel. I believe I have discovered the answer.

There are number of BMW’s in Springfield, Mo. Many are ordinary cars, a few are convertibles and I have noticed more than a few which are V8 powered beasts, capable of insane acceleration and handling. It is not the brand, then, that evokes unwanted attention. The problem is the color, as it is the only Valencia Orange BMW convertible thus far noticed. Mind you, it is not the orange of the General Lee, rather an in your face orange that must provoke other motorists. This color is thought to be popular on the West Coast and the Missouri plates are about the last thing you notice on this car. Folks want to race at every stop light and on the open road, the color must convey the message, “pass me”, irrespective of the speed I might be holding. I park as far away from other cars as possible, and have lately attracted the attention of a beater Ram, who goes out of his way to box me in or get close to the Crush at the gym, located at a large Springfield Medical Center. The asshat that drives the Ram must think I am an elitist, deserving of aggravation, because I drive an orange convertible. Surely, I’m guessing, a sedate lady of means was tired of the attention getting orange which prompted her to trade out to a blue car. A gym buddy began our association by asking if I was the guy driving “that orange car”.

I should have known better. The psychology of orange is the issue. Orange signifies strength, bravery, energy, enthusiasm, excitement, exhibitionism, and finally ostentatiousness. With the exception of exhibitionism, which I have never considered a desirable attribute, I tend to identify with the color. I make no apologies and feel for folks driving the dull grey and olive drab vehicles so prevalent today. The truth is that I am just an old guy who loves cars, respects the internal combustion engine and likes the attention from Sonic carhops who want to ride in the Crush. More than few folks who have challenged the Crush on the open road, have discovered the psychology of orange is alive and well in the old man behind the wheel.

A special thank you to Sharon, who celebrates her 34th Anniversary with the “Crush” driver today. Her steadying influence, sensibility, intelligence and ability to go from fire to ice in a flash is the perfect accompaniment to this old man and his car! After all, she found the Crush!

Have a great week!

SR

“In his hands is the life of every creature and the breath of all mankind”. Job 12:10

I welcomed the opportunity to attend Robin Hood school during the month of July. This prestigious academy was taught by Betty and Bobby Robin, who chose an ornamental tree in our yard to raise a brood of babies. These colorful songbirds provided an insight into parenting and the order of life that most folks take for granted. They are great parents and I hope they return and raise more babies for our “hood”. This is their story.

We first noticed the nest in our little tree around the first of July. When we detected it, there were four blue eggs and mom. I had no idea that mating Robins stay together during the entire mating season and often return to the same nesting site, particularly if they are successful. About 11 days later, 3 baby robins appeared. The fourth egg is lost to obscurity, however, the three hatchlings kept Betty and Bobby plenty busy. We became concerned the dry and very hot weather would impact their food supply and augmented their rations with fresh mealworms. Just as humans do, they returned to the mealworm bowl often and entertained us with their ability to carry several worms at a time to the nest where they carefully fed the kids, one at a time. Humans will also return to a free food site, eschewing working to earn their food for the prospect of easy food. Human motivation, however, is far different.

The adults, at first, raised hell if we went around the nest, but gradually accepted our presence and would not attempt to lure us away from the site. Their resilience is something to behold. A harsh thunderstorm failed to dissuade them and the heat seemed to cause no harm. About two weeks after hatching, the food truck was kept really busy and we sensed it was getting time. As if on a schedule, all three babies jumped the nest at the same time and scurried across the back of the house, where two fell into the crawl space well, obviously bewildered at their misfortune. I anticipated this, found them and gently removed them to a corner of our yard where they ran to cover. Betty and Bobby watched this rescue from the peak of our roof, and seemed to indicate their approval, or concern as the case may be, by chirping right along. These little guys are now in day two of the most perilous time of their lives, as their ability to strongly fly takes about ten days to develop. We have not seen them since, and I honestly miss them. Most Robins die in their first year and only the strong live to be five or six years old in the wild. I appreciate Betty and Bobby letting us in their family circle……..

The existence of these little guys is due to innate instinct. When I rescued the pair from the well, one opened his beak thinking the shadow of my hand was mom, bringing food, while the other wanted nothing to do with me. Lesson? Kids are different and allowances must be made. In spite of their personalities, they jumped the nest together into the uncertain world that awaited them, hopefully to raise their own babies in a year or so. Betty and Bobby are close by, providing post jump guidance.

Here is my take away. In my earlier life, I was too busy to consider the struggle that nature demands from it’s participants. Sure, I have always known Mother Nature has a cruel side and rewards the fittest of each of her critters, but I did not stop and consider that each creature in our world has a story behind them. Thank you God, for providing me an opportunity later in life, to study and appreciate the world around me. It is raining hard as I write this, again testing the strength of three little Robins who saw the light of day for the first time just under two weeks ago. I will always wonder if they made it…and will never look at a Robin the same way again.

Have a great week.

SR

…..in small town America and big city America. There is also tremendous division among Americans as to who can talk about it and who cannot. Such is the case when Jason Aldean, a terrific CW entertainer, released his video featuring the obvious. Pack mentality, with the accompanying violence that thrives in the under policed urban population doesn’t gain traction in rural America. Rural folks constitute about 20% of Americans while urban folks constitute the rest. Aldean’s message is clear, don’t bring your riotous behavior to the country, as we aren’t likely to turn the other cheek. We enjoy our peace, and value our neighborhoods and our neighbors. Walking our dogs on the town square after dark on a summer evening doesn’t present the threat such activity does in the big cities. Jason Aldean’s reward for pointing out the obvious? He has been labeled a racist, accused of promoting gun violence, accused of being pro-lynching, taken off of CMT, and harpooned by social media torpedoes. Interesting…and pure bull-squirt.

Jason Aldean suggests that sucker punching someone on a sidewalk, carjacking an old lady at a red light or pulling a gun on the owner of a liquor store will all be met with a response not favorable to the actor if these things occur in a small town. He suggests that rural Americans are loathe to spit in a cops face, stomp on the flag or have our guns gathered up by the government. Heady stuff, and any casual watcher of the 6 o’clock news knows these occurrences are de-rigor for urban life. Racist? No, he suggests nothing about color being a consideration, instead focusing on behavior. Yet he is being castigated for promoting the peace and tranquility small towns love.

Consider the alternative. No one is complaining about the violence being promoted in the vulgarest of terms by the various rap artists who flood the airwaves with their race baiting, woman demeaning, anti-police work. Their music is commonly labeled “Porno Rap”, “Sex Rap” or “Booty Rap”. Lyrics featuring lines such as “your chop suey ass will be a target” exist in this “artistic” form of expression. A rap song was released that offered the following tribute to one of the 9-11 hijackers, “I worship the prophet/the great Mohammed Omar Atta for his courage behind the wheel of the airplane……” Where was the outcry when this blatant violence inciting rhetoric was memorialized in what has loosely been described as music? Google the lyrics for rap music and be prepared to be shocked. Nothing is off limits. Dehumanizing filth permeates this form of music. The difference is Jason Aldean wears a straw hat, plays a guitar and loves America, therefore he must be a racist.

Jason Aldean will continue to suffer the consequences for pointing out the differences between the rural and urban centers of our country. I would suggest you take a long hard look before you opine about the meaning of his lyrics. One thing is sure, the 20% of America that resides in or near small towns do so for a reason. You won’t see some hopped up jug head running around town tearing down our flags, referring to our women as female dogs and spitting on our police officers. Somebody will take exception and your conduct and you will not be made to feel welcome. That my friends is the way it is and will always be.

You can bet on it.

SR

The older residents of Shanksville, Pa. remember the morning of September 11, 2001 with bell clear alacrity. They speak of the roar of a Boeing 757-222 as it passed overhead at an altitude of a few hundred feet and sensed a tragedy was unfolding. Soon the roar was silenced by the sound of a tremendous impact followed by billowing black smoke arising from the site where 40 passengers and crew were killed instantly at the hands of al-Qaeda terrorists. Sharon, Tazzy and I spent an afternoon at the National Park memorializing this horrid event located in the quiet Pennsylvania countryside. It left an impression that will be with us until the end of our time.

The memorial site is beautiful in it’s simplicity, with a walking tour that sets out the timeline and circumstances of this event. The photos and actual artifacts recovered from an impact with the ground at some 500 MPH will stop you in your tracks as you relive the event in chronological order. The largest piece of the airplane recovered was about 5’ in length and width and the largest human remain was a portion of a human backbone evident at the precise point of impact. In a nano-second the hijackers were on their way to hell and the passengers to their reward guaranteed in our Christian faith. The passengers knew that death was a near certainty and actual voice recordings of several passenger’s last conversation with love ones, via cell phones, was heart rending. This flight began at 8:42 AM and ended shortly after 10:00 AM when the hijackers were attacked by passengers led by Mr. Todd Beamer, determined to have a say in their demise, one way or another.

We must never forget that a big part of the world as we know it hates America. They hate our freedoms, our wealth and our power. This park reminds you of the price we pay as a result of this hatred. Most of us are familiar with the circumstances surrounding this act of cowardice, but to really appreciate it, you must see this memorial. We spoke little for the first hour or so after leaving, each deep in our own thoughts as we placed ourselves in that airplane on this day. I am going to let the photos tell the story. Please don’t pass on the opportunity to visit this park and see for yourself what happens when courage meets cowardice.

A final thought. A bullet to the head of Osama Bin Laden by a Navy Seal was the easy way out for this deranged man. His terror was over in a matter of a few seconds. The people lived with the thought of dying in a plane crash for at least 30 minutes, desperately contacting loved ones to tell them good-bye. Their courage is an example for all of us and a reminder that Americans are an example for the rest of the world to emulate. Good bless them and their families.

SR