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In my last blog, I discussed the ramifications of a slowly fading memory as it relates to the “golden years”. As an example of my own battle with short term memory issues, I mentioned the disappearing coffee cup, a concern only in that said cup was a handmade, ceramic masterpiece given to me by a family member who knows that I am addicted to coffee and ritual. After much reflection, I came to the conclusion the cup was carelessly left at roadside in the RV park we are staying in, while I was preoccupied with the task of picking up after Tazzy. Being the trained investigator that I am, I stopped at the park office to inquire if someone might have retrieved the cup, recognized it’s value and turned it in to them for safekeeping. In this case, intuition paid off.

When I walked into the office, the counter was staffed by two uniformed, park employees, both younger men who could not have been more concerned. I directed my inquiry to the young man closest to the register, who was genuinely sympathetic as he offered to drive around and look for my cup. The second young man was listening to our exchange and in a minute or so, sheepishly looked me in the eyes and announced he knew where the cup was. He went on to say he had seen the cup at roadside, gathered it up and thrown it into one of the dumpsters in the park. Not good. He went on to say that he always threw trash into the middle of three dumpsters, to which the first young man offered to go look through for me. I have, in the course of my employment as a trooper, looked through exactly two dumpsters for items of evidentiary value. I will never forget either experience and felt it best that I tackle this job, sparing my new young friend the images he would see that would likely scar him for life.

I stopped at our RV and told Sharon about my plans to recover the cup and she agreed to accompany me to the dumpster, I am guessing to be present when I failed to emerge after sorting through the disgusting contents. The first young man, Corey, was already standing in the dumpster sorting the various bags of garbage into ones discarded by patrons and those, in a unique bag, that were deposited by park employees. I again suggested that he not bother with this task, talked him out of the dumpster and hopped in myself. I now have THREE images of dumpsters seared into my brain. My search did not produce the cup and as I climbed out, Corey returned with a box of flimsy, food service gloves, and told me the cup had been tossed in loose, not in a bag. Corey climbed back into the dumpster, as we needed to work down to the bottom where things really get interesting. (I fully intend to send Corey a box of heavy, nitrile gloves upon our return to Missouri, in the unlikely event he needs to again engage in a disgusting activity in their lovely park.) On the very bottom of the dumpster, in indescribable, gagging, horrid muck, the cup was located. As I write, I am enjoying coffee out of the cup, which still tastes a little like the Clorox it was soaked in for an hour or so, before being brush scrubbed.

What is the takeaway here? First, I must acknowledge the service oriented, concerned attitude of Corey Potter. It was a damned coffee cup, an item that was important only to me for the reasons noted above. He was determined in his efforts to help me find where, if possible, the cup was. Secondly, my hat is off to Mathew Locklear, who could have sat quietly and never volunteered his complicity in the discarding of the cup. In these times, the order of the day is the path of least resistance, and Mathew chose honesty over this avenue. The owner of this park has two exceptional employees in these fellows and I am smiling as I draft this piece. This is a relatively new park, absolutely gorgeous and in an ideal location to enjoy all that Myrtle Beach has to offer with it’s quiet location on the edge of the beach hustle that folks come to enjoy.

Corey Potter and me, with “The Cup”.

Thanks, guys. The cup caper is a story that will be retold time and again. It would have been easy to blow this incident off, but you did not. It is the little things that matter, do them well and the big things will be easy!

The golden years. I was blessed to enjoy my chosen profession. On an almost daily basis, you were able to make a positive difference in the lives of somebody you came in contact with. Arguably, you could make a positive difference when you impacted somebody negatively, such as arresting an intoxicated driver before he killed himself or herself, or somebody else as they travelled about. I particularly enjoyed the fact that I made it an absolute practice to never leave a hungry child on a roadway, stranded as the result of poor preparation on the part of parents or “guardians” entrusted with their care. Stranded children, in my world, were never left cold or hungry. You would not know it today, but a police officer’s job revolves around improving the human condition, and it requires concentration and determination to do that. In a eureka moment, on our latest RV adventure, it has occurred to me that leaving such a rewarding and simultaneously taxing vocation for the good life that retirement promises, can be wrought with peril. Here is my take.

Retirement can easily be summed up as a phase in life where you leave behind the demanding role you have played in your working life, that leaves little time for yourself, and enter a phase of life where you can entertain the many considerations that were left to wither away due to a lack of time and/or priority. Folks who are experienced at the business of being retired say they have never been busier, with far more things to do than time to do them. In my case, I have tackled a number of bucket list items, such as back to motorcycling after a short 40 year time out and learning to fly an airplane. RVing around the country has opened our eyes to the tremendous diversity and talent in this country, not to mention seeing firsthand unheralded beauty in newly discovered urban environments such as Greenville, SC., a gorgeous city touted as one of America’s top retirement destinations. Our current location, on the Intercoastal Waterway in Little River, SC., is the perfect setting to kick back, breathe the salty sea air and marvel at the sea boating community. You, at this point, may be asking where the minefield is that has prompted this writing.

Time is the key ingredient to getting oneself in trouble. A second impediment to the carefree golden years is health, or more precisely, declining health. On this trip, we stopped at the Cleveland Clinic so that my advancing arthritis could be evaluated by one of their many health care wizards. An aching back, hands and feet are a constant reminder that pain must somehow be managed and that I have likely forever left behind those great years when I relished hand fighting with other police officers while teaching them to maintain control of their sidearm in confrontations. Today, my grand-daughter could probably take a pistol away from me. Just this morning, I fumbled around looking for ‘my’ coffee cup and realized that I must have left it at the last location in the campground where Tazzy stopped to take care of business. It is a simple multi-tasking responsibility, put the cup down, clean up after the pup, pick the cup up and finish your walk. Time is slowly facilitating the slipping of the icing from the cake, if you understand my meaning here. You notice that names disappear from a memory trained to remember these things and your skills as a trained observer are eroding. The decline in health and cognitive ability is one thing, your awareness of this decline is quite another.

The absence of a demanding profession gives folks like me the time to worry about things that I cannot change. I read posts on social media and feel my blood pressure rise at the commentary of people who do not see the world as I do. What happened to the guy who used to understand that people are different and that everything is important to someone, somewhere? Time is the answer. I have played ball with, fished with, enjoyed a libation or two with and have been proud to associate with folks who I, today, am easily angered by as a result of uninhibited opinion in print form. Has time eroded my ability to understand politics for what it is, the distortion of fact aimed at influencing the minds of people who find it easier to let someone else do their thinking for them? In the end, I am one vote in a little cubicle. This was never an issue for me before retirement provided the time to make it an issue. I have always reserved the right to offer sarcastic criticism and humor to point out the ridiculous aspects of life in a country that reveres free speech….a trait that has probably sent a few friends packing. Sad, really.

My advice for those who are treading into the minefield of retirement? Don’t take the bait. A very successful and close friend that we visited on this trip has it right. He chooses to not be relevant anymore, not running for anything, not attempting to influence anything other than his own household. He is a smart guy and we can all learn from his perspective. As for me, I suppose extraneous commentary on a variety of topics in the interest of furthering humor and the underrated art of sarcasm is a part of me. Use your time wisely, as I can guarantee that sooner or later, you will lose your fastball, and something in that magnificent human machine you were blessed with at birth is going to break or, at least, not work as well as it should.

Be careful in the minefield.

Forty plus years in the coal mining business has given Dorsel an inner strength that matches his physical strength. He is a quiet spoken man, wrapped in country eloquence, who can tell a story or two about the business of mining. I could have listened to him all day as he described the inner workings of a coal mine, a damp, dreary man made cave that has seen it’s share of tragedy and triumph over many years. In 45 minutes, Dorsel completely transformed my impression of coal mining, admittedly limited to Hollywood and required reading, sometime in my past, about the formation of the United Mine Workers. I genuinely love people who are blessed with a work ethic, and my dear readers, miners know something about hard work. Let’s have a look.

Our current RV trip found us in the city of Beckley, W. Va. We had arranged to stay the evening in the city owned RV park, which to our amazement was situated directly over a coal mine that was once owned by a farmer who found greater profitability in coal than beef. This is coal country, and a post hole constituted the beginning of the farmers mining venture. You can tour this mine, sitting in a low transport car on rails, guided by an experienced miner who explains the various pieces of equipment as well as techniques associated with mining. He easily covered the past decades of advances in every thing from lighting to the use of explosives, cleverly using humor to help the young people in our group understand and accept the death of the canaries in a cage that indicated the air had turned deadly in the mine. He talked of conditions that are simply unimaginable, such as lying on your side with a pick “undercutting” a vein of coal, and then shoring up the ceiling of that cut with timbers and bolts. He talked of a single miner cutting and loading a 1 ton coal car 6 times each day in order to earn your pay, and how you marked each car with a unique identifier to insure credit for the load.He talked of crooked inspectors, accepting money on the side, who would turn back a load that was contaminated by rock in the coal. Often the cars were loaded with several hundred pounds more than the required 1 ton, however the miners were not given credit. Dorsel came from a mining family, his father working long before the unions assuaged the conditions the miners worked in. Dorsel watched two brothers die as young men, their lungs ravaged by the deadly coal dust they inhaled as a part of their specialty in the mines. Dorsel quietly, but with measurable authority, spoke of the importance and design of lunch buckets, squibs (fuses), tampers (to pack explosives into hand drilled holes) and bolts used to keep the ceiling from collapsing on you as you worked. He talked of death in the mines, an all too often occurrence, and the many ways that death stalked you in a mine.Safety was not the priority it should have been in the days before regulation, and is still often given second shrift by unscrupulous bosses and inspectors. He described the “Kettle Bottoms”, large pieces of petrified tree trunks, slick sided and weighing hundreds of pounds, that would slide out of an overhead vein of coal and kill a miner instantly. There are two words associated with coal mining, productivity and safety, with safety traditionally following productivity in importance. He talked about the early politics that surrounded mining and the struggles of the miner in a world squarely slanted away from his well being. My eyes were wide when he revealed that your tools and even the explosives were provided by the miners themselves, the company only providing the mine and timbers for your convenience. You, indeed, owed your soul to the company store, who would only accept unique company script for your needs. You rented your home, owned by the company that owned the mine, and your family was quickly moved out if you met your fate in the mine. There would be no additional compensation for your family.

Coal will likely be at the center of the climate debate until the last ton is gouged from the earth. In this part of our country, it is king, and with the recent political shift related to this industry, has restored West Virginia’s economy. Their coal is literally being shipped all over the world, and the enthusiasm in these parts is palpable.

All of this aside, I was most impressed by the mental and physical endurance required to work in this environment. Bosses walked the shafts and saw to it that you were swinging a pick, drilling a hole or shoveling coal. Those young people today, seeking safe places to shelter from emotional abuse, would do well to take this tour. Dorsel’s handshake would be the envy of every gym rat I know, his eyes are both soft and steely, and his authority unquestioned. He is the proud product of a demanding industry who looks back with an eye toward history as it really is and not as retold by others with a dramatic flair. He will take this pride to his grave, of that you can be sure of.

His name is Dorsel, and I am proud to make his acquaintance.

I am sure with a catchy title that suggests yet another American flag story, many of my readers will brush past today’s thoughts on the display of our flag. Instead of the usual drum beat and reverence normally reserved for this symbol of America, today I thought I would tackle the thought provoking consideration around the modification of the flag indicating some special interest, in particular the blue line modification to old glory that is becoming rather prevalent.

A Facebook friend of mine, who I have never actually met, but whose opinions I respect, suggested he did not appreciate the alteration of the American flag to accommodate the endless numbers of special interests in our Republic. He suggested that perhaps there should be a “brown line” flag for farmers and a “red line” flag for firemen among other possibilities and ended his observation with a comment suggesting these aberrations did not represent the flag he took an oath to defend, presumably, many years ago. (Actually there are a number of color aberrations currently in existence.) His concern is that such aberrations tend to divide our country. He may have a point, however so do the folks who do not take issue with the thin blue line modifications to our flag.

I am the son of a career military man. I am also an actual US Army combat veteran of the war in Vietnam, as opposed to say, Sen. Blumenthal who sincerely wishes at this point in his life he could say the same. I fly an American flag, over a blue line flag in front of my home and would never kneel when the colors are presented or the National Anthem is played. My mother was the product of the South Carolina agricultural industry, raised on cotton and tobacco farms. This being said, I see a tremendous distinction between the absolutely essential agricultural industry and the police profession. The entirely honorable farming industry does not take an oath requiring them to, if necessary, die for the citizenry they protect. The military and policing, and to some extent fire fighting are businesses that expose it’s ranks to the possibility of death in no uncertain terms. There is a war in America, with certain elements of our society placing a premium on the killing of police officers, a consideration which I sincerely believe entitles the police and those that support them to meld patriotism and pride in their often deadly occupation as depicted in a flag modified to reflect both passions.

If our experience in the RV park that we are currently staying in is any indication, an argument can certainly be made that policing is still a highly respected profession. I fly a simple blue line flag under the traditional American flag, and during a park wide social event yesterday, enjoyed numerous conversation with folks roaming past our RV. I noted that another (active) police officer a short distance from me was flying the blue line modified flag, and was enjoying similar, I am sure, conversations with park patrons as they moved about. Interestingly, while pursuing one of my passions at a food truck, a Nathan’s hotdog, two different people asked if I was the “trooper” with the Airstream and blue line flag, prompting yet additional social interaction with park patrons. Word travels fast in RV parks! I shamelessly promote the profession of policing and see the blue line aberrations as terrific catalysts for conversation about the business. In these circumstances, the flags tend to bring people together, rather than divide.

Finally, the folks who hate America and desecrate the flag in an effort to garner attention to some cause or perhaps as a way to simply infuriate the vast majority of Americans, are permitted, constitutionally, to do so. In most cases these people do not and will never understand the sacrifices that are made to guarantee their right to engage in this disgusting behavior. Is it really too much to ask that folks, who are simply trying to reflect both the pride in their profession and their love for America by combining the concepts in a blue line flag, be judged accordingly?

I think not. I am guessing my father would not have approved of this concept……but would give you hell if you challenged the motives behind it, especially in today’s America.

We began our RV vacation in Clarksville, Tn., a “military” town located 50 or so miles north of Nashville. Sharon, a retired elementary teacher and administrator suggested that I attend my first ever band competition, where High School bands from around the country compete against each other, showcasing their hours of hard work in what can only be described as magnificent displays of choreography and musical talent. Our grandson, Lucas, the young man in the photograph is one of three drum majors in the Camdenton (Mo.), marching band. I came away from this experience stunned. Let me explain.

Military veterans remember well the chaos that is unleashed when a group of young people begin the transition from folks milling around in a parking lot to the precision of close order drill. In the beginning, it is not pretty. The truth is that military close order drill, for most folks, is relatively easy as the movements are very basic. If you have ever watched a military drill team, this precision is taken to a much higher level, but even at that, involves relatively few folks, and no one outside of a marching band is required to play an instrument while executing a carefully choreographed presentation. Yesterday, we watched as 27 High School bands were given an eleven minute time frame to showcase the hours upon hours of practice, call it training, that has consumed a major part of their lives in High School.

On many occasions I have expressed regret at having never been involved, beyond listening, with the world of music. I am rather erratic when I stamp my feet or clap in response to the music I hear. Not so for these very fortunate young people who are going to benefit for the rest of their lives from this tremendous experience and opportunity. Let’s dig deeper into the meaning of all of this.

The competition yesterday was a part of the Bands of America series of competitions that draw bands from across the country. This was the first competition, this year, for Camdenton with competitions slated for Branson, Mo., San Antonio, Texas., and the Grand Nationals, in Indianapolis, In. The competition in these events is top tier, and Camdenton’s presentation was terrific, but marred by a sound glitch which may have contributed to their failure to win in any of the judged categories. To the untrained eye, they were flawless, but then again, to the untrained eye every pass by the Blue Angels is flawless! This event was held in the football stadium of Austin Peay State College, a beautiful school rich in tradition. This loss was unexpected and deeply felt by the kids in the band, the unbelievable support staff made up of parents, supporters and volunteers from the community. In so many ways, losing is winning. Their shared disappointment only deepened their commitment to excellence and has provided an opportunity to show grace and class in defeat. Tears, yes. Resolve, oh yes indeed!

These kids, under the direction of Mr. Paul Baur, have trained (practiced!) for hour upon hour in freezing cold and searing heat. Paul Baur is beginning his 24th year in the business of directing this activity. They are on the field at the crack of dawn and into the late evening hours. (Dawn practice shown below.) Bonds are formed and names seared into young memories that are for a lifetime. Teamwork becomes second nature and precision the norm. A deep understanding of support roles and back of the house necessities is developed. All of this for half time at football games and a precious few opportunities during the school year. Everybody remembers the quarterback, few will remember the young man or woman pounding out a rhythm on the snare drums. How unfortunate. As a side note, it is interesting that academic excellence often follows the folks who are involved in this activity.

I will never look at marching bands the same way again. In an America that is deeply divided at every level, the Bands of America provided an opportunity to enjoy young people, exceedingly competent mentors and the communities they represent come together and accomplish something that is heartwarming and spectacular. If you have the opportunity to attend one of these competitions, don’t miss it. Eleven minutes backed by endless hours of preparation resulting in an excellence that is so enjoying. Wow!

This past week, I read a social media post in which the author opined that he did not see the necessity for the outrage attendant to the flag. This individual, presumably to assuage his own lack of understanding, suggested he honored the country and not the flag that represented it. He meant well, but really has no grasp of symbolism. You certainly do not have to display a flag at home to be patriotic, but many of us do, and enjoy standing in the shadow of this symbol of America. It prompted a thought or two about the ceremony, conducted under the shadow of the flag, that honored Senator McCain, as it compared with the ceremony honoring my own father when he was committed to eternity.

Senator McCain was a patriot. He was fortunate enough to be born into military royalty, the son of an Admiral, who was the son of yet another Admiral, thus practically guaranteeing him entry into the Naval Academy. He became a naval aviator, arguably among the finest warriors that America produces, and spent many years in captivity under conditions that broke many of his fellow warriors. He was married to a wealthy socialite and possessed the charisma and means to enter politics and enjoy a long career in the US Senate, duly noted in the lengthy sendoff accorded him by a grateful nation. There is room in my yard, for the spirit of John McCain to stand in the shadow of my flag. With all due respect to the Senator, the space under the shadow of my flag belongs first to those ordinary Americans who were not born into a level of opulence that all but guaranteed the chance to enjoy a distinguished career. It is fitting Senator, that you stand with the spirit of my own father, but not, sir, in front of him.

Dad was born into a lower class working family in the small town of Marion, South Carolina. His father, Alex, was said to be a hard edged individual, taken to strong drink and a rough life style. Alex was married to Emma, a demure lady, who kept a small house on the edge of town where she raised a brood of sons and daughters who were, by and large, left to their own wit to succeed in life. There were no silver spoons in this family. My father was a street brawler who soon found himself at odds with a local magistrate and on his way to basic training in the US Army, where his propensity to fight was most welcome. He rose quickly in the enlisted ranks and was ordered to Korea where he became a tank commander. When his commander was killed, he was commissioned on the battlefield and began a distinguished career as an officer referred to in military circles as a “mustang”. As an airborne officer, he was given various commands in airborne units, such as Special Forces and the 173d Airborne Brigade, both units taking him to Vietnam where he was able to indulge his passion in life, close quarters combat, where you stepped in the blood of the vanquished. Despite his career path, he could be quietly eloquent on occasion, with a deceiving manner that concealed his passion for the fight and smell of gunpowder and sound of combat. He possessed the remarkable ability to transform from a country philosopher, enjoying a scotch and soda, to a cold calculating killer, all in the name of a country that he loved.

The Colonel had planned his own funeral, knowing that cancer was soon to kill him. He contacted his own pallbearers, ensured their availability for the simple military service that he planned, selected his own coffin and purchased a new Lincoln Continental, upon which he took a credit life policy which, of course, paid for the car when he died a few months after the purchase. It was a very nice service, with a number of family and friends in attendance, conducted by the soldiers he once commanded. He was interred after a small ceremony in a National Cemetery in Florence, South Carolina, among the military brother’s and sisters he revered. Because he was not a Senator, nor the son of a succession of General Officers, he was not accorded the days upon days of ceremony honoring his service. This, readers, is the fate of literally millions of American’s who have given a fair measure of their lives to this country. It is these folks, accorded a nominal ceremony at the end of their lives, whose spirits are welcome under the shadow of the flag in my yard. At dusk, as the world around us slows down, I can gaze at the flag, softly moving in the evening breeze, and feel their presence. I hope the Senator stops by once in a while, as he has earned a place among these warriors……

As a final note, eternity is a very long time. I would much rather spend this time among the warriors in Valhalla than among those pitiful, lost souls who will surely be relegated to an artificial turf patch where folks who have given nothing to their country and the human condition, and who choose to dishonor those that have, will spend their time, on a knee protesting something they cannot define. There is undoubtedly a flag in Valhalla, and there will be American warriors sitting under it talking about their love for America…..this would be a place that kneeling football players should avoid. To do otherwise would be a fools errand. The folks that kneel are not welcome in the shadow of my flag.

This commentary began taking shape when I listened to the news out of our beloved (add sarcasm) but very strange state of California that a bill was in the formative stages mandating that a female be placed on the Board (of directors) of every publicly held entity within the state. Leave it to California to muck up the progress that women have made in the last 25 years by suggested their gender, alone, was somehow qualifying for a leadership position. Ladies, such nonsense is doing you no favors. Here is my take.

I am married to a bobcat, pictured below, disguised as a very nice lady with good manners and appropriate social grace, attributes that served her well as an elementary principal. She seldom relies on her sometimes ferocious feline tendencies, but when she does, she can make a point. Sharon dislikes the haggling associated with buying a vehicle, but does take the lead when the vehicle in question is to be her daily driver. Her technique always brings a smile to my face. She confronts the unfortunate salesman (woman) and calmly suggests that I am along for window dressing, not to close a deal. She will square up, look this person in the eye and suggest they need to quickly find their low dollar offer and that if he (me) steps in and is able to reduce the purchase price by as much as 10 dollars, we walk. It is an effective technique, and we have walked on several occasions, to the dismay of perplexed sales associates. She doesn’t just say it, she means it.

With this background in mind, the news of the day continues to somehow suggest that women are inferior in some way to their male counterparts and deserve recognition based on gender alone. That philosophy does not fly in the Johnson household, but is still prevalent in our world. There are numerous other examples of this attitude out there. When Captain Tammie Joe Shults (pictured below) calmly and professionally piloted an airliner, that had suffered a catastrophic engine failure, to a successful landing, it was her gender that made the headlines, and not her measured coolness and ability to fly under trying circumstances. My God, man, a woman dared to exhibit extraordinary skill in a trying circumstance that most male Captains would be expected to accomplish easily. A woman who was once told women can not fly. My own flying career, the modest pursuit of a Sport Pilot rating, temporarily (I hope) derailed by a series of aggravating but not disqualifying health issues, has involved a total of four instructors. Each of them were competent enough instructors, but please be assured that my last instructor, Ms. Jeanne’ Willerth, (below, sitting on an airplane being towed with a flat nose wheel) is as competent a pilot and a better instructor than anyone I have ever shared the cockpit with. Her gender has nothing to do with her remarkable ability to make a point and teach you to fly…….believe me.

Ft. Leonard Wood, Missouri’s outsized military base, has recently been placed under the command of a diminutive black female, recently promoted to Major General. The news announcing her elevation to this position is rift with references to her sex and race. This is another example of gender (and race) getting ahead of the story. I am betting the General is absolutely capable of commanding an Army base and, when necessary, issuing orders that her subordinates will immediately comply with. Once again, we are doing no favors to the gender issue by making it THE issue. It is time to grow up folks.

This phenomenon is much more pronounced in male dominated fields. Among the pilots flying commercially in America, less than 4.4% are women. Obviously in law enforcement and the military, women are in a distinct minority, and without getting into the traditional arguments revolving around physical strength and bravado, are actually doing quite well. My own daughter, (below) a trooper here in Missouri, maintains an enviable conditioning regimen, necessary to do the job when the situation arises resulting in her putting her hands on a miscreant. A stronger male violator may be able to take her down, but he sure as hell will know he has been in a fight. This same thing could be said of any number of male officers I have worked with over the years.

Perhaps I will see the day when gender is not the over-riding issue when a leadership position is filled. We are living in a day and age when women are rapidly assuming roles that were traditionally male bastions just a few short years ago. I offer medicine, both veterinary and human, as a vivid example, as well as the military, piloting and police professions. I intend to accord the same respect to the professional I encounter, irrespective of their gender, as has been my practice for many years. The bobcat that I am married to, my daughter and my flight instructor will see to it.

The women in my life do not walk behind me, rather with me, and that, my dear readers, is how it should be!

There is a right way and a wrong way to do just about anything that requires human effort. As an example, the right way to open a bottle of catsup is to twist the lid off, break the film and pour the stuff on whatever gastronomic delight you are hell bent on defiling. The wrong way would be to break the top of the bottle off, Viking style, and pour catsup and glass shards onto your previously edible entree. To further illustrate this point, there is a right way and a wrong way to mount a Harley motorcycle. The right way produces a broad smile as the big twin is brought to life, while the wrong way results in the necessity to summon help from two or three smirking bystanders to get the 800 pounds of iron and leather off your leg that is pinned to the ground. These examples can be found in the unabridged, illustrated book of life.

Some of the best years of my professional life were spent working for supervisors who were secure in the knowledge that a reasonable degree of failure was the best teacher you could have. They understood that knowledge gained “the hard way” was likely to leave a lasting imprint on a just developing police professional. Police science is an rapidly evolving science that has become incredibly sophisticated over the years, with dramatic advances in the world of technology and the application of law. In spite of these advances, in the end, this profession turns on human interaction, if you will, where the rubber meets the road. Stay with me, I am headed somewhere with this!

One of the least sophisticated and finest police officers that I was ever associated with was a older gentleman by the name of Ted (Theodore) Gann, a Lafayette County deputy sheriff, who in his later years was assigned the responsibility of collecting bond and fine money at the truck weigh station in Odessa, Missouri, specifically on I-70. So the reader can grasp the enormity of this task, Ted collected many, many thousands of dollars from hundreds of drivers over the years. He was masterful in his ability to find the appropriate level of discourse with drivers who ranged from enraged to embarrassed, docile to combative. It should also be noted that at the age of 75, Ted, who began life as a coal miner, could, if the need arose, tear your arm off and beat you senseless with it!

Occasionally, we would be summoned to the scales to transport an errant driver to jail, usually because he could not raise the money necessary to cover his “expenses” or was of a temperament that required a little reflective time in the bullpen at the county lockup to restore normal reasoning ability. One of Ted’s admonishments to drivers who were simply offended by a law they had just broken, and chose to rail against this law was, and I am quoting here, “Now (name) if you don’t like the law, work to change it, don’t violate it”. He would go on to remind the violator that working to change a law was how our country operated whereas violating it was going to be expensive at best and deny him access to his profession at worst. Most of the time, these miscreants were receptive and the conversation would end with knowing smiles and money being exchanged between the deputy and the violator.

Folks that are tearing down statues and blocking highways could certainly use a little one on one face time with Ted. Herein lies the problem. I would challenge every one of the folks who are engaged in the pursuit of some elusive form of social justice to stand in front of a mirror and ask themselves a simple question. Are my convictions and/or concerns strong enough to cause me, alone, to grab a rope to pull down a statue or stroll onto a major highway and risk immediate arrest or perhaps being run over by a car? If your strength is derived from a mob, you have no strength at all, and if your convictions do not rise to the level of a willingness to be arrested, you have no conviction. You are an unprincipled individual who has nothing more to do, and likely have no clue as to why you are standing in traffic or tearing down a statue.

I would suggest you spend your time constructively, perhaps writing a respectful letter to your representatives expressing your concerns. Force him or her to respond to your position and become a part of a solution to the issues that you are vexed with. Don’t want to write, then call. Don’t want to call or write, then your conviction is suspect. A final, and legal, effort might be participation in a PEACEFUL demonstration, long a fixture in American social justice. I can assure you that, in the future, your children and grandchildren will not be impressed by your participation in a statue tear down or mob inspired attempt at blocking a road. Deputy Gann is long departed but his advice is as valid today as it was 50 years ago…..work to change the law, don’t violate it!

The first day of fall is rapidly approaching and I, like so many others, am left wondering where this year has gone. The warm feeling of accomplishment is still very much at odds with our aggravating disappointment with items not checked off of our annual to do list. The first hints of fall are about us as the night air reminds us that soon enough, winter will signal the end of another of nature’s cycles of life. Let’s have a look at what is left of 2018 and how to use the rest of this tumultuous year.

One of my closest friends is quietly watching his wife as she enters her final days on this earth. I deeply admire his courage as he quietly accepts the inevitable end of a long relationship with his trusted companion of many years. I am reminded of just how fortunate I am to count this man among my closest of friends and am, at the same time, frustrated at my inability to offer very little in terms of comfort as this transition occurs. Their situation reminds me that we all have this experience to negotiate, a sobering thought for my generation. We should use our time wisely.

The political season is upon us, and soon will be relegated to history. Thank God. I have never seen such rancor and hatred as what we are experiencing today. Instant communication, through social media as well as traditional media has left much of America reeling. It is difficult, if not impossible, to wade through the sea of lies, half truths, innuendo and half baked nonsense we are being exposed to endlessly. My favorite refrain these days is quite simply “somebody’s lying”. We must be awfully easy to influence and I long for the days when folks like Ike Skelton and Harold Caskey were running things. It was always an interesting day in our state capital when you visited with Senator Caskey, a bulldog of a man who was principled and direct. Ike was equally principled and both of these gentlemen were motivated by public service, checking personal agendas at the door. No media influence could possible dissuade a voter, either for or against these kinds of folks, irrespective of where your loyalties might lie.

For the first time in decades, I am not fascinated with the prospects of deer hunting and catching a limit of fat crappies for the freezer. It is unbelievably hard to cross an arm of Truman Lake and note a bass boat as it passes under the bridge driven by an angler who is grinning in anticipation of a day on the water. This evolution is the result of advancing arthritis, which makes handling a bass boat less than pleasant. The folks who purchased my Ranger sent me a photograph of them fishing on Truman and I damn neared choked as I looked at it. As for hunting, I still regard the hunt as one of the noblest of sports but have lost interest in killing critters. Even so, my memories are wonderful and I wish my hunting friends well. Another thumb surgery late this fall will hopefully take some of the pain out of my left hand as it has already done in my right thumb. Modern medicine is incredible and the prospect of another cold winter is creating an urgency to get this done, even though hand surgeries are no fun. Winter seems like a good time to become a one handed coffee drinker!

Sharon and I are counting the days until the first frost signals the necessity to drive across US 24 in Lafayette county where I patrolled as a brand new trooper. The heavenly smell of apple orchards provided the backdrop for many fall days in those years. A perfect day was marked by a coffee stop, followed by a roadside check visiting with the good people of Lafayette County while geese sang their song as they migrated south. If it gets any better than that, please drop me a note so that I can experience it.

Our river tested canoe is now back in Springfield, having spent several years reposing at a friends business in Osage Beach. Few activities rival a fall float on one of our rivers and we will soon load Tazzy for such a trip. If you have never done so, please take the time to rent a conveyance and give this activity a try. It is impossible to describe the peace you feel under a towering bluff on one of our clear streams on a fall day, after the summer crowds have dissipated. Floating is easy on the hands and even easier on your mind!

Another of my friends recently published a picture of his work canning tomatoes and making home-made jelly. The vibrant color reminds me it is time to peruse the various markets for year end produce and similarly canned products. Urban living pretty well precludes a garden, but I remember the satisfaction derived from growing and preserving your own produce. This is yet another fall activity that I dearly miss, taking me back to years when this was not just fun, but was also a necessity. It is a beautiful fall tradition.

In a few short days, fall will be officially upon us. We should be thankful the Master has given us yet another year to close out gracefully. We have all lost friends and relatives, as my good friend is doing as I write, and we should not waste this opportunity to show appreciation by smiling and moving about our great country. We must refuse to let the hatred that is consuming us as a nation crush our optimism and anticipation of the fall season. My generation, by now, should be well aware that we are promised a limited supply of beautiful fall days.

The seasons are changing……..

Shannon County is a poor county, if wealth is measured in money. Thankfully, there are many ways to measure the value of real estate beyond an accountant’s ledger and such is the case with this gem located deep in Missouri’s Ozarks. The folks here are not the least bit pretentious, perfectly content to live in a land where cell service isn’t really necessary and wood heat is a mainstay. The steep forested hillsides and crystal clear streams are the center of their lives, and if you are respectful, you are welcome to share their existence for awhile. Sharon, Tazzy and I spent last week at Missouri’s newest and extremely popular state park, Echo Bluff. This park has a colorful history, much of which is recorded, however; if these hills could talk, I suspect the story would be entrancing.

Echo Bluff began establishing it’s identity as Camp Zoe in 1929. This was a place where young women came from around the country to spend time communing with nature, swimming and hiking the many trails in and around the park. In 1967, Camp Zoe became coed, presumably in an attempt to remain in existence, providing outdoor adventures in a time when more urban activities were becoming popular. Sometime in 2004, the camp was acquired by a colorful musician named Jimmy Tebeau, a member of a rock band named “The Schwag”, a popular tribute band for the Grateful Dead. Jimmy began promoting rock concerts in this very remote location, some of which were attended by as many as 7,000 folks. It was a perfect location for these activities, the remoteness providing some insulation between the revelers and law enforcement, important as these concerts and drug use are closely related. Jimmy owned about 330 acres of ground within what is now the park. Jimmy’s luck ran out in 2010, when various law enforcement agencies, led by the Drug Enforcement Administration, raided the park and seized it in a federal forfeiture action. Jimmy pled guilty to a single drug related charge and spent a year in a prison camp in South Dakota. The photo below is of Mr. Jimmy Tebeau.

Missouri’s Department of Natural Resources purchased the land, at auction, for 640,000, and subsequently acquired an additional 100 adjacent acres. This was the beginning of a politically controversial period of development into what is now Echo Bluff State Park, named for the towering bluff overlooking Sinking Creek in front of the modern lodge. Within the park a beautiful stone bridge was constructed across Sinking Creek, among other projects, which became the subject of some concern given the poor quality of many bridges within the county. Thankfully, the government was not dissuaded and the park was fully developed and opened in the summer of 2016. Although the exact costs are elusive, the improvements within the park are conservatively estimated to have cost around 55 million dollars, not including approximately 10.5 million dollars in federal grants. What does this investment get you, you might ask?

The camping area is, in simple terms, state of the art. The RV parking pads are all concrete, level, spacious and properly equipped for the various needs of users, in terms of water, sewer and electrical connectivity. This area is not currently shaded, however; trees have been planted and will soon provide ample shade. The shower houses and restroom facilities are all first rate, immaculately maintained and convenient. There are considerable tent and primitive camping opportunities close at hand, with parking for those that walk in. Handcarts are available, conveniently spotted around the grounds, to pack in your gear. For those who eschew the camping experience, there are a number of very modern cabins and chalets as well as rooms in the lodge, which is a gorgeous building. Sinking Creek runs through the park and provides wading, fishing and swimming opportunities at a number of locations. Tazzy loves this park and we have named one of the deeper pools on the creek “Tazzy’s Hole”, a place where he swims until exhaustion! In spite of these many amenities, the draw is the setting.

The hills and ridges are densely wooded in pine and hardwood. The hollows are deep and fog shrouded in the mornings, the cool air from the creek practically demanding a campfire in the ring at each campsite. There is abundant wildlife and a resident population of feral horses who have a fondness for such things as watermelon carelessly left out at night. There is WiFi, as some folks do not think they can live without it, and it is surprisingly good. We found it useful only in a drenching downpour, precluding us from being out and about. There are numerous float outfitters close at hand, some of which will pick you up at your campsite, deliver you to a put in and pick you up at the take out, then deliver you back to your campsite or cabin. How convenient is that!

There are local folks who can remember the sounds of blaring rock bands shattering the peaceful hills. There is an occasional local with enough salt to remember the sounds of children squealing in the cold creek waters or coaxing a horse along a trail. I can only imagine what it is like in the fall, when nature displays her colors. I am told that Halloween is a special occasion in the RV park, with folks dressing up and brightly lighting their RV’s as they welcome children on the prowl for treats. If there is a downside, it is the park’s popularity. Make your reservations well in advance as this is going to be one of those coveted destinations where sites are reserved many months in advance.

We will be back, soon. There is much research to be done and many interviews to be conducted. I thoroughly enjoy conversations with the folks in Shannon County who have lived the colorful history around Echo Bluff. The hills will never give their secrets up. The stories that are known only to the ridges, hollows and hills are locked away forever.

If only these hills could talk!