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I am an easy mark for folks who work at anything other than standing on a corner with a sign summarizing their terrible existence, often the result of not really working in the first place.  So it should come as no surprise that I would extend this kindness to two college age ladies standing in my driveway, talking to Sharon when I drove in from running a few errands.  These ladies patiently explained that if we would let a representative from their company come into our home and simply vacuum one room, they (these two ladies) would be paid 25.00 and all would be well.  They assured us that nothing need be bought, and after the floor was vacuumed, the sales representative would be on his way.  With this introduction, we let a Kirby vacuum salesman into our home.  I can honestly say, I have never seen anything like the fiasco we unleashed and never hope to again.  So, this story begins!

At about the same time a previously ordered pizza was delivered, a van drove up and expelled two young men who promptly set about unloading a demonstration Kirby vacuum cleaner, carefully boxed in a manner that would make a Chinese furniture packer green with envy.  The driver shook my hand and promptly departed in the van, leaving his protege’ to handle the sales pitch.  That our salesman was now stranded should have been a clue, but what the devil, just vacuum the room and jump in the soon to return van and be on your way.  The two girls will have earned their 25.00, we will enjoy our pizza and life would be good.  Except…….that is not the Kirby way.  At this point, I should note that Sharon had the good sense to stress, in terms that Tazzy could understand, that we would NOT be buying a vacuum cleaner, under any circumstances.  Period, as Fred Sanford would say.

After unpacking his shiny, aluminum alloy vacuum cleaner, the salesman, a young man that I would judge to be about 25 or so, carefully made a production of displaying 50 or so round, white discs that resembled coffee filters.  He also assured us that in spite of our efforts to maintain a clean home, we were living in filth, which he captured on these filters one at a time, thus proving we were next in line to have my office declared a Haz-Mat site.  All the while he chattered on about the virtues of his vacuum, the superior suction, quietness and the comparative lightness of their proprietary new alloy machine.  Simultaneously, the salesman was flipping through a binder, a prop designed to emphasis the absolute necessity of owning a Kirby vacuum.  We were patient, but unmoved.  Sharon, sensing my rising displeasure, dispatched me to the living room with instructions to begin eating the slowly congealing pizza, which was under the protective gaze of Tazzy.  She was within earshot, and I clearly heard her again carefully inform the salesman we would not be buying a vacuum, even if it repainted the office and dusted the bookcase.  The salesman was undeterred, and bantered on, while I enjoyed a slice or two of pizza.  The pizza had a calming affect on me, and I walked back into the office and told young Lee Iacocca to pack his vacuum up and leave my home, giving him 5 minutes to accomplish this prodigious feat, of which two minutes were already used in the delivery of this ultimatum. He began packing, but was still on message, explaining that we could not possibly go on living as we do without his vacuum.  Then after packing, and still chattering incessantly, he announced he had no ride. Not a problem I said, use the cell phone in your pocket and call your vacuum, uber van and tell him to haul ass over here as your life is in danger.  “I can’t”, he said, “my phone has no SIM card”. We retrieved one of our cells and dialed the number provided for him and he then used it to explain that his customers (us) were getting increasingly frustrated, and that he (the van driver) should expedite his efforts to retrieve him.  We helped him and his vacuum to the curb and waited for the van, which had already driven by once without stopping.  The van finally stopped and in the time it takes to load a vacuum cleaner and a salesman, Sharon delivered a blistering summation of their tactics and product to the driver, presumably the “Team Lead”. I was proud of her ability to deliver such a crisp, succinct and horrifying summation in 30 seconds.  I learned some new words and have now been schooled on tone and inflection!  I should note that young Iacocca thanked me for not beating the crap out of him as he drug his ultralight vacuum down our driveway, a clear indication of some situational reasoning skill.

You may be wondering why we just didn’t buy the vacuum cleaner, and use it as a spare behind our very efficient current device, if for no other reason than to be free from this plague we had brought upon ourselves.  The Kirby he was hawking retails at $3,500.00, give or take!  Kind of takes your breath away, doesn’t it?  So, if a couple of comely shills stop by and suggest they are working their way through college by lining up a vacuum job for your home, don’t take the bait.  Gently close the door, cross yourself even if you are not Catholic and sweeten your offering the next time you visit your church.  Some acts of kindness are clearly counter productive…….

In January of last year, I wrote a short essay acknowledging my addiction to coffee.  In that piece, I mentioned that various heart mechanics have pooled their knowledge and suggested that coffee, in any measureable quantity, is not in the best interest of folks who have a shaky motherboard in their heart’s hard drive.  Imagine my euphoria when I opened the latest edition of the Harvard Heart Letter and read where a number of recent studies indicate that coffee in moderation is not the evil elixir that is all but banned by cardiologists who all have coffee on their breath when they lean in for a good listen to your heart.  We need to get serious about this popular beverage……really serious.

The founders of Starbucks, folks with the colorful names Baldwin, Siegl, and Bowker, are the clever guys who started this wildly successful business back in 1971, just about the time I began earning my vast fortune as a Highway Patrolman.  A fellow named Schultz, with marketing skills that would shame P.T. Barnum, has managed to turn Starbucks into a vast coffee empire that is often emulated, but never matched.  This great enterprise had it’s beginning in Seattle, presumably as a result of the incessant rain there, forcing folks to suffer quietly, indoors, with a cup of coffee to keep depression at bay.  How well has Mr. Schultz done, you may ask?  The answer is simple; revenue in 2015 was 19.6 billion, with the number of locations as of November, 2016 at 23,768 and growing.  Mr. Schultz has managed to magically transform your mother’s can of Maxwell House or Folgers Premium Drip Grind coffee into various, flavorful elixirs going for around five bucks a cup…..and the world is lining up, two deep, to pay this outrageous price for a single cup of his brew.  I confess, we have an app that allows us to flash our phone at a colorful little box sitting between us and the barista and debit an account that reloads as needed to make sure we support Mr. Schultz’ enterprise.  Folks, when your coffee expenditures exceed your gasoline expenditures each month, it is time to rethink your priorities.  Cue the creative use of the pod coffee maker and home espresso machine.

My admiration for Mr. Schultz’ marketing skill has recently been tempered by his foray into the world of social engineering.  The retail establishments that I frequent are not selected on a social or sexual preference basis.  If the product is good, the pricing fair and the location convenient, I likely will trade there, and gladly stand in line with folks who may or may not share my generally privately held views on such matters as same sex marriage.  How folks choose to live their lives is of no interest to me when I am buying a cup of coffee, and I believe Mr. Schultz’ recent ramblings suggesting that folks who embrace only traditional marriage are not welcome is a marketing mistake. I choose my coffees, sir and I choose to associate with whom I please.  You embrace refugees, I embrace veterans.  My limited resources will always support the needs of our veterans over the needs of refugees.

To this end, Sharon and I have embarked on a home based crusade to expand our skills in the brewing of a really good cup of coffee for somewhere between two bits and a buck.  We have carefully perused the unbelievable variety of coffees available through internet sales, and have amassed quite a collection of both pod coffees and bags of coffee, all of which can be brewed in our pod machine.  A few years back, we acquired an expresso machine and have begun experimenting with it, the results of which have been surprisingly good.  Among our favorites are coffees such as Black Rifle, a company started by an Afghanistan combat veteran, Victory coffee, developed by a Navy Seal, and our particular favorite, Mystic Monk Coffee, developed by a group of Carmelite Monks who reside in a monastery in Wyoming.  Just opening a shipment of Mystic Monk Coffee is a spiritual experience…….the aroma will ease your mind and calm your soul.  I am hopelessly addicted to vanilla, in all it’s forms, and really enjoy the Vanilla Nut Medium Blend coffee, an organic grind from The Bean, another on-line coffee company.  Like an addict who uses clean needles, we prefer coconut milk in our expressos, somehow assuaging any remaining angst over our addiction.

Just as Henry Ford could not imagine the plethora of automobiles available to people today, the Ethiopians in the 10th century could not have imagined what they were introducing to society when they first boiled coffee beans and drank the elixir that resulted.  As for me, I am finishing this piece with a steaming cup of Mystic Monks, Royal Pecan Rum coffee laced with a jigger of Baileys Irish Cream.  My hat is off to the Ethiopians and pulled down tight as I walk by the next Starbucks, secure in the knowledge the Monks or veterans are going to see to it that I enjoy my next cup of their best coffee…….super coffee!  When you are around, feel free to drop in to the Yellow Dog coffee Company, and enjoy a cup of super coffee on me……you won’t need an app and the company is good.

 

I love fire, in a non pyromaniac sort of way, whether it be a camp fire on the bank of the Gasconade river, a dancing fire in a fireplace or the gentle controlled burn in a wood stove.  When we occupied the “house on the hill” overlooking Truman Lake, I smiled when I caught the scent of woodsmoke curling from the chimney when we returned home in the evenings on a cold Ozark winter night.  There is something reassuring about that scent, a promise of warmth, security and the ability to keep the cold night air at bay.  Last night, I sat in front of another kind of fire to read, deriving a certain manufactured satisfaction from a perfect burn in front of a gas fireplace at home.  It just isn’t the same.

I have arrived at the realization that how one perceives a warming fire at home is directly related to how one was raised.  I have a brother-in-law, raised with wood heat, who appreciates the old adage that firewood warms you twice, once when you work it up and again as you burn it, a little differently than I do.  He talks about trudging through snow and freezing rain to bring in wood and remembers keeping the stove cleaned out and up.  The novelty quickly wears off at zero dark thirty when snow is topping your boots as you slip and slide with an arm load of wood.  I suspect that I would quickly change my perspective if before we enjoyed a hearty breakfast we first had to bank a fire in a wood stove and “bring it up” to an unregulated temperature to cook that breakfast.  My brother-in-law prefers the kind of fire I enjoy here at home where with the flip of a switch, a carefully orchestrated burn, in and around faux logs, springs to life, looking exactly like it did the night before when the same switch extinguished the fire with precision.  Admittedly, it beats nothing…..barely. Give me woodsmoke.

We were never in any danger of freezing in the house on the hill.  We enjoyed central, electric heat courtesy of the efficiency of a heat pump, a pellet stove in the basement and a Jotul wood stove in the great room, located in front of the windows providing a panoramic view of Truman Lake.  The Jotul was a cast iron beauty, with a re-burn system to keep the EPA from swooping in and placarding the house.  Cast iron stoves get hot, really hot, but are not inclined to creak and crack with the expansion that plagues boiler plate  stoves.  This stove, built in Sweden where they know a lot about burning wood, had a precise damper system, resulting in a burn that could be controlled with nearly the precision of the aforementioned “flip the switch” gas burn.   When you opened the door to feed Mr. Jotul, a reassuring puff of woodsmoke greeted you with that familiar and comforting scent that I love.  The burn pattern, viewed through the expansive glass door, was never the same from burn to burn, resulting in a mezermizing affect as you watched it dance.  A perfect stove has a glass “wash” feature engineered into it’s construction whereby air is cleverly drawn upward and in front of the glass to help preclude the inevitable blackening of the glass.  There is another Jotul in my future, necessitating yet another move at some point in our lives.

My readers know that among my many vices is an unhealthy appreciation for internal combustion engines.  Fortunately, chainsaws are built around small, powerful and efficient little two stroke engines that are wood eating marvels.  They are also powerful reminders that mental lapses can result in spectacular results.  I have been to the emergency room, courtesy of a lapse when I carelessly touched a still moving chain to my leg.  A precise surgical incision was not the result, rather a jagged little mess that prompted the triage nurse to utter one word as I entered. She looked at my leg and, without prompting, flatly stated “chainsaw”.  I now wear those funny looking chaps, along with a hard hat, face screen, and  hearing protection.  A boot full of blood makes a peculiar squishy sound as you walk…….disconcerting is an apt description.  This being said, I enjoy working firewood, cutting, bucking and splitting (courtesy of another internal combustion engine on a tow behind log splitter).  I can see the promise in a carefully stacked cord of firewood, the result of honest and hard work. Cordwood doesn’t talk, but if it could, I suspect it would tell you that when the snow flies, it will have your back.  

Later today,  Sharon and I will likely adjourn to one of our favorite eateries, the Cracker Barrel, where we will ask for our preferred table, the barrel with the checkerboard on it in front of the fireplace.  There isn’t much leg space, but the warmth from the ever present fire makes up for the inconvenience.  Something about sitting in front of the fire, in a rocking chair and enjoying a meal cooked home style.  It is fun to watch folks stop and turn their backs to the fire, soaking up the warmth as they comment on our table arrangements…….

They say you never forget your first time.  I can remember it all too well, the shaky hands, rapid heartbeat and quick, shallow respirations as the actual moment approached.  It mattered not how much research you had done, or what those who had lived through the experience had to offer. The anticipation, fear and expectations were all tossing about wildly in my head. You have looked forward to this moment with dread, a degree of self loathing and deep concern about the effect this was going to have on the relationship that you have worked hard to nurture.  Wild expectations aside, you steel yourself……..gaze downward and begin slowly, making every effort to avoid discomfort as you……..pick up the razor and begin shaving your head.

I should have seen it coming.  Had I not been so self absorbed, I would have realized that I chose the wrong parents……Paternally and maternally, there wasn’t enough hair in my lineage to make a skirt on a crappie jig.  The luxurious mane that Richard Gere flaunts or the thick, nailed down precision of a Tom Selleck haircut was never in my cards.  As the realization set in, I avoided the tense moment described above by relying on the ageless duo of denial and avoidance.  When in the barber’s chair, I would wave off the handheld mirror proffered by the sympathetic hair meister…a ritual by which you offered your approval for the precision of the man ( or lady) in the final trim around the hairline and ears.  I should have noticed the time in the chair was shrinking, ever so slowly, and that I no longer required the layering of the cut that accompanies a full head of hair.  I adapted subconsciously.  First there was the pathetic attempt to capitalize on the thicker hair that circles the head, you know, the hair that looks good when you are wearing a hat, but elicits gasps when you remove your hat and the folks around you see that you are growing taller than your hair.  Then there are ever shorter cuts, again relying on the “monk circle” to carry the freight for you.  I will never forget a dear friend in the office, standing in the coffee line ahead of me on a Monday morning, turning to face me and gasping at my mall procured cut, done out of frustration, and asking me if I had cut my hair myself.  I knew then the time was near.  Finally, the services of a barber were really no longer necessary…….a horrible time in the life of those of us who welcome the barbershop banter, sound of clippers and the smell of talcum powder on the brush used to wisk the clippings from your neck.  You reach for the handheld mirror, gather your courage and look squarely in the big mirror at the vast expanses of skin that used to be covered in hair.  Sharon had been pressed into service to keep my neck clean, a exercise in futility, usually executed on the back deck.  One beautiful spring morning, she squared up, walked in front of me and suggested sympathetically, “it is time……you are out of usable hair.”

The advantages of shaving your head are many.  It is neat.  You no longer waste time in front of a mirror worried about the part line or mussed hair that accompanies the constant on and off activity associated with wearing a hat professionally.   When queried about hair color on license renewals, it is fun to respond “transparent”.  You are in great company with the likes of Cal Ripken, Vin Diesel, Charles Barkley, Shaq and Albert Pujols. You discover how resilient the scalp is.  It doesn’t cut as easily as you might think, although it will bleed you out if you do nick it.  I must acknowledge there is far more maintenance than one would think, the razor is applied every other day lest you look like you are developing a form of mange.

If you are not hair challenged, good for you.  Being ordinary can be a blessing.  For me, I prefer the style and flair of Dennis Franz or the Blue Man Group.  I know that the 70’s are never coming back…….

……..and neither is my hair!

The resilience of America is on display.  Never mind the mind control games that have been perpetuated by the media who would have us believe there is a crises at every turn.  Please don’t be misled into thinking we have become the laughing stock of the rest of the world when, in fact, the rest of the world recognizes the unbelievable success and fortune of our country.

We are entering the New Year having identified a number of “things” and people that have captured our attention and provided the fertilizer necessary to fostering a feeling of doom and helplessness.  Let’s charge on with a new mindset and burn energy changing the things we can…..and ignoring those we cannot.  For instance, lets……

…embrace our new political landscape.  Conservatives have lived through 8 years of  liberal control…..a blue print for the liberal faction today, who are now beginning a similar experience…we all approach the same life in different ways…

…..ignore the folks who kneel during the National Anthem and otherwise disrespect the symbols of our democracy….they are not worth our time……

…..expend energy evaluating the message…not killing the messenger.  Snitches are not the problem……never have been.  Nobody likes them, and that is a heavy cross to carry….think message, message, message…..not messenger, messenger, messenger…

……encourage our children and grandchildren to understand and manage adversity, not shrink from it.  It is never going away……weeping and avoiding the unpleasant is not in the recipie for leadership and success…..life is not a rose garden….

…..galvanize our contempt for those who harm our police officers….when an officer is killed, the butterfly effect guarantees that untold numbers of our citizenry will suffer accordingly…..it is never okay to harm an officer….never

……be passionate, not stupid….there is room for differing, intelligent argument on everything under the sun…..it takes energy to be passionate….it takes very little to be stupid….

…..recognize that freedom has a very sharp edge…..those that would destroy us from within exist and there exists no magic lens to identify them before they strike….so…..be careful…..when driving…eating…….playing….always

Finally…be a part of the solution…..if you are not…..you are a part of the problem…..

Happy New Year

 

 

 

Flying is expensive!  There is no end to the rationalization that occurs to justify the realization of my life long objective……becoming a pilot.  I have doggedly pursued this goal over the last two years, relying on a strategy that only a masochist could conjure up……..but pursue I will.  For those of you considering this lofty goal, please consider the advice that I am offering here.  It is your money and your time….spend both wisely.

First of all, begin this adventure as soon as you can.  There is a reason professional athletes are pretty well done when they hit their mid thirties.  You lose a step here and there and stuff breaks……The FAA recognizes this and requires an aviation oriented physical examination that really takes a hard look at the things we take for granted, like hearts and minds.  When you are 35, in general terms, this physical is a walk in the park…..when you are 67, not so much.  Because of heart related issues, wonderfully corrected at the Cleveland Clinic, this physical presents a risk to my erstwhile flying career…fail it and you are done.  The FAA developed a new rule, the Sport Pilot Rule, that let’s folks like me fly a certain class of airplane without the aviation physical.  I must fly only under certain conditions, all really common sense, such as on clear days, daylight hours, under 10,000 feet, and in little airplanes that must weigh under 1,320 lbs. There are speed restrictions, fixed landing gear requirements and airspace limitations.  I can only fly with one passenger, preferably an underweight midget wearing only a thong and headband.  My instructor, fortunately, is a petite lady who can escape the necessity of under dressing to save weight!  Still, it is worth it and I am not dissuaded.

Secondly, If you take the route that I have chosen, locate a Light Sport Airplane that you can rent for training.  The picture accompanying this article is of my beloved Cessna Skycatcher, N7027F.  This airplane and it’s stablemate, another Skycatcher, are located in Olathe, Kansas where I was extremely fortunate to find a diminutive instructor named Jeanné to teach me.  Please note, this excellent program is located in Olathe, a three hour drive for me, one way, for an hour in the air.  In an already expensive proposition, this adds up folks…..in a hurry.  Miss Jeanné and the Skycatcher are billed at 150+ an hour.  In Missouri, the light sport airplanes that are available are in St. Louis, Kansas City and one, a tailwheel, in Joplin. Not being close to the airplane and instructor will exponentially increase your time commitment, thus financial commitment and is simply NOT the way to do this!  Once again, it is worth it and I am not dissuaded.

Where am I today?  I have enough hours logged to qualify for a private pilot’s certificate, (the physical thing again!), am ready for a checkride and am reviewing to retake the FAA written exam, as my existing exam qualification is time lapsing today.  I am looking for a Light Sport Airplane to buy (preferably a classic vintage airplane like a J3 Cub, Tailorcraft or Ercoupe) and will attain my certification in it. There are a number of light sport airplanes in production, worldwide, but I am not ready to mortgage the house to write a check for 150K-300K to own one!  Typically, the weight of LSA airplanes leaves you with between 400 and 500 lbs payload, INCLUDING gas which weighs 6 Lbs. per gallon.  See midget comment above!  As a side note, I should mention the Skycatcher is a twitchy, overweight, Chinese built and cramped little guy that will climb like a homesick angel, which has been abandoned by Cessna, who is apparently crushing the few remaining airplanes in it’s inventory, thus dooming the owners of the 300 or so Skycatchers that were actually sold to the public, should they need replacement parts. Again,  it is worth it, and I am not dissuaded.

For the record…..I am well aware the Skycatcher in the picture makes my hat look big..and my butt for that matter.  You will notice the only thing that looks small in this picture is the airplane and my wallet…….

Finally, it is worth it, and I am not dissuaded!

There is a reason that folks reach a certain age and hang it up.  No doubt, in the business of policing, it is related to a host of factors, visual acuity, strength, stamina, you know…the usual stuff.  It is the same thing that limits a professional athlete to 10 or so years before he or she is worn out and relegated to the boredom associated with spending some of their considerable fortune.  Thankfully, very few retired law enforcement officers are faced with the prospect of losing sleep over seismic shifts in the stock market…….

I suspect that most of us who have made a career out of policing, in one form or another, can look back with satisfaction in having made a difference in the world we were charged with serving.  We understood the expectations.  We correctly, for the most part, read the folks we dealt with appropriately and applied just the right amount of logic, persuasion and inference to accomplish our goal which was to restore dignity to an undignified situation.  We were schooled in the fine art of winning, an absolute necessity when losing often carried unthinkable consequences.  We relied upon a slapper, stick or backhand when the circumstances were such that our verbal skills were just not getting it done, or when the folks who had attracted our attention in the first place narrowed our options with their behavior.  I recall a fellow trooper, an academy classmate actually, who was confronted by a big, loud, drunk and provocative cowboy at the state fair.  The cowboy announced to the world, and his audience was considerable, that he was going to whip this officers ass (not his donkey…) and the officer replying “well, okay but you are not going to like this”.  The cowboy made a bad decision and was soon cuffed and on his way to jail……I never saw this fellow again and trust he recovered from his broken nose and what appeared to be a dislocated shoulder…the results of said trooper relying on certain compliance techniques popular in our day.  The times have changed…..and our generation would likely get into trouble rather quickly……..

A mob of mannerless thugs blocking a street in our day would be met with a mob of officers equally passionate about unblocking the street.  We would win and a few folks would get hurt.  I can guarantee the thugs would regroup and rethink their decision to block another road.  Today, our officers are instructed to remove their campaign hats at a civil disturbance, so as to appear less imposing and intimidating.  My generation would not have been concerned with the sensitivities of folks intent on burning  and looting.  Again, folks would have likely been bruised up, but they would probably sit out the next riot…..or “rally” as one news organization referred to the stooges who are protesting the presidential election as.

Could I survive in today’s police climate?  Yes and no.  I am not as quick and certainly not as strong as I once was…..and quick and strong are great attributes for an officer.  I could certainly function as an administrator again, but would likely quickly fall into disfavor with the political leadership today when I backed my officers who applied a little more force than the pol thought necessary to resolve a situation.  The cameras, cell phones and kinder and gentler approach so popular today may well be reflective of the desires of the society we protect, however; it is not working folks. The torch has been passed to the new Centurions and these highly trained and better educated officers are being killed at an unprecedented rate.  My sage Sergeant, back in the day, insisted we meet people just one notch above the terms they establish….with the understanding that if they insisted, we could quickly adjust to the circumstance and slip one notch below their expectations………..see the cowboy story above.

This picture was taken on the last day I wore a uniform.  It reflects the passing of the torch to the next generation.  I am proud of my daughter’s commitment and style…..consistent with the expectations we have established for our profession, however……..

I would love to have the torch back………….

 

Ernie Raub,  one of my oldest friends and co-workers back in the days of perpetual blue, and I enjoyed lunch this past week at Bandannas, in Jefferson City.  The conversation moved around a bit, but we did manage to focus on a few irritants. This list grows longer as you age.

If you are of the conservative or even moderate persuasion, the dramatic shift in the attitude of America will provide all the conversational fodder you need. If you are an old cop, there is yet another layer of head scratching stuff to discuss.  We easily slipped through road rage, remembering the days we could actually do something about the bone heads who seem to surround us on the highways these days.  I confess, every time I slapped my ticket book closed after rewarding a bone head with a invitation to explain his or her latest maneuver to a judge, I smiled.  Good guys 1, bad guys 0.  Politics, bad drivers, the latest ailments and family considerations aside we focused on the grand-daddy of all that is terribly wrong with America, the scourge of daily life, the impetus for cardiac event inducing anger accompanied by acute indigestion and apoplectic seizures.  The call taker.

Back in the day, totally unknown to each other, Ernie and I had a policy in our respective divisions.  Our iron clad, guaranteed response to the calls that were routed to our shops was an answer, by a human being, to your question!  Magic stuff today.  Ernie directed the Research and Development shop and I had inherited the Traffic Division, so odd calls that hit the switchboard were often directed to our offices.  If we had no idea what the answer was, we took a call back number and ran the traps for the caller until WE could provide the answer to the question.  If further information was needed, we caused the appropriate person in state government to call the person making the inquiry back and help them.  No phone tag, no wandering around from office to office, we cut to the chase.  If two Missouri State Highway Patrol Captains could not get an answer to a citizen inquiry, imagine the frustration of the caller, as he or she navigated the system in Jefferson City!

Ernie Raub is not excitable.  He is one of the more reflective, direct and patient people that I know.  Ernie, having recently lost his mother, had been navigating the various social security and Medicare components of government.  He talked of the various folks, when you actually talked to a person rather than an electronic router, who could barely speak English, who obviously kept a roster of numbers routed through the same electronic prompted maze.  I felt his pain.  Rather than sign up for social security on the computer, I opted to appear in a Social Security office in person, thinking a conversation about my options would be helpful.  It was, to me, not so much for the official who was interested only in getting me out of their office expeditiously.  I should have used the computer.

People cost money….electronically recorded responses do not.  Want to talk to someone about service on an appliance, your call is answered in another part of the world, who relays the information (or not) to a service center in your region, who relays the information to a service center in your state, who then notifies a service tech who must check with his dispatch center to arrange a specific time, who then notifies you he will be by between 6AM and 5PM on the appointed day. Efficiency indeed.

We need to do a study.  Rather than the mating habits of earthworms, let’s look into the daily activities of the folks involved in major, life altering or life ending events.  I am betting you will find an experience with a call taker in the preceding day or two of the event.   While we are at it, let’s add anotheir category for death certificates signed by coroners and medical examiners, “telephone induced cardiac arrest”, or TICA.

Telephones should have warning labels………..

 

As have most of the folks that I share my existence with, I am shocked at the behavior of those lost souls that have taken to the streets to kill my brothers and sisters in proverbial blue.  Shocked, but not surprised.  We did not get to this point as a result of some divine intervention or anomaly in the weather, rather as a result of a generational malaise accompanied by a stunning urge to ignore rule and law and do only what feels good.  The Great Pyrenees breed of dog can teach us many things about responsibility, let me explain.

The Great Pyrenees goal in life is to protect something.  He will protect sheep, goats, cattle, people, children, grass, flowers, bird feeders and other Great Pyrenees.  They are beautiful dogs and capable of uncompromising love.  They are sturdily built and blessed with a thick, protective coat.  They have terrific vision and don’t miss much going on around them.  They are intelligent, possess great temperaments, and are confident in their abilities.  They have great stamina, love their job and are happy when their protectees are secure.  They will fight to the death to protect the sheep or whatever else they are responsible for.  They do not give one sorry damn what color the sheep or cattle or whatever it is they are caring for is.  It is a matter of fact they will rest closest to the most vulnerable members of their  herd or flock , knowing full well this is where an external threat will likely strike.  They will give the full monte to their job and would be confused, bewildered and crushed if a goat or sheep turned on them. Sheep know better, they can sense the great destruction that would follow such an attack,  maybe even having experienced the spectacle resulting from an ill conceived attack stopped short by their Great Pyrenees protectors.  Amazing isn’t it?  The natural order of the animal kingdom reflecting  reason that humans can only marvel at.

When the sheep attack the sheep dogs, we will suggest that is just how it goes for the sheepdogs, you know, unfortunate but to be expected.  A shepherd will not invite the wolves in for a conference, rather he will see to it his sheepdogs are taken care of and well supported.  He will swear vengeance on the wolves.

The current administration is a blatantly anti-cop as any administration in history, totally ignoring the attacking subhuman variants and suggesting the “police culture” is to blame for the current carnage.  Bullsquirt!

When there are no more Great Pyrenees, there will be no more  sheep…….It is the natural order.

I would suggest that if you are one of those, and I suspect there are precious few, of my readers who are enamored with Tribal Politics or see only the the beauty in the presumptive nominee of the Democratic Party, now would be a good time to find an old copy of Mad Magazine and set this posting aside.  If, on the other hand, you are guided by clear headed logic, or can at least objectively evaluate what falls in front of you, then give this post a read.

Hillary Clinton is a liar of the first order.  Never mind that “others have done it”, (a refrain that I smilingly brushed aside hundreds of times when scratching out a summons to a violator), or “I didn’t know it was illegal”, another favorite dodge that proved worthless as I continued to block print the information needed on the ticket.  It was a rare violator who would look you in the eyes and deny the violation that you just witnessed.  They might attempt to mitigate it with a circumstance or two, but outright denial, rare indeed.  That is  not the case with Hillary……or for that matter, her counsel, Bill, the fellow who happened to “run into” the Attorny General in an airport out west.

The Kansas City Star ran an editorial recently suggesting that Americans don’t deserve either candidate currently running for the presidency.  This is remarkable only in that Hillary is seen as a poor choice by a publication that leans left…….a lot.  While I am still watching Mr. Trump with arched eyebrows, I have seen all I want to see of Hillary.  The woman prevaricates with abandon.

At this point, we should probably make a distinction or two about the seriousness of her prevarication.  Mrs. Clinton sent and received highly classified intelligence data on a private server in the basement of her home.  A server that enjoys the same level of security afforded me as I write this article on my computer in my home………..none!  State secrets, mind you, many of which we will never know about as they were destroyed. This is not bean bag……America is under siege from a host of foreign and hostile governments and our Secretary of State is treating sensitive information with the same respect she would the exchange of recipes for chocolate chip cookies.  Never mind her motives, a serious consideration in and of itself, just focus on her denials.  Read the transcript of Director Comey’s responses to questions from Rep. Gowdy.  Lie after lie exposed.

Hillary Clinton’s history is one of prevarication.  No need to delve into such matters as who she was named after, Benghazi, and leaving the White House dead broke, or………well, you get the picture. Her deviation from the truth does have value in a value concious society…….she is sitting on the rights to a number one best seller….”The Art of Prevarication” with a forward drafted by Bill.  God help us if the author ends up being President Hillary Clinton.

Speaking of prevarication…….a fellow who enjoys a similar following has referred to her as the most qualified person to ever run for the Presidency.

Wow!  You can’t make this stuff up.