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The New Year is upon us. My wishes for my readers is for a year of good health, prosperity and confidence in America. Unfortunately, past experience has taught us that for approximately 24% of American women, the year will end with a devastating attempted or completed rape. This past year saw a good number of sensational sexual attacks, some ending in murder, of unarmed women. In reviewing the statistics for this year, one won’t find a single incidence of a properly trained, gun carrying female who was raped and/or killed. This year also marks the end of the single most anti-gun administration in our nation’s history. Perhaps it is time to turn to turn these statistics around.

“The purpose of a pistol is to a stop a fight that somebody else started, almost always at a very short range.” Col. Jeff Cooper, gun advocate and master tactician.

Men tend to buy handguns for many reasons, personal defense, competitions, and hunting being among them, while women are buying handguns at an unprecedented rate for personal defense. In 2005, women comprised about 13% of the gun owners in America. In 2020, the number rose to 25% and has grown steadily since, in fact comprising the single fastest growing demographic in that group.

Is this the year that women in your household or under your influence join this movement? It will take years for an Administration to seriously challenge lawlessness in America, which has grown exponentially under the current woke administration and courts that are unbelievably soft on crime. This is why I begin the New Year advocating for the safety of the female population in particular and the rest of the population in general. Now for some advice……

Pictured below are three currently popular concealed/carry handguns. There is no point in training and understanding armed self defense if you do not plan to train and actually carry. These pistols are all effective personal defense weapons, however so is a 1911 pistol that weighs 3 times more and is far more effective ballistically. The difference is that few women will sport a 1911 pistol but can most definitely carry one of these smaller handguns. The pistol on the bottom is a Ruger LCP in a basic caliber, .380 ACP. The next up is the superlative Smith&Wesson Bodyguard, also in .380 ACP and the top is a FN Reflex in 9mm Luger, a very powerful personal carry caliber. All three are comfortable carry pistols, however the LCP is not comfortable to shoot while the other two are. I know better than to recommend guns and calibers to my readers, many of whom are very familiar with hand gunning. The fact is that preferences will be dictated, most likely, by a male shooter acquaintance of the women taking up this business.

I want to start the New Year off with a dose of reality. Our lax courts, handcuffed law enforcement coupled with the proclivities of people who turn to violence in increasing numbers have resulted in this piece. You do not choose to be assaulted but you can damn sure choose put a stop to an assault. This is one way!

Have a wonderful New Year filled with success and good health. While you are at it, train and equip to underscore personal safety.

Have a great week!

SR

A while back I wrote about the stimulating nature of sounds that invoke memories and promises. This exercise prompted me to begin collecting the everyday scents in life that evoke memories and signal contentment. I am sure we all have such a list, perhaps not as eclectic in nature. The following scents have special meaning to me.

Patchouli oil based colognes and incense. Patchouli, to me, signals the necessity to take one’s mind out of gear and coast mentally. It is strongly associated with the early hippy culture

Sourdough bread, both rising and baking. I know of no one who can resist this comforting scent. An aroma that takes me back to my grandmother’s kitchen

Thick sliced, hickory smoked bacon in the skillet or on the grill. Bacon is savory, and produces an immediate salivary response.

Freshly mowed hay or a lush lawn. On a summer morning, a cut hayfield will more than offset the discomfort of a car window rolled down.

A puff of hardwood smoke upon opening a wood stove. It signals warmth and another small win over nature.

The scent of a woman. One can approach this consideration from several angles, but the scent of subtle cologne and a hand lotion on a woman signals any number of pleasures for her and you. Men are carnal in nature, let’s be honest here.

The smells in a horse barn. These gentle beasts have a scent of their own. Their scent reminds me that horses are in the servitude of man, creating a unique bond between them and us.

Leather. I absolutely love the smell of leather. Whether it be furniture, a saddle or jacket. It conveys strength, quality, and endurance. I own many leather bags and coats, choosing it over synthetic materials anytime I have the opportunity.

The smell of coffee in any form. It is impossible for me to resist the smell of freshly ground coffee or the brew it produces. Coffee has been the currency of the world for many years, responsible for huge swings in world markets. There is a reason.

A puppy’s breath. The subtle smell of mother’s milk on the breath of a little puppy will melt the heart of the hardest individual.

I have never used tobacco but absolutely love the smell within a humidor where pipe tobacco nestles with other tobacco products. A tin of cherry tobacco reminds me of my pipe smoking ancestors and their incessant use of it.

The smell of a bookstore. I own many books and a bookstore signals literary excitement. The fresh smell of new books is stimulating, reminding me of a beautiful time before computers.

Finally, my list includes the smell of dryer vents on a Sunday morning. We lived, for awhile, in a condo on the Lake of the Ozarks, one of precious few permanent inhabitants. The dryer vents dispensing their promise of clean laundry, also indicated the hell raisers were on their way home returning peace and solitude to the permanent party.

Other aromas include; a balsam Christmas tree, chain saw smoke, burned gunpowder, corn dogs at the State Fair and freshly popped movie popcorn.

As I get older, I increasingly marvel at what our senses provide us, and am very sympathetic to those who have lost one or more of their precious senses. Again, I urge my readers to never take these gifts for granted.

Have a great week!

SR

We have survived another wild and wooly political season. Once again America has elected a President with great hair (well, a lot of hair anyhow), relegating bald men to lesser offices across our great land. As a bald man who refuses to comb over the skunk stripe that envelopes my shiny crown, I long for another bald President. Ike was our last elected bald President (Ford doesn’t count) marking the beginning of the great hair period in Presidential politics. Eighty years is a long dry spell for hair challenged folks like myself.

While watching political contenders hurl verbal insults at each other, I found myself pulling for the bald down ballot contenders. They did okay, but aren’t likely to achieve the rarified atmosphere reserved for men of hair. Facial hair is also a taboo in Presidential politics, dating back to 1836 and Martin Van Buren, who was bald but sported magnificent sideburns. The WWII era gave us leaders like Ike, Churchill, Gandhi, and David Ben-Gurion, a golden age for shiny pates. It should be evident to my readers that good hair is political cover. The idols of the good hair politicos would have to be Kennedy, Reagan and Clinton. The truth is that good hair got two of them in trouble with admiring constituents. As further evidence of a fetish for hair, remember McCain, a loser whose hairline was receding and Biden, a winner, whose hair was reseeded.

Us hair challenged folks can’t all project the aura of Micheal Jordan, Sean Connery or Buddha, so we often spend hours cultivating facial hair, quite fashionable these days but a challenge to folks whose hair is running away from their beard.

I doubt I will live to see another bald President or a return to some form of facial hair on a serious contender. Such is my curse. Sharon tells me she likes my soon to be short sculptured beard even though I have nothing to tie it up to on the dome. That is why barbers have been busy cultivating a perfect fade, permitting your beard to slip into a barren but sublime infinity on one’s head. I never aspired to the challenges of the political world which is a good thing, as the curse of baldness would have been a serious handicap.

As a final insult, it appears the bald breeds of dogs never win top honors at Westminster, yet further evidence of the curse of hairlessness. You live and learn. It is time to procure another bottle of SPF 30 to keep my scalp cancer free. At least my dermatologist admires my pate and the care I’ve given it. To all the great hair guys out there, charge on with the morning ritual of managing your locks. I can bounce out of bed, slather a little sun screen on and hit the deck running. That is the benefit of being in the baldtocracy!

Have a great week!

SR

A foray to Bass Pro Shops, conveniently located only a few miles from our compound, triggered the beginning of the Holiday Season for me. The store was packed with all manner of folks wrapped in Christmas revelry. Back in February of 2020, I wrote about my hearing decline in a piece entitled “The Silent Disability”. My hearing loss continues to progress, however; technology stays a step ahead. It was the murmur of the crowd, expressions of surprise and the wonder of the outdoors brought inside that triggered today’s writing. I sat back with a cup of coffee and thought about the many sounds that bring or have brought a smile to my face.

In no particular order, these are among the sounds that I have experienced in life that will always give me pause and make me smile.

1. The sound of big rigs on an Interstate. I lived with this wonderful sound of efficiency and progress too many years to not smile when I hear it. This sound represents the power and majesty of America.
2. The sound of a bass boat transom splashing into the lake at first light, signaling the beginning of another day on the water with a friend. Closely behind is the scream of a two stroke outboard spooling up as it lifts the bow of the boat. These sounds signal great expectation.
3. The subtle sounds of nature, including the cry of a barred owl at dusk, the quiet, endless murmur of a riffle, a gentile surf and the subtle sound of a breeze through pine trees.
4. The soft sigh of Tazzy stretching out for a nap at my feet, signaling contentment, trust and devotion.
5. The sound of a congregation singing traditional Christmas Hymns is a reminder of the church before the advent of rock music blasting through the sanctuary.
6. The mesmerizing crackle of a fire place or an open wood stove door. A sound that signals a small win over a relentless Mother Nature as it replaces bone chilling cold with warm wood heat. The tattoo of a gentile rain on a tin roof represents yet another small victory over nature.
7. Conversation is a reminder of the strength of the spoken word. A truck stop waitress at 2 in the morning, pouring a fresh cup of coffee and making conversation reminds me that courtesy never sleeps. The coffee splashing into the cup is most welcome after hours at a freezing wreck scene.
8. Certain voices always catch my tired ears. Who cannot enjoy actor Ving Rhames baritone elucidation about Arby’s sandwiches? Sam Elliot talking about cowboy things is an instant conveyance of country wisdom. Paul Harvey narrating the life of a farmer is heart warming. You just have to believe these guys.
9. The beautiful lilt of a hammered dulcimer in the hands of a master. The drone strings harmonizing perfectly with the tune itself. A sound almost as soothing as the laugh of a small child, conveying innocence and trust.
10. Much has been written about the sounds of a Huey, a sound that is imprinted in the minds of those of us who depended upon them. This sound was most welcome when waiting for an extraction, chilling when coming to take you to the fight.

Finally, after years of living and growing together, the sound of Sharon at bedside asking me how I am doing as I rouse from anesthesia from one of my 12 or so surgeries, is a reminder I am never really alone and am, indeed, alive to fight another day. I am guessing that my readers all have a sound or two that is forever etched in the pleasure center of their minds. Please never take sound for granted. As I age, my ability to hear subtleties is all but gone, so enjoy sound whenever you can. It is a most precious gift from the Master!

Have a great week!

SR

In our compound, we name things. My Beemer is the “Orange Crush”, Sharon’s new Beemer is the “Gray Ghost” named after Civil War Confederate General John S. Mosby (her car is Brooklyn Gray in color)and our home is the J-Compound, a moniker that could have been a Fire Base in Vietnam. The State Farm driving monitor is “Shikles” after the Chief Driver Examiner when I was on staff (Dale Shikles) and my carry pistol is “Mr. D”. The D is for dignity which it lends to a possible violent confrontation. So it should be no surprise that our latest acquisition, is one of those little round vacuum cleaners that has our house programed and puts itself to bed after vacuuming the place. Sharon starts the thing with her cell phone. Who would have thought?

Once upon a time, some 20 years ago, Sharon was an elementary administrator in a school some 30 miles south of our home and I drove 90 miles one way to work in Jefferson City. Our days were long and we relied on a wonderful local lady, Miss Shirley to help with our housekeeping responsibilities. Shirley is among the most thoughtful, kind people in this world and we love her as if she was a family member. As you may have guessed by now, we have named the vacuum Shirley II.

What is happening to us? I was raised in the straw broom era, when the floors were all wooden, and a dustpan full of dust was casually tossed out the screen door. Imagine my surprise a couple of weeks ago when Shirley II was ordered to vacuum the living room and demanded I pick my feet up while she worked. I am slow to embrace technology and laughed at the prospect of a lidar guided device vacuuming my house while I watched television or read. I am not laughing now…..believe me.

Sharon is the neighborhood electronic/technical warfare officer and loves this stuff. My use of a computer today is the result of her tutelage and the efforts of my last Administrative Assistant, Cathy Flannigan. (I also subjected myself to a 3 hour college course in computer science.) Sharon loves gadgetry and is far better than I am at reading schematics and trouble shooting stuff that’s runs on electricity. Between her and my daughter, who has never seen a tool she can’t use or a challenge she won’t tackle, I can sit back and languish in peace. The Shirleys of this world, backed by my personal staff of tech oriented folks make life easy for this old man. If you have not yet embraced one of these vacuums, get one soon. You will be stunned at its efficiency. As I said earlier, who would have thought?

Have a great week!

SR

Inquiring minds want to know. Knowledge comes in many forms and can be found anywhere. That being said, there is no greater location that offers the awareness and knowledge that fairly flows through a barber shop. Mind you, I am not talking about a stylist with his or her bag of tricks to transform hair into a work of art, rather a retail establishment run by folks who can taper, cut and humanize the most unlikely of patrons.

I shave my head these days, a reality brought about by genetics. The males in my family have all had a tough time keeping hair from slipping off their heads. I am not sufficiently vain enough to subject myself to the many snake oil salesmen who suggest they can return a luxurious mane to my rapidly emptying head. As they say, it is what it is. This practice denies me the opportunity to keep up on sports, politics, gossip and vociferous opinion that wafts through a good old fashioned barber shop. To suggest the information exchanged behind the striped pole is invaluable is a gross understatement.

I recall sitting in a gorgeous shop in St. Joseph, Missouri that was blessed with a contingent of excellent barbers, when a fellow officer entered with his grandson who was vehemently opposed to having his hair cut. The shop was full of waiting patrons, all watching in amusement as the young man was seated in a booster chair against his wishes. His protestations were loud, verbal and heart rending and grandpa could say or do nothing to assuage the young man. The situation required a well framed intervention and I stepped up. In front of 20 or so patrons and barbers, all watching closely, I walked over to chairside and was immediately able to calm the young man with a simple promise. I told him that if he sat calmly for a haircut, his grandpa was going to buy him a pony. His grandpa nearly fainted as the child accepted my offer and sat for the haircut, much to the amusement of the patrons. It was all I had…..but it worked. Grandpa has never forgiven me.

On another occasion, I stepped into a popular Jefferson City shop, where I was 6th or so in line for one of three hair magicians. I had a preference as I was sporting a flat top those days, and one of the barbers was masterful in cutting this challenging style. I was in uniform, which was unfortunate. I picked up the latest issue of Playboy magazine and became enamored with a stunning pictorial when a nice lady sat down with two young boys to wait out their haircuts. She sat next to me, much to the amusement of the barbers as I opened a fold out photo of the month’s centerpiece, who was constructed out of the “ A box” of female anatomy. I glanced up and the nice lady was also studying the center fold with the same interest. It was the Governor’s wife and I was speechless. She diffused the situation by suggesting the lady in the picture, was indeed, stunning. I was as red as a hothouse tomato. She smiled at my discomfort and we exchanged pleasantries. She was an affable First Lady, as I thought about the likely reaction of another First Lady who likely would have had me drawn and quartered. This was an incident where my usually reliable situational reasoning skill abandoned me.

By now you get the picture. These anecdotes are but an example of life in the chair with a barber, who typically has his or her finger on the pulse of America. I miss it. If you are still in possession of enough hair to qualify for a coveted seat in the chair of wisdom, enjoy it. To be denied this pleasure is discouraging, but inevitable, for some of us.

Have a great week!

SR

Americans are restless. We seem to always be chasing the carrot on a stick, seeking a bigger carrot when we catch the first. Our existence is fueled by material possession, acquisition and the king of vice, more money. Virtually every aspect of our lives is measured in quantifiable terms, including our willingness to share our resources. Less you think I have had a stroke just before drifting into the philosophical realm, my thoughts today are centered around a society that eschews wealth and seeks food, shelter and basic social courtesy. I have been privileged to live all over the world, having been born in scenic Sendai, Japan before spending time in Germany, Okinawa and Vietnam (where the desire to not be shot dominates your existence while you seek to kill those seeking to kill you). About Okinawa…..

Okinawan people are descendants of an ancient feudal system where daily piety to their God is a way of life and wealth is measured oh so much differently than western cultures. When I looked at Okinawa in 1964, when I lived there, and Okinawa today, western influences have caused a seismic shift in their cities. Until the war, Okinawans were (and are still in the countryside) centered around their religious belief and certainly not the government. We forced our obsession with government on them after conquering the Japanese near the end of WWII. They are a people that values the land, their ancient culture and their relatively simple existence. The land and sea provides a simple diet, rich in vegetables and seafood consumed in reasonable quantities. They value empty hand personal defense, giving rise to several forms of martial arts, seldom necessary in their peaceful existence.

Their diet is a model of simplicity, devoid of processed anything and is considered their Kusuimun or “medicine of life”. They relish Goya (bitter melon), seaweed, Shikuwasa, (a citrus fruit) and Moronai (a kind of vinegar). Vegetables are their mainstay. They also consume pork, but either boil or roast the fat from the meat and consume it in small quantities. They are an incredibly social people, with little stress and worry about the industrialized world.

Their reward? They are a “Blue Zone” home to more centenarians than 99% of the rest of the world. Their diet, avoidance of self imposed stress, and satisfaction with life, result in a content and incredibly resilient people.

Contrast their existence with ours. We are constantly in pursuit of a better mouse trap, and eat processed crap adulterated with chemicals fresh from the lab. We are adept at waiting for the government to control yet another aspect of our lives and are a very unhealthy society in virtually every respect. We seem to seek stress, a sure killer. (Recently gerontologists are seeing a slight decline in their longevity, the result of western influence on their diets and lifestyle.)

Did I learn anything from these people while living among them. Apparently not, a regrettable circumstance. I am 74 years old, and likely as content with my life as ever before. Sharon’s kitchen discipline has resulted in a huge shift in our diet and there isn’t much else I need. The materialistic nature of America guarantees it will never be a Blue Zone, instead trading that existence to be a world power on the fast track. Trust me here, there isn’t a single Okinawan who would trade their existence for ours and they could give one rat’s ass who is running for President.

Have a great week!

SR

Yesterday, Sharon and I made a sojourn to the Mecca Of Kansas City to do a little clothes shopping, with an eye to freshening up my fall wardrobe. I am a “clothes make the guy” kind of man, with a twisted notion that what you have on precedes you when you enter the room. In the boat world, we refer to a tricked out bass boat, being carefully backed into the water, as having “ramp presence”, even though the owner may not know a spinner bait from a ham sandwich. Airplanes are much the same way, with the real beauties immediately commanding your presence. Ramp presence exists in the clothes world too.

I have retired twice. Once from the tailored presence of the Highway Patrol and then again as a senior manager of the Gaming Commission, where daily wear was usually a suit and tie. Gradually, I’ve succumbed to the notion that jeans and Hokas are perfectly normal daily wear for anything from a burger joint to a funeral. Thinking I would make one last foray into being somewhat fashionable, whether at the gym or everyday with a younger wife who is very much easier on the eyes than a crumpled old trooper, we slipped into Scheels, really an upscale version of Academy combined with my beloved Bass Pro Shop. Tazzy loves the place as he is welcome and knows the way to the dog treat aisle. I have to watch him though, as he has a tendency to pee on the unisex mannequins wearing ballerina pants. What in the hell has happened?

Unless you are shopping at Duluth Trading or a farm store in the country, you had better have a penchant for casual pants that feature skinny (as in leotards) legs, and elastic, gathered cuffs that require assistance to get off at the end of the day, and a stride that places the waistband, zipper and crotch within 3 inches of one another. You wonder why kids wear their pants hanging low? They have to….cause there is little pant to work with. I perused aisles of pants and shirts, colorful, inordinately expensive and mostly described as “athletic fit” whatever in the hell that is. This beautiful store, with a beautiful gun shop, and I’m guessing a half million pairs of pants, stocks very little with a waist band bigger than 38. Stocky guys (that is what I see in the mirror every day) have to suffer through the humiliation of inseams that begin at 32 or 34 and end with 38. I am built pretty low to the ground, and it costs 25 bucks to have a pair of sweat pants snipped off. Somewhere there are a bunch of guys walking around as if on stilts with no stride whatsoever, and weighing 150 pounds, wet. The clerks were sympathetic as they pointed us in the direction of hunting wear and such where I might have a chance to score a pair of insulated coveralls to wear to the next funeral.

The average guy doesn’t stand a chance with today’s look. That’s okay though, I love to shop Duluth Trading and wear a lot of Carhart stuff that features my “mature look” and recognizes that “athletic build” means an average guy, riding a horse or swinging a hammer, and sporting inseams that comport to the same. I am the guy who shows up in creased (or not) jeans, leather sneakers and a belt to keep the denim in place. George Strait likely does not own a single pair of pants with a gathered cuff and neither do I. Scheels is a beautiful store, with a wonderful assortment of guns, ammo, bar-b-cue stuff and dog treats. Clothes for us cowboys…..not so much. Time to take my diminutive wife out for a crepe and coffee. I’ll be easy to spot in the upscale eatery, the guy sporting jeans, his shirt tail out and a belt.

Have a wonderful week!

SR

Sometimes, the best laid plans of men and mice go awry. Exactly one week ago, we stocked the mobile dog house (RV) and tied it to Cirrus, the Ram-mobile for a sojourn to Gulf Shores to meet the kids, with a secondary destination of Grapevine, Texas to spend a few days with our dear condo friends who reside there. Plans were drawn up while at Gulf shores to drive north to the Badlands and then back to the compound. Uh huh….

After setting up at Gulf Shores State Park, among the snakes and alligators, we discovered we had no water. I am a Vietnam veteran, and understand mosquitos, but in the process of hooking up the water, we were bled out by the little bastards. Given my vast mechanical knowledge, I began to trouble shoot the dog house, checking every conceivable connection to and from the vaunted nautilus system adopted by Gran Design. It was late and we turned in without water. The next morning, Sharon remarked it had to be something simple and asked if I had checked the connection to the nautilus. It was my last shot before a mobile tech, and bingo. A 10 cent screen deep in the nautilus was totally stopped up. A new one and presto, we had water. A small consolation, as I broke a tooth while eating…..

Next up, a rapidly developing tropical depression was cooking in the Atlantic and could head our way, but the prognosticators said it was likely to hit Florida’s big bend area. We were safe…….and turned our attention to a 4’ gator sunning himself on a culvert near our site. I engaged a park worker, the original good ole boy, in a conversation about the park. He was a delightful guy, and the head snake catcher for the park, with hundreds of cotton mouth captures to his credit. He assured me that while water moccasins were everywhere, there were few diamond back rattlers around. Comforting! While walking Taz, I came across a road killed rattlesnake. This was day two, and the weather guys were saying the storm may go further west, threatening us with torrential rain. When it rains hard, the snakes get restless said the snake man. Hmmmmm

We made an executive decision, pulled out and headed north, hoping to find a location to park the doghouse for a night before heading up to Vicksburg, Mississippi where I could spend some time second guessing US Grant during the siege that nearly leveled the town. We found a neat little park, right off the highway and pulled across a four lane race track into the rather dark drive, down grade, only to find it was closed and I was downhill with no way to turn around, necessitating backing back out onto a race track, after dark. After spending a few minutes cursing the internet and our dilemma, a nice security lady came to our rescue, opened the gate and we were able to find a parking lot to turn around in and exit. We spent the night in a honor pay, municipal park in Hattiesburg before charging on to a park named Poverty Point, a state run park just inside Louisiana. We checked in and found it to be among the top three parks we have ever used. Immaculate, modern and very reasonable!

After a great nights sleep, I noticed a slow drip of water coming from under the dog house, no where near a water point. The drip was increasing and I engaged a mobile tech, who was prompt and clever. He found the leak after removing drawers in the bedroom, but had no idea what the silver ball was. It was the expansion tank for the instant hot water system. We began calling dealers and were told it would be weeks before anyone could help us. The tank is available only from the manufacturer, so he bypassed the system, and we now had only cold water for the rest of our trip. I was a little aggravated and broke the same tooth again. If you plan to or are an RV’er, you need to know that service on the road is extremely difficult and that parts are nearly non-existent in today’s world.

We broke camp and headed to the safety of the compound, where I am writing this. One week, mosquitos, snakes, alligators, bear scat close to our site, dental problems, a hurricane, balky water system and non existent service and parts. We get it. The signs were there, even Tazzy was questioning our wisdom. RVing is normally a hoot…….normally. We are rethinking the concept…..

Glad to be back home…….

SR

Yesterday, Sharon and I were privileged to join in the celebration of the life of Bill Swineberg. Several folks eulogized Bill, telling the story of a man who first of all would have been incensed that we had gathered in his memory. He was that kind of guy, unpretentious, letting his career speak for itself. You see, Bill was a legendary Captain on Missouri’s State Water Patrol, commanding a district where the absurd was ordinary. He did so with a quiet grace and the confidence of an officer who had seen it all as he lent dignity to impossible scenarios.

Bill was a Marine combat veteran of the Vietnam war, tested on blood stained ground during the peak of the conflict. He used the English language sparingly, with every syllable reflecting something worth remembering. By any and all accounts, Bill was the gift that every new officer should have, quietly delivering lessons that were invaluable in a tough enforcement environment where knowledge was power. There is no doubt his tutelage molded my daughter, Stacey, from the beginning of her career as a water patrol officer until his last breath. He was humorous when humor was necessary, and gloved up, ready to wade into the next bar fight or boat wreck. His ability to judge character and respond accordingly was the stuff text books are written about.

Without delving into the inevitable litany of police war stories, a single event characterized his courage when he was confronted by pure evil in the form of a hardened and armed killer in the Ozark timber. Somehow this killer knew he was overmatched and capitulated to the aura of strength of a lawman who was supremely confident as he engaged. The killer was arrested, cuffed and given sound advice that only a Swineberg could deliver. He was the kind of leader who was always there for his subordinates, calmly pulling on a corncob pipe as he checked on each of his charges, making sure they were in and off the water before he went home, often exhausted but consumed by the need to protect his officers and insure their safety.

Most important, I am proud to be among those who considered Bill a friend. We attended the FBI Academy together, graduating in March of 1987. Bill carefully studied the variety of officers in his class, and could be charming and disarming in the same conversation. His section, within this class, referred to Bill as “the real thing”. Even though terminally ill, Bill took time in his last days to call me and offer encouragement in my challenge of a reticent Veterans Administration reminding me the government was handing out out money to anybody who could navigate a river on the border of Texas. His last words were “get yours, Stevie, you have earned every damned penny”. Although terribly sick, Bill’s concern for a friend was easily more important than his personal circumstance.

On behalf of the folks who came under the spell of this quiet centurion, thanks Bill. If there is water in heaven, you’ll be bumping docks and dispensing wisdom every day, your old pipe smoking and a twinkle in your eye. You left a tremendous wake, a fitting analogy for one hell of an officer. In Stacey’s own words, rest easy 1205.