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When you are a State Trooper, or any law enforcement officer for that matter, you become a known entity within the community that you live and work in.  The trappings of law enforcement, the uniform and the authority vested in that uniform surrounds you as you move about doing the things that are the substance of television and movies.  When you retire, suddenly your impact is diminished dramatically, and you begin that slow fade into the role of normalcy where you acknowledge your inability to directly influence the happenings of the day as they unfold.  Your family was always introduced as the wife of, son of, or daughter of (the law enforcement officer).  It is disconcerting, for awhile, and the reality, for me, sank in when I went from being Captain Johnson to being Mrs. Johnson’s (the elementary principal) husband.  As a new school year unfolds, I thought it appropriate to offer a glimpse into that role.  Although Sharon has joined me in retirement, leaving the classroom and corner office behind, her influence will be felt for years to come.  

Public Education has been crushed under the weight of beauracracy, funding cuts and the well intentioned criticisms of the folks who have not one clue what life as an educator is like these days.  The push for one size fits all, the clamoring for a trophy for every child and the utter nonsense of no child left behind has taken the breath out of  the educators who recognize the impossibilities associated with squeezing every child into one mold.  From my perspective, I can guarantee that a large portion of Sharon’s salary was in response to the demands and inordinate patience it took to deal with parents.  I was appalled at the numbers of parents who viewed education as a social platform, demanding parties for everything from Halloween to the birthday of a student’s pet hamster.  Parents often failed to recognize that when classroom gifts were involved, a less fortunate parent could ill afford to send their child to school with the beautiful designer candy box that other, affluent parents could easily afford.  I need not comment on the hurt feelings of those who received a handful of candy hearts while sitting next to a child opening a box of designer chocolates.  Never mind the hours of precious instructional time lost to such nefarious activities on a seemingly regular basis.

Mrs. Johnson’s husband made occasional appearances at school to share in Mrs. Johnson’s experiences in an effort to understand the exasperation of Mrs. Johnson when she had no appetite for supper after a vexing day.  I so enjoyed watching the children devour a balanced meal at breakfast and/or lunch, knowing full well this might be the only meal these children would enjoy this day.  I shared in her sadness in knowing that, in many instances, the buddy packs of food sent home with less fortunate children would be locked up at home or traded for cigarettes or other items when they got home.  I watched in horror as various children would model behaviors that were seen in the home, such as rolling, presumably marijuana, cigarettes or sexual conduct.  Parents who provide these types of environments were often the first ones to suggest that one of Sharon’s educators was incompetent to teach their child.

In this age of narcisstic indulgence, I felt great pride in Sharon’s assertive discipline approach to education.  Narcissism, as we know it, has it’s origins in early childhood, resulting in the necessity of “safe areas” for our college youth who gather at the flagpole because they have been offended in some fashion, where they can wring their unsullied hands in unified agony.  In this hyper competitive age, the fact that you were awarded a pink ribbon for finishing 38th in a class of 38 will carry little weight in a job interview.  Sharon’s children understood that when a direction was given, there would be no follow-up begging or threatened consequences, beyond the first explanation as to what was expected.  That, my dear readers, is what employers will expect of their employees.  

An important tool for folks in any learning environment is discipline.  In this case, I am not referring to corporal punishment, a consideration that my generation understood clearly, rather the establishment of rigorous academic expectations and the demand to accomplish the goals inherent to those standards.  We have strayed from the real world acknowledgement that some will excell, some will squeak across the line and some will fail, in spite of the efforts of our finest educators.  There exists today, an adversion to holding a child back when that action is exactly what the child needs.  In many instances, failure is a strong incentive to be successful the next time around.

Sharon can be a handful.  Her metamorphosis from the classroom to the corner office was not easy.  She recognized early on that her concerns had expanded exponentially from a handful of troubling parents and demands to the issues of every one of her staff members.  She worked hard to incorporate today’s expectations into the monumental demand that she provide the guidance and interpretation of new programs and methods into the common sense reality of public education today.  She made it a priority to recognize excellence in the classroom, however could be cat quick when her expectations were not met.  Perhaps this is why I refer to her as my bobcat, quiet most of the time but…….well, we all know what a bobcat is all about.  

I am closing this writing with a strong vote of confidence to those who are up to the task of stepping back into the classroom for another tour.  We are behind you.  In this household, you will ALWAYS get the benefit of the doubt!

It was kind of fun, being Mrs. Johnson’s husband………the guy who fried the fish at the staff fish fry.

A recent article in the Kansas City Star prompted a trip into research land to assess the validity of the information they offered as gospel as it relates to motorcycle mortality.  It turns out they were pretty well on the money with the data they cited.  America is mechanized, at virtually every turn, and life is all about finding that sweet spot that exists between risk and reward.  Like most things these days, that sweet spot is best expressed in some numerical fashion.  I ended my professional career as the enforcement chief in the regulation of casino gambling,  a place where numbers are the real game and the consequences of being mathematically challenged work to the distinct advantage of the house.  There were dollar signs behind every number in that environment, the reward…..as opposed to betting your life on some adventure, such as riding a motorcycle or flying an airplane for fun.  It is easy stuff when you take a minute to look at the realities. You are risking your life in mechanized adventures and risking your money in the casino.  Let’s take just a minute or two for a reality check.

There are folks who sit around in dark rooms with calculators and reams of information and assign a risk factor to virtually everything that moves, makes noise or creates some form of excitement.  These very smart folks are called actuaries, and their work has touched virtually everyone that is alive today, in some form or another.  If you own or participate in some aspect of life that touches the aforementioned categories, they have drawn conclusions that influence the thickness of your wallet and depth of your checkbook when you pay insurance premiums.  These good folks salivate when NHTSA or some other federal agency releases their latest compilations relative to driving, riding or flying something. They use, for instance, the 8.3% increase in motorcycle deaths from 2014 to 2015 in their calculations when assigning a risk factor to those of us who enjoy motorcycles.  This nominal increase in deaths represents 4,976 people who were killed on a motorcycle in 2015.  I have written before, in an offhand fashion, about the differences in motorcycles.  Loosely defined, there is the broad category of “motorcycles”, followed by a category cleverly referred to as “sport bikes” and a third category aptly named “super sport bikes”.  As a motorcyclist, on any type of bike, you are 29 times more likely to die in a crash than as an occupant of a car, and 5 times more likely to be injured.  This is where the types of motorcycles come into play.  “Standard” motorcycles result in a mortality rate of 5.7 deaths per 10,000 vehicles as compared to 10.7 deaths per 10,000 sport bikes and a whopping 22.5 deaths per 10,000 super sport bikes.  Traffic cops (yes, virtually every trooper begins life working traffic, a job that certainly isn’t as glamorous as solving homicides, but, for me, was tremendously rewarding and a hell of a lot of fun) all know that sinking feeling that swells in your belly when you meet a super sport bike who rings the bell on your moving radar.  The rider also knows he has caught your undivided attention and both of you know what it means when his dark visored helmet turns back as he looks to see your brake lights and you hear him downshift the screamer he is astride.  If the circumstances favor the trooper, you have a chance, but if it is open road with no aircraft around, throw him a kiss as you clearly understand his 150+ MPH super sport bike is going leave you wondering where to stop for lunch….

By now, any reader who can balance a checkbook understands the big picture.  We all know that “speed kills” and super sportbikes are all about speed, but those of us in the business of law enforcement  know that quickness also kills.  American drivers are conditioned to rock their vehicles around town and country somewhere between 20 and 75 MPH.  We condition our reflexes to anticipate and react to the unforeseen circumstances within these manageable parameters and are able to avoid most collisions.  Not only are the big super sport bikes capable of unholy top end speed, they can get there in a matter of two or three heartbeats.  Please accept as gospel my opinion that folks who buy, insure and ride one of these crotch rockets isn’t doing it because he or she enjoys laying down on a gas tank, holding your head up at an awkward angle and enjoying the vistas as they cruise our roads.  No Mildred, they buy them because they enjoy the thrill of raw acceleration and speed well beyond the limits established by law.  The only statistical positive associated with these machines is that you generally will not linger long as you await the peace associated with death at 100+ MPH on a motorcycle when a mistake is made.  I have officiated at a scene or two involving these exits from our world and can attest the riders didn’t have long to think about things before they slipped into the afterlife.  Judgement is an acquired attribute, and poor judgement lurks at the scene of serious motorcycle crashes, more often than not.

To wrap this all up, we should also understand how deep we are wading in the risk pool when flying.  Statistically speaking, driving is 6 times deadlier than flying, but only if you are in a common carrier, or airliner.  Outside of commercial flight there is another type of flying refered to as general aviation or GA for short.  This is the world of piloting a privately owned airplane or helicopter for all the reasons that we, as pilots understand. Flying is thrilling, fun and challenging. Your chances of killing yourself and your passengers in a GA crash is 19 times greater than driving or riding in a car.  These statistics are very  comparable to riding a motorcycle!  Again, the participant is wise to carefully consider the risk as it relates to the reward.  For me, I plan to continue riding and flying for awhile longer……

At my age, the sweet spot between risk and reward is shrinking, but not gone.  God willing, I plan on some day sitting around talking about the day when I “used” to ride a motorcycle or fly an airplane…….the memories will be my reward!

Good afternoon Colonel, it’s a beautiful day here in Missouri, a perfect day to honor the men and women who have gone before us, their work guaranteeing the sanctity of America, done.  I can only imagine the conversations between you and your fellow soldiers as you sit around the gilded barracks reserved for that special group of folks we call military veterans.  Knowing the tremendous value that you placed on intelligence, I know that you are aware of the acknowledgement of your efforts by America on this day we set aside for you and yours.

It doesn’t seem possible that 44 Memorial Days have passed since you lost the fight with cancer.  We still talk about the service that day, the crispness and respect shown you by the cadre of Special Forces troopers who bore your casket, each personally selected by you in the months prior to your death.  It was quiet at the National Cemetary, a quiet that was broken only by the rifle salute and playing of Taps, the precision of the troopers was moving……something I am sure you were proud of.  A review of your citations and awards, the airborne units you were most comfortable with and the various commands that you held, strongly support the notion that cancer was likely the only fight you lost.  I, for one, have not forgotten your innate ability to go from the smiling, affable fellow you were most of the time, to the narrow eyed, calm and calculated demon you could be.  I haven’t forgotten Uncle Herman’s, also a military veteran, description of you as the most dangerous man he has ever known.  These qualities served you well at the Chosin Reservoir and the highlands of Vietnam.  I recall a conversation at Ft. Leonard Wood shortly after our arrival there about the bitter cold.  My complaint about the snow and cold prompted a smile from you and the remark that cold is a relative thing and is never a problem when you can dodge inside and warm up….a luxury you did not have in the fight at the Chosin Reservoir where you earned your battlefield commission and silver star. I also recall your avoidance of air conditioning on Okinawa, where you began your tour as a Battalion commander in the 173d Airborne Brigade.  You were in between tours in Vietnam and had been acclimated to the heat of the jungle.  I can also recall you being delivered to our quarters on Okinawa, pretty well blitzed after attending a ritual referred to as “Prop Blast”, a particular right of passage in airborne circles.  I suppose the adage “fight hard and play hard” was in play here.

I only saw you cry one time in our short time together.  I will never forget your coming home and telling our family that “some sorry son of a bitch” just shot the President.  John Kennedy, another veteran of great accomplishment, is generally acknowledged to be the father, if not patron saint, of Special Warfare and, by extension,  Special Forces. You led a parade in the President’s honor, of which pictures still exist. Your emotion, in this instance, was reflective of your love for America and your incredible sense of duty.  I have to be honest here, your referral to President Kennedy’s killer in obscene terms was a true reflection of your rather profane way of conversing, a trait that I have carried on with little dignity and sense of decorum.  In fact, your diminutive daughters, on rare occasion, can also turn the air blue with a profane precision that would bring a smile to your face.  Apples falling close to the tree comes to mind.

Well, dad, excuse me, Colonel, a short briefing on the state of America is in order. We are still the finest Republic on the face of the earth and we are in a bit of a patriotic era.  We have a President who appears to be hell bent on restoring prominence to the military and a Congress that, for the most part, is supportive.  We are still turning out veterans who are willing to fight and die for this country, who are being led by mostly competent officers.  The ceremony today, at the Tomb of the Unknown, was moving and served to remind those who care about such matters, that blood must always be shed to protect this country. As I do every Memorial Day, I want to offer my deep appreciation to you and your troopers on this day.  Later today, as I enjoy a thick steak on the grill, we will raise a glass to you and the veterans you are with. Your ability to raise a particularly nasty kind of hell on the battlefield has guaranteed the peace we are enjoying.

I miss you…….

It was a beautiful day and my surgically repaired thumb was cooperating to the extent that Sharon and I spontaneously decided to hitch up our RV and head to the nearest campground for a night or two of on the job training in de-winterization and systems management.  We keep our RV at a facility north of town that is well managed, immaculately clean, and provides a covered pad for our unit.  As is our custom, we turned Tazzy out to look around and enjoy the safety of a fully enclosed area to stretch his legs before our hundred mile trip.  We came very close to turning Taz out to a slow and excruciating death……

I suppose I should alert the readers to the station in life that we accord our pets.  Tazzy is a 96 pound, yellow Lab, who is the acknowledged CEO in our household.  There was a time when I was emphatic, dogs stayed outside in a warm, insulated doghouse, and existed for my occasional entertainment with a game of fetch or a walk around the neighborhood.  My thinking, I suspect, was tempered by the pointers and beagles that I have been privileged to own over the years who were not particularly suited to the leather sofa….   In a 180 degree reversal, a big black Lab with the moniker Abraham then established residency in our home, a welcome and entertaining addition to the family……I drew another line in the sand, he enjoyed a comfy bed by the master bed, on the floor.  Finally, this big yellow master manipulator, Taz’m, his proper name, obliterated that line and enjoys the foot of our bed.  If we crowd him he unceremoniously kicks the offending leg out of his way, stretches out and snores unmercifully.  Our hardwood floors are slick, so we provide a special throw rug for Taz to sit on, at table side, while we eat…which of course keeps him close enough to enjoy a taste of whatever red meat we are sharing at the moment.  I am sure, by now, you get the picture.  Taz is a family member, accorded every privilege that a child would enjoy.  I make no apologies.

We hadn’t been at the facility very long when Taz sauntered over munching on something.  This boy is a canine vacuum cleaner and can scoop up a morsel of something truly disgusting in a millisecond.  His latest find was green and tasty.  Sharon, suspecting he had picked up a wad of discarded chewing gum gum, extricated the substance from his mouth and showed it to me.  I knew immediately what it was.  A quick examination of the substance confirmed my horror……Taz was eating D-Con, the premier rat poison.  I hurried over to where he came from and found the remnants of a block of D-Con, turned and immediately loaded Taz up for a trip to a vet, any vet at this point, as we were in deep trouble.  As providence would have it, a country veterinarian’s office was just across from the storage facility, and we were there within minutes.  The doctor, Melissa Smith, was no stranger to this emergency and whisked Taz into her clinic where he enjoyed a hydrogen peroxide and water cocktail, eliciting violent vomiting.  The sound of his wretching, under these circumstances, was music to my ears.  He gagged up several large chunks of D-Con, prompting the vet to acknowledge that had he digested this quantity, we would have endured an unthinkable tragedy.  Other than the effects of the hydrogen peroxide and wretching, Tazzy is fine, currently enjoying a 10 day regimen of vitamin K, a clotting agent, a precaution to offset any of the D-Con that might have gotten into his system.  We might never had known what happened to Taz, had Sharon not noticed his chewing happily on the pleasant tasting, cubed hell that he found in the storage area.  Why someone would place this stuff out, in a public area, where mice and rats have free reign from the surrounding woods, is beyond me.  Maybe I will have the opportunity to visit with them about their indiscretion……..

Today’s D-Con is not your father’s D-Con, which was comprised of Warfarin, in and itself bad enough.  This chemical causes a breakdown of the clotting mechanism, and the hapless critter simply bleeds to death.  They bleed through their nose, gums and lungs and die of suffocation and blood loss.  Today’s D-con also incorporates a chemical, brodifacoum, which intensifies the deadly mechanism and insures a quicker but still horrifying death.  The EPA has moved to ban 12 varieties of D-Con as it constitutes an unreasonable threat to pets and children.  Some of these varieties also contain a neurotoxin, for which there is no known antidote.  These chemicals also cause a break down of the capillaries within the circulatory system.  This poison is carefully prepared in a tasty mix so as to fool mice and rats into thinking they had stumbled onto a feast of epic proportions.  Dogs and cats love the stuff.

Our experience, potentially devastating, is a learning opportunity for folks who read this and love their pets.  Please carefully supervise your pets when you are out and about.  A surprising number of people will never enjoy the relationship that folks like us enjoy with the Tazm’s of the world, and we can be subjected to a terrible consequence when we drop our guard.  The capacity to love and care for a critter is a God given privilege……and tremendous responsibility.

I have never condoned the use of poisoned baits to control vermin, it puts tragedy on your doorstep.  The EPA got this one right……

Bob was emphatic.  Grab your morning cup of coffee and be at my place at 5:00 a.m., and we’ll be on our way.  He said it looks to be a perfect morning with just enough wind for the dog to catch a scent and a light frost.  “We should get in them”, he said with his clinched cigar grin. I jumped at the opportunity to enjoy a quail hunt in north Missouri with my early mentor and arrived on time.  We hopped in Bob’s Silverado and turned onto M-13 for the drive to the Bethany area, where his family farm awaited us.  

Money was tight in those days, and my bird gun was a newer 870 Remington, improved cylinder 12 gauge.  It may as well have been an engraved Perrazi, replete with knurled Italian walnut.  I was careful with the shotgun, keeping it cased until the dog was out and the hunt began.  When I arrived at Bob’s house, he instructed me to throw my shotgun in the bed of the truck, behind the dog box, and asked if I needed a coffee refill.  I accepted his offer and began nursing the strongest cup of black coffee I have ever drank.  I did not see Bob’s shotgun in the back of the truck, but was not concerned.  The bed was not the only place in the big Silverado to secrete a shotgun.  The conversation was as expected.  The sage old Zone Sergeant and his eager scribe engaged in banter about the things that were important in that day.  I became familiar with the differences between a Homelite and Poulan chainsaw, important as I was considering the Poulan’s price advantage.  “Poulan is a pulp wood chainsaw”, muttered Bob, “real good on pine in the Mississippi swamps, won’t last on Missouri hardwood”. We talked about patrol cars, and our affable and tough circuit judge, Roger Slaughter.  We talked at length about the Patrol, but I don’t recall the specifics of that conversation.  Bob was a country philosopher and a keen judge of people, you could take him to the bank when he talked about the personalities in Lafayette County, on both sides of the law.  Understanding people was his strength. 

We finally arrived at “the farm” and I immediately began sizing up the ditches and fence rows, taking judicial notice of a couple of particularly menacing, hulking Angus bulls that were eyeing us with suspicion.  We exited the truck and turned the dog out as Bob retrieved his shotgun, a battered old 12 gauge, Browning Automatic.  I was stunned to learn that I had been resting my feet on the shotgun as it was in the floorboard of the truck, under a half dozen paper feed sacks!  Bob blew the dust and grit off the shotgun and fed it three loads of 7 1/2’s.   He was grinning broadly as I carefully uncased the 870 and fed it.  I was grinning too, there was nothing to be said!

We hadn’t gone far when his long legged pointer locked solid at the edge of a ditch.  Bob sent me in to flush and I hadn’t taken ten steps when a nice covey exploded, the birds were jittery and in a hurry to avoid us.  Concentrating on a single bird when twenty are up is a skill that only good wing shooters have, but somehow I was able to focus and knock a rooster down.  The bird elected to glide a bit, with a leg down, before falling into the pasture where the aforementioned bulls were stationed. Nice.  Bob assured me the bulls were gentle and I slipped carefully under the electric strand that served as their temporary fence.  I walked gingerly over, picked the bird up and the show began.  One of the bulls took exception to me, my orange vest and/or attitude and decided that I would be fun to trample (I am guessing here on the bull’s intent).  A quick calculation suggested the electric fence was my best option and the race was on.  I made it to the fence with no time for the low crawl negotiation that got me into the bull’s paddock, and attempted to gingerly step over the strand. I would have been better off taking my chances with the bull.  I have never seen Bob laugh as hard as he was laughing as I was unceremoniously being electrocuted by the strand that I was straddling. My shotgun received it’s first scratches and my leg, as I write, is twitching just a little as I recall my brush with death.  Bob and his venerable old Browning had scored a clean double on the covey rise, both birds dropping in the lane adjacent to the ditch.  Bob was very measured in his gait but could flat out shoot.  We ended the day with 10 or so birds between us, enjoyed lunch at an eatery that has long since escaped my mind, and started back just before dark.  It was a tremendous day shared between two men with common interests who were both living the life we wanted to.  

It was our only hunt.  The Highway Patrol, in those days, was a cruel mistress.  We did not have the Fair Labor Standards Act to protect us from the inevitable overtime necessary to get the job done.  With absolutely no regret, I can remember many weeks that we worked 60 hours.  The unstated commitment that our generation made to the Patrol left little time to enjoy activities together in a zone beyond the occasional bar-b-cue or dinner.  I was fortunate to enjoy the guidance and friendship of Sgt. Robert (Bob) Plymell for 5 too short years before we drifted apart as our careers took different trajectories.  Bob Plymell was a credit to the Highway Patrol and the hard working farm culture of rural Missouri…….

……..and one hell of a wing shooter.  I wonder where that old Browning is today.

The first shot caught me just above the collar, on the right side of the neck.  The next shot struck my right hand, before a multitude of shots hit me in the back and the cheeks of my butt.  No, they were not rounds from an AK-47 or SKS, just BB’s from Daisy BB rifles and I was at Ft. Polk, La., not Cu Chi, Vietnam.  I was in the middle of Basic Training, participating in a course that was affectionally named “Quick Kill”, designed to prepare you for a fire fight in a village in Vietnam.  The BB’s stung like the devil,  and helped bridge the gap from the abstract concept of dying to a realistic impression of just how it happens in combat.  I have not been shot since, and owe the Master my heartfelt gratitude for my good fortune.  For those who relate to numbers, America has lost about 651,000 military personnel in all of our wars, out of approximately 42 million personnel who have served in wartime.  In Vietnam, we lost 58,220 of America’s finest….and today belongs to them.

Ft. Polk was a hot, humid sand trap in August of 1969, when I arrived courtesy of Trans Texas Airlines.  It was a stormy night, and a number of the inductees on the airplane were otherwise occupied with filling up the little sacks conveniently placed in the seat back ahead of them.  Beer, fear and a good deal of turbulence related to the pilot’s attempts at dodging the various storms along our route contributed to this rather unglamorous entry into the United States Army.  I volunteered for this and was seriously considering my flawed life plans as we touched down.  Basic Training was a character building experience.  My veteran readers can identify with this unique happening, although I am focused on a different time and place today.  For me, the next chapter began at Oakland Army Terminal a few months later, the beginning of my experience in a real war, where the BB rifles were replaced with far more lethal weaponry in the hands of either the Viet-Cong or the NVA.  

We were delivered to what can be described as a gigantic warehouse, where literally hundreds upon hundreds of soldiers were housed awaiting their assignment to a flight to Southeast Asia.  The lights were never turned off and you slept on any empty bunk you could find.  The PA system interrupted what little sleep you could get with announcements that “the following personnel are to report to section A for final processing and your flight”.  It was an Article 15 offense to miss your name, and we quickly formed buddy systems to avoid that unpleasant experience.  The warehouse smelled of sweat, new jungle boots, uniforms and fear.  It was chaotic and organized at the same time.  Character building, again, comes to mind.

My flight, on Global Airlines, arrived at Tan Son Nhut air base, not far from what will always be Saigon to me, at 3:30 AM.  When the cabin doors were opened we were greeted by a blast of humid and peculiar smelling air, and a young MP who provided instructions as to what to do if we received incoming fire.  In short order, you were conveyed to an inprocessing center where you were then assigned to a combat unit, based upon your MOS (military occupational specialty).  I was assigned to Division Artillery in the First Cavalry Division, in a scenic little village named Phuoc Vinh.  I was trained to compute the data for the various artillery pieces, thus insuring that we place our devastating artillery capability on the heads of the enemy as opposed to anywhere else in your area of operation.  This skill also earned me a trip to various fire support bases when a a fire control specialist was needed to fill the boots of a soldier that either rotated out, or no longer needed boots……I did my job, and had little time for the demonstrations and political considerations that brought this unfortunate war to an end.  We fought for the man next to us.

I survived unscathed and returned home, able to walk off of the airplane in St. Louis and see my daughter for the first time.  I was lucky, as were the other 9,000,000 or so military personnel,  who served in Vietnam without being memorialized on the wall.  To be sure, I was shot at and survived a ground probe or two while on a fire base, but we were ready and the enemy failed to grasp the significance of direct artillery fire when you are conducting that probe.  Character building, yet again, comes to mind.

I write to honor those folks who arrived home a different way, carried in a flag draped container to their final resting place.  I also write to honor those who served and survived, some scarred for life both physically and mentally, who still walk among us.  Someday, just as in previous wars, our numbers will diminish, and the Vietnam War will be just another chapter in our military history, however; not today.  

Brothers and sisters, bound by a shared experience with life changing implications.  It is a fraternity that I am immensely proud of…

..and the initiation was hell.

There have been tremendous strides made in the engineering of today’s automobiles.  In the mid 60’s, when I began driving, the big news was collapsable steering columns and side marker lamps on our cars, with lot’s of angular surfaces in the interior of cars to insure your demise despite the steering wheel and marker light innovations.   These improvements to our fleet are intended to improve the odds of avoiding serious injury and death in the crashes that are inevitable.  In spite of these successes, crashes, which are a function of numbers and opportunity, will continue to happen and people are going to be injured and killed until the last car is manufactured and we exhaust every energy source that power them.  

While there have been numerous marginal improvements in the design and functionality of our vehicles, there are a number of improvements that have really made a difference.  Stay with me for a bit, and let’s talk about them briefly.  I might surprise you with my final destination in this piece!

1.  Collapsible steering columns.  These were mandated in 1968 by the US Government.  Good call, because seat belts that were also mandated were not being used much, which is unfortunate as they significantly reduce the value of a collapsable steering column.

2.  Disc brakes.  Folks old enough to remember the days of drum brakes understand their inherent inefficiency.  By today’s standards, drum brakes were slightly better than Fred Flinstone’s foot dragging halt in his stone-mobile.

3.  Safety glass.  When things get serious, and you and glass are going to expend a little energy together, safety glass will save a trauma surgeon hours of getting your body parts reunited.  It is that simple….and effective.

4.  Anti-Locking Brake Systems (ABS). ABS removes the necessity to become familiar with the basic principles of brake management, something young drivers today know absolutely nothing about.  Of course, power brakes are included in this arrangement.

5.  Airbags.  The Holy Grail of safety innovation.  When combined with seat belts, which serve to keep you in close proximity to the bags around you, they will keep you together in all but the the really nasty, speed exacerbated, grinders.

6.  High strength steel.  Cars today are lighter and stronger as a result of the alloys in use today.  Watch the collapse of the passenger cage in the cars tested in the 50’s and 60’s and you will understand this development.

7.  Radial tires.  When I became a car pilot, the tire that was coveted by my fellow drivers was the Atlas Plycron, noted for it’s high mileage and wet road characteristics. It is still a good tire, but isn’t in a league with the modern radial tire. The difference in radial and bias ply tire construction, from virtually every angle, is immeasurable as are the handling characteristics.

8.  The Cage.  This concept had it’s beginning in race cars, whereby the driver was incapsulated in a carefully engineered “cage” so as to minimize the collapse of this space and the accompanying collapse of the individuals within it. See my remarks on the use of steel above.

9.  The three point seatbelt.  The real key to surviving a crash is to remain within the cage and within range of the many safety features designed into this area.  The features mentioned in this piece will do you little good as you exit a rolling automobile through a window or other opening to take your chances with terrain features and the other vehicles around you.

My purpose in writing this piece revolves around the beginning of the serious motorcycle season, already underway in our part of the country.  A review of the tremendous innovations mentioned above and a moment of reflection should lead the reader to the conclusion that motorcyclists get little benefit from these innovations with the exception of ABS, radial tires and disc brakes.  Our innovations include Kevlar inserts in our riding jackets and an evolution in helmet engineering that does enhance survivalbility in a crash.  I am also painfully aware that motorcyclists contribute to their own demise far to often, and choose to ride without benefit of these innovations, however; an alert driver, in the other vehicle, is our biggest asset.  I have worked a surprising number of accidents, some fatal, where a driver swears they looked, but obviously did not see the other vehicle.  

It is not enough to look, folks, but you must also see………..

Thanks for reading….

Hollywood recognizes the appeal of police work, war, romance and the old west.  These enduring topics find themselves subjected to the big screen year in and year out, and enjoy popular appeal to those who eschew the high tech mayhem that appears to be the preference of movie goers lately.  Sharon and I attend movies quite frequently, and look at each other with nothing short of astonishment at the trailers for most of the schlock being proffered these days.  We are, admittedly, stuck in a time warp and still enjoy a good, old fashioned western, whether it be a romance or action oriented offering.  Our preferences have led to this piece that explores cowboys, and yes Mildred, they still exist!   

First a disclaimer.  I am not a real cowboy, although I have flirted with the notion on occasion.  I owned an ornery Appaloosa and cared for a Tennessee Walker, Poco Prince and Kentucky respectively.  Naturally I also owned the appropriate tack, a well worn saddle bought from an out of luck cowboy who desperately needed to sell to fund his divorce, and a newer saddle from a tack store close to home.  The old saddle was smooth and supple the newer one a torture device that looked good on a saddle stand but was awful to sit in.  I became familiar with horse care and management, the local large animal vet, the differences in forage and feed and a good ferrior, a big strong Mennonite fellow who also happened to be a horse whisperer of sorts.  I learned to shovel stalls, vaccinate my horses, and check on them daily to make sure the water tank was clean and filled and they had no particular needs that required attention.  I owned a couple of beautiful Stetson hats, and several pairs of boots, my particular favorites being plain old Justin ropers in a variety of colors.  My South Carolina piedmont feet are not particularly suited to the exotic, true western boots made out of the hides of various hard to find critters. I developed a basic understanding of halters, bridles and bits and the inordinate amount of time necessary to the maintenance and care of leather.  I thoroughly enjoyed my flirtation with this side of life……….but was never a real cowboy.  I have known a few real cowboys and believe me when I tell you there is a difference between showing up at a rodeo or any horseback event and riding in them.

I loved my horses and nearly cried when circumstances related to a transfer necessitated the selling of Poco. This horse belonged to a real cowboy from Russellville, Mo. who sold it to another real cowboy, Bill Darnell, a close buddy who then sold the Prince to me.  Not long after I acquired the Prince, Bill died from leukemia, and the Prince attended his funeral, standing at graveside as the services were concluded.  I find it strange and disconcerting that not long after leukemia claimed Bill, the Prince died, quietly in his pasture……from equine leukemia, a relatively rare occurrence.  It may be that Bill, in the endless expanse of green pastures that only departed cowboys can appreciate,  needed a good horse.  The lesson here is that cowboys do not like being separated from their horses.   (The photo is of Bill Darnell and Poco Prince)

Real cowboys are fine with replacing the shiny sole dressing on their boots with horse manure. They may step carefully in the stall, but are not offended by an occasional misstep.  The smell of hay, mixed with the sweet aroma of manure and dirt replaces a fifty dollar bottle of Polo black and is far more comforting.  Real cowboys will tend their mounts before they worry about dinner on any given evening.  Real cowboys can say one hell of a lot without saying anything at all.  They enjoy a nearly mystical ability  to convey profound thought with a simple knowing glance between themselves.  Think not?  Walk among them and watch their eyes, smiles and subtle gestures as they size you up. Real cowboys view weather, horses, women and open country with reverence.  When offended, they will walk away unless the offender steps in the way……….at which time a real cowboy will quickly display the speed and reflexes one must have to manage livestock.  Real cowboys see a fence entirely differently than folks who have no experience stretching wire.  They know all about corner posts, gaucho and red brand, with an understanding of how it all goes together.  They also know that old pick-up trucks, old dogs and old guns have character that has been earned, not awarded.  Their gloves, generally cowhide, will tell many stories, each marked with a nick, or a stain whether it be blood, sweat or the strong, black coffee they prefer. They also have the ability to cut a phony out of the herd rather quickly.   Finally, overwhelmingly, they tend to be very pragmatic and intuitive.  In today’s world, these qualities aren’t found on every corner.

My hat is off to this vestige of Americana.  I am proud of my cowboy friends and have learned from them all.  Thanks Doc, Marvin, Bill and Cal, for letting me into your world.  What a hoot!

A Facebook friend opened a topic this week that elicited a number of responses relative to the foibles of men and women in uniform.  Before I jump in, bare my soul and offer a glimpse into the lives of those folks who can stand at carside and deliver a directive seeking perfection from the hapless citizen he or she has stopped for a violation, I thought it best to come clean and admit………officers have their lapses too.  We are chosen to be representative of the population we police, so naturally we have our fair share of “misfires” while in uniform.  Let’s have a look……

In early 1978, I warmed my unmarked Mercury cruiser up on a frigid morning after a heavy overnight snow storm.  I promptly entered I-70 and drove east to pick up the rookie that I was breaking in, noting the poor condition of the interstate in spite of the efforts of MoDot to clear it.  Naturally, after picking up my cub, we were called to a fatal accident on the west side of the county and immediately started back west on the interstate.  I was pushing the big Mercury as fast as I could do so safely while working the radio to insure the appropriate resources were on their way to the crash when the road changed from “wet and partly covered” to a sheet of ice, just past a highway department turn around in the median.  The highways were cleared by each respective district, and the salt shakers would turn around just past their district line and go the other way.  Nice.  the Mercury bobbled just a little, then exited the highway abruptly and down a long embankment we went, coming to rest along side the outer road in waist deep snow.  The rookie was a smoker but knew the rules and dutifully exited the car into the deep snow to smoke and calm his nerves.  Luckily, a wrecker happened by almost immediately, stopped and pulled us out, resulting in a short delay in our getting to the crash.  The rookie said nothing, God love him, and I broke the silence by declaring emphatically, “that is NOT how you do this….and remember that road conditions are never consistent”.

Another snow storm, still in progress, resulted in deplorable conditions, but thankfully little traffic when I decided to enter the truck weighing scales near Odessa on I-70, to refuel. I chose to enter the scales from the outer road, behind the scales, and noted the large drift across the entrance as I attempted to power through……resulting in the cruiser sliding sideways into a shallow ditch at a rather awkward angle.  I was stuck, badly.  I mustered up my best radio voice and called HQ requesting a wrecker for a motorist who had slid into the ditch behind the scales.  The radio operator, after a long pause, said that a local tow operator was enroute, and in a voice reflecting his understanding of the situation, inquired calmly, “is your car going to be driveable when they get you out?”  I loved this radio operator……and he had me.  We laughed about this over the years on a number of occasions.

The lady was hysterical, however; I was not going to let her hysteria deter me from issuing a citation for speeding, a lot.  My attempts to calm this lady were to no avail and I finally was able to hand her the citation between her sobbing and wailing about my destroying her perfect driving record, and retreat to my cruiser, parked behind her and offset so as to avoid traffic.  It was our custom to remain parked behind the violator until they re-entered the roadway, thus providing some degree of safety with our flashing lights.  She did not understand this and continued to flail about and sob as I patiently waited for her to leave.  I exited my cruiser, walked up and verified that she had not induced a coronary with her emotion,  and re-entered  my cruiser, deciding to leave as my presence was obviously not comforting to this lady.  Needing a little clearance, I put my cruiser into reverse, and backed up to gain this needed space………into a guardrail situated just behind my car.  A hasty call to my retained “body man” set up a 6AM appointment at his establishment to repair and paint the quarter panel.  As a footnote, this lady wrote the court with her mail-in fine and mentioned in her note how considerate I was when issuing the citation……

Scale houses, in my day, were pretty much the same squat little cinder block affairs throughout the state, situated along side major highways for obvious reasons.  Our zone offices were often located within these little buildings, providing a desk and room to prepare reports and handle the administrative details inherent to police work.  It was the last day of the month and myself and two other troopers were parked one behind the other on the scale platform ramp, busy working on end of the month reports when radio called and dispatched us to yet another fatal accident some 35 miles south of our location. I was the Sergeant and happened to be first in line behind the closed bar across the scale platform and the other two officers were behind me, in a neat, tight little row.  We all exited the scale house and began entering our cars, with me being just a little quicker than the other two, and closer to the door.  I hopped in my cruiser, put it in reverse and backed into the first patrol car behind me, pushing it into the third patrol car behind it, with the two astonished officers standing half in the doors of their cars.  I exited my car, clearly embarrassed and asked if we were going to the wreck or just lollygag around the scales.  I am sure they laughed all the way to the wreck……..and I was reminded of this lapse for years to come……..

Police officers rely on humor to get them through their careers.  This humor can have unintended results.  It was the Friday before the 4th of July holiday, and traffic was building quickly.  I grabbed a quick sandwich late in the afternoon at a favorite eatery located at the junction of !-70 and M-13.  When I exited the restaurant, I noticed a MoDot crew patching a rather large pothole in front of the restaurant on M-13, with hot mix being shoveled out of the back of their truck.  I knew these guys well, particularly one of the shovelers who was known to be a little “goosey” or jumpy.   With the traffic noise and activity at this location, he did not see me ease up behind him and touch my siren just as he began to toss a shovel full of mix into the hole.  This gentleman was sufficiently startled to cause him to throw the hot mix, still in the shovel, into the side of a beautiful newer, white Buick 225, bearing Iowa license plates.  The gentleman driving the Buick pulled into the parking lot and began walking toward the hapless MoDot employee, necessitating my immediate intervention.  I stepped between this gentleman and the MoDot fellow, looked at him and told him that I could explain what had happened, but that he would not be particularly impressed with my explanation.  To my amazement, he accepted my honest explanation and laughed at the predicament that I had place myself in.  We struck an agreement after I gave him my business card and telephone number, whereby he would have his car repaired and send me the bill.  He did just that, and my attempt at humor cost me a little under 400.00.  In the 70’s folks, that was a lot of money!

In anticipation of writing this piece, I searched my memory to come up with situations that might be interesting to my readers.  I came up with a rather long list of happenings involving me or witnessed by me, but chose these to illustrate the point that I am trying to make.  I, and my fellow officers are adept at creating hilarious situations at the expense of each other, dead snakes in the mailbox located at every gas pump, mace on sunglasses and the removal of the red lenses on our light bars resulting in four, blinding spotlights revolving about on your first night traffic stop after you left the zone office.  The next time you see an officer solemnly going about his or her business, suggesting a buttoned down approach to life, remember…..

There is, indeed, a human behind the badge……….

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…….