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Sharon and I were out and about for awhile yesterday afternoon, as it was just too pretty to not do something on a nearly perfect day.  We stopped at a local, national chain eatery for lunch and enjoyed a totally unremarkable hamburger, served on a bun slightly older than Sharon…..probably close to my age and that, my friends,  is an old bun!  Rather than grouse, an appropriate response these days to about everything, we talked about how fortunate we really are.  (The picture is of my grand-daughter, Kaelin)

We are fortunate to be selecting a President in a democratic fashion.  Rather than throw my hat into that fray prematurely, I choose to let the pot boil a bit longer….surprises are the norm in this business, and I am confident there will be much more suspense.  We are fortunate that whatever is finally agreed upon will likely not dent our lifestyle much, but will certainly give us reason to grouse a little more.

We are fortunate to be oblivious to whatever ailments are lurking within us, able to still enjoy the activities we choose.  There are many whose lot in life has emerged from behind door three, a sobering reminder that health trumps riches and reward, every day of the week.

We are fortunate to enjoy the company of like minded friends and the freedom to smile broadly and walk away from those who do not share our philosophies, goals and activities.  Conversely, we are fortunate to have friends who do not share these considerations, thus offering us an opportunity to see life from a different angle.  I can guarantee you will walk into a post, sooner or later, if you do not keep your eyes open in our country today!

We are fortunate in that we enjoy a “normal” family, perhaps a stretch here and there.  Our children and grandchildren are reasonably well adjusted and productive folks.  Quirky, perhaps, surprising at times, but always there when you circle the wagons in response to an external threat.

We are fortunate to have tastes within our means.  You don’t miss what you have never experienced, sort of like power steering or electric windows.  These conveniences were abstract until you used them………I have always loved Corvettes, but until acquiring one a few years ago, was okay without one.  Now, my attention has turned to airplanes, a consideration that makes a new Corvette look pretty mundane….

Finally, today’s assignment is to grab the positive side of your life and go with it.  Start with a really good coffee (my favorite is Marley, Mystic Morning) do something purely impulsive (legal of course) and roll with the day.

Choose to be fortunate, not to be confused with Pollyanna, and own the day, whether it be fishing, mushroom hunting or enjoying the Cards or Royals.  A road trip sounds good to me…I know where we can grab a really good pizza.  It looks like a great morning to uncover the Red Baron, and enjoy that Harley resonance..

It is good to be fortunate..

Yesterday, I spent the day with an old friend, let’s call him Ralph, chasing the ever elusive king of sport fish, the crappie.  I am not much on boat riding when the crappie are moving in for their annual ritual of producing more crappie, instead preferring to sneak around quietly behind the trolling motor anticipating the “bump” that crappie fishermen live for.  I am anything but politically correct, so “fisherman” is, to me, synonymous with fisherwomen, fisherkid, or fisherfolks……..I trust you’ll understand.

To suggest that Americans are competitive is an understatement that is unequivocal, sort of like suggesting that coffee is “not bad” first thing in the morning.  When fishermen gather to discuss the day’s activities, numbers are going to come up in the discussion sooner or later, mostly sooner.  If not the total number of fish, then surely the length of the “hawg” that may or may not have made it to the live well for his last ride before the indignity of the filet knife.  The size of the crappie that comes unbuttoned at boat side is going to be described, invariably, as “a really nice fish” ……..even though we are measuring him by the unscientific method of suggesting size by whether or not the other fisherman saw the scrap between his partner and the fish…….a very reliable methodology!  Most fishermen, when describing the day’s tally, rely on a time proven script. We tend to talk about the number of fish in the boat, irrespective of who caught more than the other.  Believe me when I suggest there are far more rituals associated with fishing than one might see at a Masonic initiation….

Now to the point at hand……who has the advantage in a boat?  Is it the fisherman up front, or the fisherman in the back?  Well, I could be voted out of the brotherhood, but I am going to let this truth be known.  If the angler in the front catches MORE fish than the poor fellow in the back, then he has the advantage.  He sees new water first, can maneuver the boat to his advantage, and is 20 or so feet closer to new structure, thus guaranteeing his success.  This is where it gets complicated.  If the angler in the front catches FEWER fish than the fellow in the back, it is because he is tasked with running the trolling motor, watching for trees, boat eating docks and ladders, and the demanding mental task of deciding which bank to run while all the while reading the wind and determining approach strategy.  If carefully managed, these rules will provide cover for both anglers when they chortle about their success, or lack thereof, when describing the day’s adventure to those interested in such weighty matters.  Over the course of my fishing career, I have seen this ritual masterfully orchestrated by clever fishermen repeatedly.  It is a skill that makes even clever attorneys envious.  By the way, the fish in the top photo is not a crappie, but is bigger than a crappie, bigger is better, right?

So, how did we do yesterday?  The reflective and clever reader can easily figure this out by reading this post…..but I will give you a huge hint…..

I was in the front of the boat.

Steve Davis, a Highway Patrol Lieutenant that I very much respect, recently posted a picture or two on Facebook with his kids.  His posting was in response to some form of a challenge to post a picture representing his happiness at being a dad.  He did well…….

There  have been a number of articles and observations recently that call attention to the young folks that are having difficulty figuring it out, you know…..the kids who want a free education and are easily offended by virtually anything they perceive as a threat to their well being.  The media is all too happy to capitalize on the anguish of these confused young people, it is a better story than an article about the huge numbers of young folks  who are doing just fine these days.  I can only imagine the challenge that young folks are facing today with the electronic Renaissance, mobility and affluence they are managing.  There are more than a few of us who would fail miserably in this environment requiring infinitely more sophistication than that required to make it to baseball practice on time, set the points and timing in our muscle cars and bag groceries on weekends.

I have raised two kids that I am proud of.  They are very different people, motivated by different mindsets and triggers, who work very hard every day to contribute to the greater good.  Who among us hasn’t made mistakes along the way…..perfection is a high bar, but I can say with certainty they have benefitted from their experiences and have reasonable expectations that are centered around a defined work ethic.  The vast majority of the new generation gets it and are acquiring the wisdom to keep America on track….even if they don’t get the headlines.  They have no problem tapping into our collective wisdom and experience and I have no problem recognizing their technical skill and familiarity with the complexity of life today.  This synergy is really beautiful…..if we can be objective with each other.

In all honesty, we made some really bad calls growing up and, for the most part, have still contributed solidly to the fabric of America….by negotiating  the hills and curves that are on every road. Our children are navigating a very complex road to success and we can be proud of their perseverance, offering our perspective for their consideration as they refine their decision making strategy.  I tend to ignore the confused young folks who are busy being offended and admire those who understand that being offended goes with the turf.  It has been said that age and treachery trump youth and enthusiasm every day of the week…..

……..don’t bet on it today.  This new generation is clever in ways we can only admire and I have faith in their ability to keep us on track.  Youth, enthusiasm and smart……..

You have to like it!

For me, it began in the heat of July 2, 1971, when we reported to the academy to begin the transformation from civilian to peace officer.  The military veterans in our class enjoyed a marginal advantage over the non-veterans, an advantage that was soon negated by a training staff that very quickly exacted uniformity among us.  It was a fascinating introduction into the intracacies of police science, technique and equipment.  We were clueless as to the tremendous advancements that we would see over the next 25-35 years……advancements eclipsed by the pace of technology  today.  The game has changed……our officers today are better equipped, educated, trained, and efficient.  It is difficult to imagine what today’s officers will see in their careers.  This technical evolution continues, however; the core strength of policing is still the individual officer and his or her understanding of human nature.  Today’s technology enhances and facilitates the job our centurions do today but does not replace the human interaction that is the genesis of every police action.

My daughter is a state trooper.  I am no longer relevant in her professional world, and that is how it should be.  When I look into her boat or Patrol vehicle, my limitations slap me coldly and quickly into reality.  The communication capability and unbelievably quick response of data from multiple sources is staggering.  She is a marine officer, a demanding and exacting specialization.  Within her field of expertise, she is a sub-specialist, with an aptitude for child advocacy and the interviewing process that is central to the business of juvenile involved crime.  She is appropriately cynical……..experienced officers know exactly what this means.  Perfection in this career choice is virtually non-existent, however; I have watched her interview folks in the course of her business, and she is very perceptive.  She is opinionated but restrained. ( I have never been able to master the restrained part.)  She understands the delicate balance between professional and family obligation, and can dance between the demands of both with aplomb.  She is transitioning nicely into the world of supervision.  She is one of the new centurions……….

The expectations we have for our police professionals today constantly push the envelope.  This is not a turnkey business, where rattling a few doors in the retail district will suffice on a slow night.  A radio communication requesting information relative to a license plate has been replaced by scanners on the top of cruisers that can electronically scan license plates as you drive by them in a parking lot.  Within minutes, we can check a fingerprint against an enormous, national database for the information that once took weeks to receive.  Jurisdictional lines are steadily being blurred and communication between agencies is virtually instantaneous.  These advances have dramatically increased the effectiveness of policing, however……

…….effective communication between the officer and a citizen, irrespective of the circumstances, is still the gold standard for measuring the successful officer.  Eye to eye contact, carefully managed by today’s officer, is where it all starts.

Our debt to the New Centurions will never be fulfilled, and our expectations will only increase.  I am betting they are up to the task…..

 

It is windy and cold on the lake today, too cold to fish and too windy to fly but a perfect day to catch up on my reading.  I picked up a national publication that enjoys a very good reputation and began reading about the 10 best places to live in America.  As happens all too often, Missouri failed to make the list…..not even honorable mention for any of our cities, towns or regions.  Let’s talk about their extreme short sightedness.

To be sure, St. Louis isn’t going to make many such lists.  The crime rate will only qualify it for other, less prestigious lists.  This in spite of being a beautiful old city with a terrific baseball heritage and home to some of the finest Italian dining available anywhere outside of Brooklyn.  Kansas City, the real gateway to the west, offers up a decidedly western appeal.  Tremendous bar-b-cue factories, great (these days) baseball and football traditions and a city that is relatively easy to drive around in.  The crime rate is typical of any city this size and it offers an abundance of architectural and educational opportunities.  Having recognized these two cities for what they are, let’s discuss the real appeal of Missouri……the countryside.

Missouri IS a melting pot.  There is a strong German influence, particularly in central regions, and our people are friendly, practical and tremendously diversified.  Our standard of living reflects our hard working, middle class heritage.  Our summers will scald the hair off your arms and winters frost your very soul.  Our landscape is western plains to the north transitioning to Ozarkian timberland to the south with a little southern, bootheel charm thrown in for good measure.  We are home to many of the nation’s prettiest lakes and are blessed with drop dead gorgeous float streams.  Missouri walnut is a prized export and our oak covers floors all over the world……floors that have endured the indignity of fine bourbons  aged in in casks crafted from the same oak forests being sloshed upon them.  We know a thing or two about building cars, motorcycles and boats…..and raising pigs, cattle and grain. Our wines are winning awards every day and we brew alot of beer.  We could care less about Rodeo Drive and Broadway….preferring fairs, country and western concerts and great family entertainment venues like those clustered around Branson.  I paid a lot to fish the San Juan River in northern New Mexico and afterwards, offered to show the guide some really good trout fishing in Missouri……..The scenery in the Badlands of South Dakota is remarkable but not as remarkable as wood fire smoke silently curling above an Ozark cabin on a cold winter evening along the Big Piney River.  Our springs invite you to sit down awhile and thank the Lord for the privilege of being able to sit there.  No doubt the Master created Missouri to be the crossroads it is, where east meets west and north meets south.

Why not Missouri? I would like to invite the writers who drool incessantly over the great San Juan River, the Texas Hill Country and Boise,  Idaho’s bike trails to spend a little time among our folks up and down Route 66.  Rent a canoe, it won’t cost much, and drift silently through the eddies and shoals on the Gasconade or Niangua River.  Missouri hasn’t changed much in the last hundred or so years……..not out in the country where our folks are friendly, skeptical and damned real. Drop in one of our taverns, enjoy a cold beer, burger and conversation with any one of our “locals”.  I guarantee it will beat the hell out of a bean sprout and spinach salad on Rodeo Drive…….

 

Admittedly, I am a lightweight when it comes to distilled spirits. I enjoy such libations as a good Pina Colada, Margarita, Tequilla Sunrise or Fuzzy Navel as opposed to a shot of bourbon, neat, on the rocks. Occasionally, I can work my way through a Whiskey Sour or a Baileys and coffee……but never scotch.  To me it tastes a little like a shot of liquor the dog has peed in that was left too close to the campfire……..

My father, a man of respect, drank scotch. He took his drink with a little water and occasionally a jigger of Drambuie, a drink known as a Rusty Nail……surely named after the source of the tetanus infection resulting from stepping on the same.  My friend, Ralph, is a top shelf scotch drinker….a practice that shows class and dignity when barside, and results in me finding a quiet corner of the bar to nurse my “umbrella drink” less I embarrass the big boys quaffing scotch as they recount tales of daring.  To the casual observer, it would appear the tears in their eyes are resulting from the memory of past accomplishments and battles won…….in truth, the tears are from drinking scotch, smelling of peat moss and fireplace ashes, the pleasure of which they paid handsomely.

The very first time I was intoxicated, it was the result of drinking a fine scotch whiskey named Clan McGregor.  I chased the awful stuff with Coke…..a combination that causes purists to wretch uncontrollably.  I didn’t know any better in those days, when a six pack of Country Club malt liquor, a small fresh pizza and two bucks got my date and I into a drive-in movie.  My fervent, red blooded American male strategy was centered on the premise the pizza and malt liquor would result in missing much of the movie……..but that is another story.  Perhaps my first experience with a scotch whisky that could be bought for four bucks a fifth, mixed with Coke,  began my distaste for the stuff.

All scotch must be made in Scotland.  Google any article or description of the stuff and you will quickly find the common denominator for it’s production.  Some comes from the highlands, some from the lowlands, important as all scotch has a regional flare to it.  What most of the world doesn’t know is where the water that is used in the distillation process comes from.

One early fall evening, after being forced to drink the awful stuff following a successful crappie expedition, and looking for a suitable place to throw up my last shot of a premium scotch, I stumbled on two kilted men, carefully ladling water out of old discarded tires into clay jugs.  Upon inquiry, they explained they were obtaining water to use in making scotch.  The water from radial tires went into premium, top shelf scotch……the water from tractor tires and bias belted tires into the lesser expensive blended scotches.  They swore me to secrecy, never a wise thing to do to a wretching, scotch soaked fisherman.  I signed nothing so……..now you know.

No doubt, my revelation concerning the origins of scotch will offend the purists among us that have “acquired” a taste for this smoky, peat moss filtered libation, and admittedly, my memory isn’t what it once was….but the vision of the two kilted gentlemen carefully ladling water is what I saw…….

That is my scotch addled memory of that fall evening, yet another reason not to drink the stuff, and I am sticking to it.

I am in phase three of cardiac rehabilitation, the result of a bad mitral valve and a crosswired electrical system.  The valve issue is old news, first diagnosed during the initial Highway Patrol physical in 1971.  With deep respect to Paul Corbin and his reliance on Dr. Kenneth Cooper, these problems really are not exercise impacted and were both solved by the wizards at the Cleveland Clinic.  I know, you are looking at the title and wondering what this has to do with the notorious Whitey Bulger.

Two weeks ago, I was dog trotting along nicely on a treadmill at the Lake Regional rehab facility when a gentleman checked in and immediately climbed onto an elliptical and began his routine which, I think, is designed to burn the damned thing up.  He was the  spitting image of James “Whitey” Bulger, the infamous boss of the Winter Hill Gang in Boston, Mass.  A cold blooded killer.   Not close, folks, but really, spooky close.  A chiseled chin, swept back white hair, stamina and a great smile…..a smile that could say “I’m getting away with something”.  I stopped in my tracks, not wise on a treadmill, and rolled off the back of the thing, all the time watching “Whitey Bulger” pounding the elliptical.  I knew this could not be Whitey, he was snatched in Florida back in June of 2011 by the FBI…………wasn’t he?  I recalled he had been an FBI informant, a clever man capable of working both sides of the street….and that he was supposed to spend the rest of his life in prison…..wasn’t he?  I introduced myself and asked if he had ever been told he resembled Whitey Bulger.  He smiled expansively and responded with “Whitey who”?   Not reassuring, believe me.  Still smiling, he told me he would Google this Mr. Bulger and read up….I grabbed my cell phone, quickly found a picture of the real Whitey Bulger and showed it to this gentleman and he smiled again, looked me squarely in the eye and said, “it makes you wonder who they really have in jail doesn’t it”………..

It was a awhile, but my heart rate finally dropped to a level that I could clear the cardiac RN’s desk and head out, another very good session in the books.  This Bulger look alike is really Mr. Bob King and he resides in Camdenton after a career as a managing engineer, mostly in Kansas.  He is an affable fellow, with a ready smile, and a great sense of humor.  During our short interview, I asked Mr. King if he had ever been to Boston.  He smiled and said………..”only on business”.

I really like Mr. King………but I am not turning my back on him, not before I read some more on the capture of Whitey down in Florida.

Think about it…….

 

 

I awoke this morning with a powerful urge to hop on the pontoon and yacht to a favorite waterfront hamburger establishment for a thick, juicy burger, fries and a light beer……I am guessing that 11 degrees and a brisk north wind has the burger joints shut down so I’ll settle for a cup of coffee in front of the fire.  That is life on the Ozark Riviera……my Neanderthal urges were likely the result of watching the KC Chiefs work their magic yesterday.

I feel sorry for the folks who are dealing with life on the other Riviera….the one over by St. Moritz, right close to St. Tropez.  What do they have to look forward to?  They will awaken looking out over spindly olive trees, with little woodsmoke as opposed to mighty oaks and the friendly smell of a hardwood fire.  It rarely frosts there, with an average low in January of 42 degrees.  Their average high temperature, in August, is 83 degrees……..boring!

While we enjoy a hearty dinner of fried chicken, maybe ribs and pulled pork or pan fried catfish, they are thinking about eating bait…..stuff like squid, snails and lots of vegetables.  To really spice it up, they will poach, POACH a fish to enjoy with a handful of nuts and more vegetables.

They are a snobby lot, thinking they have the market on tourism cornered, what with 14 million or so visitors annually…..nothing compared to a holiday here on our Riviera when St. Louis, Kansas City, most of Illinois and half of Iowa show up.  They know nothing of testosterone, too busy with trimming the sails and puttering about drinking delicate glasses of wine on their cute little sailboats …..we know horsepower, cold beer and ear splitting exhaust……

They have their Grimaldi Castle, we have Ha Ha Tonka, they have the Prince of Wales (their schools can’t be much, it is WHALE not wale) we have our Prince of Crappie ( rumored to be Ralph Biele).  They have their delicate little seaside cafes, we have the Olean Testicle Festival……

Relatively few are fortunate enough to experience life on the Ozark Riviera and Ozark Americans are among the most genuine folks on this earth.  It is up to 12 degrees now, time for the Ozark Diet’s staple start….biscuits and gravy!