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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.

This week the law enforcement community buried a vibrant, young member of their fraternity, Phylicia Carson, 33. She died in a police pursuit, often referred to by LEO’s as a “chase”. In August of 2015, my agency, the Missouri State Highway Patrol, lost a fine young officer, Tpr. James Bava in eerily similar circumstances . I write today in their memory.

English common law is the genesis of modern police policy related to pursuits. The law stated that officers were under no obligation to suspend the pursuit of a criminal simply because of resistance or threatened resistance. Before I talk about the practicalities of pursuits, numbers must come into play. In a study by the Police Executive Research Forum, it was recommended pursuits be limited to two circumstances:

1. A violent crime has already occurred or

2. There is an immediate risk the suspect will commit another crime.

Great stuff, if the offender has a placard on their vehicle announcing why he/she is running. The fact is, we don’t have any idea why the offender is running in the majority of cases.

A study of pursuits between 2009-2013 revealed that for every 100 pursuits 2 severe and 10 minor injuries occured, with the suspects injured 76% of the time and the officers less than 3% of the time. Non-involved people account for the remaining injuries and deaths. In 2020, fatal crashes in pursuits peaked at 455, the highest number since 2007 when 372 folks died. In plain language, a person is killed every day, on average in a police pursuit, with an officer killed every 11 weeks. The average age of the offender is 26 and usually a male. As you read, it is important to remember that officers initiate arrests and offenders initiate pursuits.

These numbers indicate a continuing problem for police executives who over the past decade have initiated a number of pursuit policies designed to reduce the carnage, from severely restrictive to somewhat reasonable, all of which favor the offenders. These policies fail to account for the adrenaline dump that occurs when an officer begins pursuing a violator. Officers do not take kindly to resisting arrest, and pursuits are a heightened form of this crime. Policies must, as expected, be tailored to the environment, rural or urban. It is safe to assume that pursuits have been around since the beginning of policing, on foot, on horseback and now in vehicles. Officers are expected to curb the overwhelming desire to catch a fleeing violator, ignore the tremendous adrenaline rush that accompanies these events, and respond to department policy. This kind of response is counter to every instinct officers on the streets have, and I speak from experience. Speaking of experience, those of us who were and are in this business know the pursuit of big block motorcycles presents a particular danger, often at exorbitant speeds, and are deserving of a separate writing of their own.

Like a greyhound on the track after the mechanical rabbit, when folks run, officers are going to pursue them and sort out the reasons they ran when the chase is over. The considerations mentioned above place the officer in an extremely perplexing position. Despite various strategies from stop sticks to pit maneuvers, police officers are expected to “run violators to ground”. It is what we do. Chases are a part of the business and may God richly bless the officers now, before us and in the future that protect our world by pursuing and catching violators of every stripe. Officers like Phylicia Carson and James Bava were doing precisely what was expected and fate intervened. We have all been there and are very fortunate to be alive, having escaped their fate by mere inches or a mile an hour or so. Chases are extremely dangerous and often deadly, considerations that officers clearly understand.

It is our business.

Have a great week!

SR

Hang on. We live in a technology oriented world, but I’m betting most folks don’t know just how dependent we are on cell phones and the access to the world they guarantee. Is it any wonder that young people today have no idea how to properly use a spinning or bait casting rig or even know what they are! Doesn’t matter, because there is likely an app for that. Here we go, prepare to be amazed. Imagine my shock and anticipation when Sharon walked into the office and announced ”hot now”. Now that is an app that every man needs, more about that later.

Today there are an estimated 6 billion smart phones users in the world, led by the Chinese, followed by India and then America. 5 billion of these users have access to the internet. In 2021, 100 billion apps were downloaded generating revenues of approximately 6.3 trillion dollars. The average cell phone will have 40 apps on it, the vast majority of which are used just once. There are approximately 325,000 health related apps alone. In 2020, we downloaded about 6 million apps. Gen Z folks are on their phones about 112.6 hours a month and the geriatric crowd around 51.5 hours a month. Well over 95% of the apps in use are free. All of these figures represent both IOS and Android systems. If you have an interest, there is likely an app for it.

These stunning numbers show no sign of slowing down anytime soon. I can remember when an encyclopedia was in every home, providing often dated and very limited information, and young people did in fact understand the art of fishing and did know the difference between a bait casting and spinning rig.

About Sharon’s proclamation she was “hot now”, (at least that is the way I heard it). I jumped up, smiling, prepared for a romantic interlude when she doused my ardor announcing she was referring to the Krispy Kreme app. The damned donuts were hot now, not…..well you get it.

When the other kind of “hot now” app comes out, you can bet I’ll have it, day one.

Have as great week!

SR

Building a good pizza is an exercise in culinary science. Anyone can do it, but few can do it really well. If you like pizza, this writing is for you. If you can enjoy one of the frozen, additive laden pies from the freezer section, please read on, as I am about to turn you pizza world upside down. Forever on, your days of opening a frozen pie, throwing it in the trash and eating the cardboard under it are over.

Sharon, a world class bargain hunter, located two patio heaters in Mountain Home, Arkansas. These tall heaters were marked down from 150.00 to 45.00 each as the boxes were “damaged”. We love northern Arkansas, so saddled up and road tripped to the Home Depot there and loaded up two perfectly good heaters before motoring 10 miles to Gassville to one of our favorite eateries, Nima’s Pizza, a little pizza shop that seats 20 folks, but is known worldwide in pizza circles. You read this correctly, world class pizza made from scratch, and absolutely delectable.

This little mom and pop pizzeria has won world competitions from Las Vegas to Italy and China. Who would have thought it. They make pizzas from 12” to 45” designed for a family of 8. They also make a surprisingly simple but delicious little salad to get things going. We polished off a delectable little “Kitchen Sink” pizza, and salad chased by a fountain coke. So why are these pizza’s this good?

The crust, and there are a couple of kinds, are handmade for each pie. You can actually ENJOY the edges. The sauce is perfectly spicy, not over-riding the other ingredients and their blend of great cheeses will induce terminal salivation. The proportions of each is near perfect, the pies hit the table with bubbling cheese and you leave the table full and smiling. Their many offerings have actually won world bake-offs in Las Vegas, competing against masterful chefs from around the globe. It is our third time here, and of course, we will be back. Gassville is also located in the middle of one of the best trout fisheries in existence, the White River.

When you are road tripping in the beautiful Ozarks, take our advice, and drop in to Nima’s with an appetite. Rick and Jane will not disappoint you and you can say you have enjoyed a world class pie, without taking a single step in Chicago!

Have a great week!

SR