Earn This

 I'm lucky.  It has been nearly fifty years since I wore an Army uniform.  The draft was still with us in those days and military service was considered a right of passage for most young men. The war in Vietnam had the country's draft boards churning out 1-A classifications by the thousands in the 1960's and '70's.  In the summer of 1971 I found myself stationed at Fort Gordon, Georgia with just a couple of weeks left of signal officer training before orders dictated that my duffel bag and I were set for an "unaccompanied twelve month tour in Southeast Asia."  When you're that young and hopelessly naive it's easy to feel as if nothing can harm you or interfere with the always large plans you have for the future.  I was ready to go, certain that the war was something to get out of the way before returning home and a resumption of my life as a radio Gypsy.

All of us were clueless regarding why we had been ordered to a noon meeting that hot August afternoon but the sense that something was up had us all buzzing.  There were officers from the Pentagon on the stage of the auditorium standing next to piles of what turned out to be orders.  New orders, our orders.  After putting us at ease a major said, "Congratulations men, you are the first class from this school to NOT be going to Vietnam."  As part of President Nixon's plan to wind down the war he was ordering the First Infantry Division and the 82nd Airborne Division home from Southeast Asia.  It was a ruse of sorts considering that the only troops from those two outfits actually returning to America were the men from headquarters company.  The remainder of both divisions would be shifted to other units still in Vietnam while the 1st and the 82nd would be fleshed out stateside by those of us at Fort Gordon.  In hindsight  I now realize this was probably one of the luckiest days of my life.  I would spend the next couple of years with the Big Red One (1st Infantry' Division) playing war games and training for European NATO defense on the frozen and dusty plains of Fort Riley, Kansas.  Nobody would be trying to blow me up or shoot me.  If I could just dodge the Kansas cow flop, I would live to comb gray hair.

Lately I've been thinking a lot about those Army days and the shared experience of serving with men (no women in those days) whom I came to think of as family.  I guess it's the "all for one and one for all" atmosphere of military service that makes it hard to forget.   Also, nothing has made me more happy and proud than to see the new found respect for our service members that is now so pervasive.  There were no "thank you for your service" greetings during Vietnam war era.  Just wearing the uniform in public invited dirty looks and "baby killer" insults.  If you remember those days you are no doubt happy to note the about face.

Sitting by the fire on a cold day in northern Idaho with Veterans' Day and the 100th anniversary of the end of World War I approaching, it is with a grateful heart that I think of all the men and women who weren't as lucky as I.  It is beyond humbling to consider the price paid by the thousands who bore the heavy lift of battle only to be come home in a box or forever changed.  We, as citizens of this still free nation, can never sufficiently thank them.  It simply isn't possible.  We can, however, strive to live our lives in ways that are mindful of the ante paid by so few.  As he lay dying In the movie Saving Private Ryan, the captain, played by Tom Hanks, says to one of his men, "earn this."  He is referring to the freedom from the tyranny of the Nazis that will be the reward of an Allied victory.  Though he won't be going home he wants others to live their lives in appreciation of the sacrifice of the dead and dying.  It's an unforgettable scene and perhaps the perfect admonition to all of us living in this wonderful and still free country.  Let's earn it.

Veterans' Day 2018

Never forget.

Halloween and Other Stuff I Don't Understand

Several years ago I began to notice that I had practically zero recognition of the weird looking people featured on the cover of People Magazine.  Mind you I don't subscribe but merely glance at it while waiting in line at the grocery store to cough up way more scratch than I did a few years ago--okay 40-- for a couple of piddly items. (Just when did a box of Coco Puffs start costing five bucks?)  Do folks still subscribe to People?  Instead of these tattooed no names, how about a profile or three on stars like Jackie Gleason, Paul Newman, Liz Taylor or Bogey?  Oh really.  When?  

Am I getting old?

This looks too hard.

A senior jack o' lantern

I got home around 8 PM on Halloween, just in time for a few of the little candy pirates to accost me, and in a flash I came to the realization that the People Magazine conundrum has now manifested itself in kids' costumes.  Whatever happened to small fry in search of treats dressing up like Snow White, Bugs Bunny or, for the creatively challenged, a ghost?  Now the pint sized hoodlums show up as sci-fi oddballs or pop culture icons haunting me from the cover of People Magazine. It's a vicious circle!  It doesn't pay to ask a kid "who are you?", especially when it prompts an unrecognizable name or fictional character accompanied with a smug impatient look of annoyance.  "Well, you're a good one!", is about the best I can do.  

I saw no political masks this year which is probably for the best.  Likewise, no cowboys, cops, fire fighters or soldiers were on the march in my neighborhood.  In the 1950's Halloweens of my youth it seemed as if every other kid was either Roy, Dale, Zorro or, for the very cool, HOPALONG CASSIDY.

And, whether it had anything to do with Halloween or not, a few days ago six thousand of our U.S. soldiers on a NATO military exercise in Iceland pulled off a neat trick.  These military boys and girls  managed to suck down the entire supply of beer in the city of Reykjavik in just four days.  I don't know about you but that kind of American "can do" spirit leads me to believe that our young people are still capable of great things.  Reports of the troops inquiring about the whereabouts of Iceland's whiskey supply can't be confirmed, but I would like to think they asked.

Now, get your credit cards out.  There are 51 shopping days until Christmas and you know how you like to procrastinate.  If you decided to just go with cash this year, remember I'm an extra large.

Ah, capitalism!

Give Me Liberty and Maybe a Ding Dong; Never Chard

 "How about Fruity Pebbles?"
"No."
"Sugar Pops?"
"No!"
"Watermelon, that's a fruit."
"Nothing with seeds!  How many times have we been over this??"

The blonde woman who has lately expressed an interest in keeping me healthy has categorically  diagnosed this scribe as just one more victim of Dunlop's disease, a hideous malady that preys on men of a certain age.  It presents  slowly and often is only discovered when adipose tissue orbiting a gentleman's equator breeches the ramparts of his britches causing his belly to "done lop" over his belt.  Frankly I can live with the affliction since it affords me a very nice snack tray that proves nearly indispensable during periods of extended World Series viewing.  Fritos, Doritos, and other essentials are right there just south of my nose and ready for loading into my eager and gaping maw.  Couple that with a Red Sox win over the arrogant and ever hideous Dodgers and I can die happy.

It's that dying thing that has Blondie in a dither.  Having recently converted to the diet prescribed by Dr. Steven R. Gundry in his book, The Plant Paradox, she is convinced that my increasing girth can be blamed on a weakness for food and beverages that actually taste good.  In his book, Dr. Gundry concludes that most of us are fat because we eat foods containing gluten and lectins, which coincidentally, are, it seems to me, the major delivery agents of all that is delicious and savory. You know you're in food prison when it's okay to eat a tomato, but only if it's peeled.  This guy is a menace.  I feel like calling the good doctor and hipping him to the fact that being THIN IS WHERE IT HAS BEEN whereas these days being FAT IS WHERE IT'S AT.  Have some beer and pretzels or maybe some pork rinds sawbones and live a little.

Pray for me as dinner time approaches in the Pacific time zone.  Looks like it's kale or Swiss chard or perhaps some hemp hearts on the menu tonight.  Luckily there's just enough time to nip out to the garage for an inventory of my forbidden foodstuffs stash.  A few Fritos and maybe a Ho Ho or Ding Dong should sustain me long enough to fake it through the gastronomic equivalent of an IRS audit or colonoscopy.  Right?

On Monday maybe I'll shop for new pants.  I'm thinking something in a "relaxed fit" this time.

Chard: approach with caution

A Beer Too Far!

Unable to scare the bejesus out of all of us with tales of rising seas and temperatures a couple of degrees warmer, the global "sky is falling" crowd now postulates that there is a very real danger of a worldwide beer shortage.  Holy climate change Batman!!

According to the University of California, Irvine's Nathan Mueller, "future climate and pricing conditions could put beer out of reach for hundreds of millions of people around the world."  "While the effects on beer may seem modest in comparison to many of the other impacts of climate change, there is nonetheless something fundamental in the cross-cultural appreciation of beer," reports lead author of this horrific report, Dabo Guan of the University of East Anglia, the Harvard of, uh, nowhere.  Computer models, (we know those are NEVER wrong) predict that the possible effects of climate change on the supply of barley could cause beer price increases of 338 percent by 2099.  Oh no!  Of course these are the same researchers with computer models that can't tell us if we need an umbrella this weekend.  So, now every middle-aged guy sporting a substantial Milwaukee goiter is supposed to be quaking in his boots at the thought of high priced and scarce suds?  Hardly.  The climate of our Big Blue Marble has been changing since time began and, in case you haven't noticed, tropical plants no longer grow at the North Pole and there are deserts where inland seas used to be.  Everybody needs to calm down and maybe have a beer or two while it's still possible and let the egg heads who are angling for more research grants (see money) sweat the small stuff.

Global warming?  Frankly, I've been a little chilly since moving to the wilds of North Idaho.  It would be dandy to lose the sweaters, a parka or two, and maybe grow a little barley around here instead of moose munch and huckleberries.  I'm thinking that a banana tree or two would be a nice addition to the southeast corner of the patio and maybe a switch to white wine is in order.

Excuse me while I turn up the air conditioning.

Seemed Like A Good Idea...at the time

Two wacky Brits

Who among us has not awakened after a night of abandon with a cotton mouth and a very real sense of having done something unbelievably stupid and embarrassing while under the affluence of inkohol?  Whether it's the recollection of having insulted somebody important, losing the car or maybe even misplacing a pair of pants in a location now beyond recollection, the damage is done and it's time to either relocate or assume a new identity.  Haven't done that?  Perhaps you've stumbled on to the wrong blog.  If you CAN relate, I would like to offer you a saga about a couple who's embarrassing alcohol induced gaff will put your worst escapade in the shade.

Gina Lyons and Mark Lee, a couple of wacky Brits from London, got so drunk on their honeymoon that they purchased an entire hotel.  Granted it was a dump located in backwater in Sri Lanka but you have to admire their chutzpah.  After downing 12 glasses of rum they discovered that the lease on their honeymoon hideout was almost up and, after finding out it was only $13,200 per year, they thought "what the hell, we might as well buy it".  The couple was so buzzed during negotiations that they didn't even notice that the conversation was in a foreign language.  They just kept drinking.  The next day, now sober, they began to panic about what they had done and attempted to get out of the deal but couldn't.  So, they decided to turn a dumb ass drunken move into something positive and shortly began $8000 worth of renovations.  The newly named Lucky Beach Tangalle opened this past July and business is booming.  They also have a child on the way and have vowed to henceforth only make big decisions while sober.

I love a happy ending.  By the way, if you need me, I'm closing on a deal to buy this really cool bridge in Brooklyn.

All mine in just a thousand more payments!

Remembering Denny

When I saw the message was from his daughter, Lisa, I knew it couldn't be good news.  Denny turned 93 in August and when you're that age and fighting a rematch with cancer the odds are against you.  Denny Krick died peacefully last Saturday at his home in Arlington, Washington another in that long line of members of the Greatest Generation who are leaving the planet by the thousands.  We are poorer as a nation for their absence.

I have known Denny for several years and can't remember a single time he didn't make me smile.  We met at a Carlsbad, California gym ten or fifteen years ago where we often found ourselves side by side riding those bikes to nowhere.  The fact that his regimen kept him slim and in full command of his faculties inspired me to do the same.  He looked to be on his way to 100 and that seemed like a good example to emulate.  I found him to be a great conversationalist and, though we often differed on politics, we became friends.  

Like my father, Denny was a Navy veteran of the Second World War who served in the South Pacific theater.  After his service hitch he settled in San Diego with his wife, Virginia, where they raised two children and enjoyed life in a booming post war California.  Virginia passed away several years ago and Denny kept her memory alive by sponsoring a bench (Virginia's Bench) above Moonlight Beach in Encinitas where he would often enjoy a Pacific sunset.

Five years ago my late wife and I planned a trip with Denny and another pal, Roger O'Neil, to visit the World War II Museum in New Orleans.  It was an unforgettable honor to visit this wonderful national treasure with a WW II veteran in tow as the museum rolls out the red carpet whenever a vet visits.  Of course Denny was a big hit!  He talked to visiting school children and adults who peppered him with questions about his time in the service.  Especially touching was his quiet conversation with a young girl who's great grandfather had never returned from the war in the Pacific.  More than a few of us had a tear in our eye as he talked of the sacrifices of her great grandfather and so many others. 

When driving became an issue for him Denny decided to leave California and move north where he could be comfortable living in a house he had built behind the home of his daughter and her husband.  He was doing well until recently when a cancer he had battled to a draw a few years ago returned with a vengeance.  True to his generational code there was no mention of this when I had a long conversation with him on the phone a month ago.  He sounded fine and seemed in good spirits though I now realize it was just Denny not wanting to share setbacks or problems with me or anyone.  He was a kind,  considerate and truly gentle man to the end.

As I write this it's sad to reflect on the fact that we don't seem to be making men like Denny anymore.  Whether the cause is a lack of good parenting or an absence of ambition and moral courage, we have most certainly become soft and short sighted when compared to the men and women who took on the twin challenges of a depression and a world war.  Maybe we'll never be that good again as a nation, though I know we certainly need to try.

I'm not sad because Denny is no longer here.  I, and his many friends, are, without question,  eternally grateful that he was in our lives.  No doubt he will dwell in our hearts forever.

Denny at the World War II Museum

Chatting with the daughter of a WW II veteran.

Denny always had time for the kids and their questions.

  

Denny with my grandson, Dan.

f

Denny on Bourbon Street in New Orleans.  There's nothing like an old sailor on liberty.

Becoming Grandpa

My parents story is a sweet one.  They grew up in the very small town of New Holland, Illinois in the hard scrabble 1920's and 30's.  By small town I mean a community of around 200 in the heart of the black earth farm country of central Illinois.  They lived a block apart but because of a three year age difference did not really discover each other until both were out of high school and World War II was a fact of life.  Dad was a young Navy pilot and mom a rural school teacher when they fell in love and got married.

Every summer my mom, dad, brother and I would spend at least one week of dad's vacation in New Holland visiting both sets of grandparents and assorted aunts, funny uncles and cousins.  My maternal grandfather died when I was only eight but Grandpa Copper, a very relaxed fellow indeed, stuck around until I was well past my 28th birthday.  He was a major character in what, to my young eye, appeared to be one of the requirements of living there.  

As a grade school aged kid I would often accompany Grandpa on his daily rounds.  He was what most folks would call retired but that didn't stop him from having a routine that managed to fill most of his days.  He dressed for it too.  Every morning he would put on a suit, tie and fedora before walking to the small New Holland post office to get his mail.  His first stop was always the front porch of his pal Floyd Wendell.  Floyd, like Grandpa, was a gentleman farmer who had long ago left the grind of crops and cattle for life in town.  After remarking on how much I had grown and how much I resembled either my father or my mother, the two would talk of grain prices and the weather.  A stop at Virgil Crumpler's gas station was next; the same topics of conversation were on the menu along with complaints about the price of gas.  I was always amazed at Virgil's ability to keep a plug of tobacco in his head in spite of having a single digit compliment of teeth.  No Grandpa round was complete without a stop at the one and only grocery store in town owned by Wilbur Buce.  There was usually a list of items written in Grandma's hand that needed to be secured and "put on account" before we headed home in time for Grandma's scolding about forgotten items .  The bank, my Uncle Louie's S&L Lunch/Bar, and finally the post office rounded out the obligatory daily stops.  We were most always back at the house in time for lunch and a gander at the farm markets report on Peoria television before it was time for Grandpa to tune in a ballgame so he could "rest his eyes".  Day over.  Mission accomplished. ZZZZZZ

What started me thinking of Grandpa and his ever so busy days was the recent realization that I too have begun to fall into a similar anticipated  pattern of behavior.  It's not quite as predictable  but give me time, I'm only 70.  Grandpa was still a man about town into his late 80's and early 90's.

Here in North Idaho, in an effort to slug away at my "10,000 steps a day" regimen, I often start with a stroll through the park where a chat with Paul the squirrel guy is always entertaining and enlightening.  "Pauly Walnuts" is a former New Jerseyite who knows more about squirrels than anyone should.  He treats the little fuzz balls of the park to hazel nuts, red oak acorns, chestnuts and other exotic seeds.  It's fun to see how smart the little clowns are.  Paul and his wife, Donna, have names for most all of them and I've witnessed how the squirrel kingdom recognizes their car when they arrive each morning.  I don't want to be around if they ever miss a day.

The post office is usually my next stop as there is, in spite of email, often something that must be dropped in a mail shoot.  After that I often chat with Walt, a fisherman who never misses a day of angling.  Every morning I watch as he pulls in bass, pike and assorted pan fish while his mouth grips an ever present corncob pipe.  In the four years I've been here I've learned of his life in the Coast Guard, his failed marriages, battle with the bottle and his career as a country singer in dive bars from California to Idaho. He's a very nice man who gives away most all of his daily catch to neighbors and people in need.    

After my Walt stop it's time to head home through the park where Griff, Mark and some of the other maintenance men and women make our city park one of the prettiest in the nation.  Sometimes they have time to share some gossip of happenings not usually seen in a public park.  For example a recent incident regarding a couple and their bucket list of love was topic A.  Perhaps we'll save that for another post.  Yep, no time for that now.  It's nearly 4:30 and I don't want to miss the early bird specials at either I Hop or Denny's.  I think I'm fitting into this curmudgeon thing rather nicely.

Walt reeling in another one.