Peace on Earth, good will toward men

Some guy beat me up Christmas Eve.

Many of my friends aren't surprised by this event, it was bound to happen. However, the timing was a little unfortunate.

There I was, on duty Christmas Eve, as we will be New Years Eve. Luck of crew scheduling, it happens. We get a couple of calls, with this one coming through as a traumatic injury. A gentleman fell down 18 steps into his basement, hit his head and was knocked unconscious. That makes it a Medic call, higher than our lowly EMT-B pay grade, but the incident took place in our first due area and it's going to take the Medic unit a while to get there, so off we go to help out until the Medic arrives and takes over.

The police beat us to the house. I suspect they were dispatched because of the nature of the call. Traumatic injury, unconscious, etc. Did he trip and fall? Was he intoxicated, (which is all right in your own home), but he may be a mean drunk and we'll need a little help. Was he pushed? Was he in an argument and intentionally tried to harm himself?

The list of possibilities goes on and we appreciate the cops being there.

The patient was awake and in his living room when we arrive. He's already argumentative with the cops, which could point to intoxication. Again, okay in your own home, but it's never a good idea to argue with people who carry a badge and are trying to sort things out. Argue too much and you could end up getting invited to the White House for a strained beer.

The patient's attitude goes from argumentative to abusive to combative. Contact is made with the police .... and .... it's on. Our role now is to act as spectators. The gentleman may be intoxicated, or suffering from a brain injury, but he's fighting with the cops and that is not in my job description.

As Smack Down continues I start talking to the patient's (worried) wife and another couple who were there celebrating Christmas Eve. I'm doing my job trying to figure out if our patient is a mean drunk or possibly suffering from a head injury. I am not allowed to diagnose, I am not a doctor, but I am working on possible reasons for the combative posture taken by the patient.

The fight goes on, the Medic arrives, and I'm starting to think that this is a case of head injury and the patient needs to be strapped to a back board and loaded up into the Medic unit for a chopper ride to the trauma center.

The fight gets nasty as we, about five of us, grab our patient and proceed to strap him to the back board. It may strike you as a little crude, grabbing a guy in his own home, on Christmas Eve, and strapping him down, but it has to be done. I think it is a little crude, but this ain't Star Trek my friends and we do what we can with what we got. Political Correctness goes right out the window when someone is hurting. There's no Kum by ya. There are few niceties. There is only an injured man who may be suffering a very serious, life threatening head injury, a distraught wife, and deeply concerned friends. And us, the emergency responders; police as well as EMS.

In this kind of fight I normally end up with the right arm. It has become my specialty for some odd reason (see my earlier blog "Never start a fight with a man who works with his hands"), but this time I ended up holding his lower legs, and, even with five people holding him down he was kicking my butt. And somehow, he was also kicking my right hand. As you can see by the picture, he got in his licks.

We were finally able to secure our patient without any one's blood contributing to the holiday decorations. The Medic took our patient to the trauma center. It was decided that the patient was too violent to fly him in a chopper, so off they go via the Medic unit.

I will tell you that there are some calls that, in hind sight, interrupt my sleep and this was one of them. I spent a portion of the remaining shift, until 6:00 the next morning, wondering if there was a better way to handle the call. I don't mind being in a tussle once in a while. It is not infrequent that we wrestle with a patient suffering a diabetic emergency. But those wrestling matches are usually brief and quickly resolved when the Medic injects what amounts to sugar water into the veins of the patient and they snap out of it. This fight was a tough one. Our patient was young and very physically fit but seriously injured and needed expert medical care ASAP.

I believe we did what we needed to do, and we did so as gently and quickly as possible.

But it still bothers me. The wife was a rock star, remaining calm as her husband fought with two police officers and several EMS providers, verbally threatening us each step of the way. The friends were deeply concerned, but did not interfere in any way. Such is not always the case.

Looking back, I am very proud of the wife, and now wish I had taken the time to tell her. I also think, based upon what I was told at the scene, that she is married to a great guy.

I wish him the best.

It is my strong suspicion that this wonderful couple will bring in the New Year together, in love, and staying out of the basement.

Peace.

You MIGHT have what it takes to be a firefighter

If you want to be a clown, you’d better be lookin’ for a circus.
If you’re lookin’ for a free ride, here’s a dollar; call a cab.
If you want to be a “Showman”, Vegas will welcome you with open arms.

If fulfillment of an ego is high on your priority list, might I suggest Hollywood.
And if you want to be a millionaire, by all means, this ain’t for you.

But, if you don’t mind hard work, sweating in freezing weather,
getting back less than half of what you give, and finding your name
at the bottom of your own priority list, then stick around!
I believe you could be a FIREFIGHTER.

Battalion Chief William “Billy” Obenchain, Roanoke Fire Department (Ret)

Great poem written by a retired Battalion Chief from Roanoke City. He just recently passed away after suffering for years with Cutaneous T-Cell Lymphoma. Billy wrote it during a live fire training exercise in Roanoke several years ago and is read at the beginning of each Roanoke City Recruit School.

300

I don't think this is what the Founding Fathers had in mind with freedom of the press

Found this on http://www.townhall.com/ a right wing, neocon web site.

Friday, November 20, 2009

AP Studies Palin's New Book, Health Care Bill

Posted by: Meredith Jessup at 3:16 PM

James Taranto has a bit today in the Wall Street Journal where he looks at the Associated Press' "fact-check" on Sarah Palin's new book and the attention they are devoting to the Democrats' health care overhaul:

An Associated Press dispatch, written by Erica Werner and Richard Alonso-Zaldivar, compares the House and Senate ObamaCare bills. We'd like to compare this dispatch to the AP's dispatch earlier this week "fact checking" Sarah Palin's new book.

Here goes:

Number of AP reporters assigned to story:
• ObamaCare bills: 2
• Palin book: 11

Number of pages in document being covered:
• ObamaCare bills: 4,064
• Palin book: 432

Number of pages per AP reporter:
• ObamaCare bill: 2,032
• Palin book: 39.3

On a per-page basis, that is, the AP devoted 52 times as much manpower to the memoir of a former Republican officeholder as to a piece of legislation that will cost trillions of dollars and an untold number of lives. That's what they call accountability journalism.



Since this info is provided by a rightwingneoconwebsite I don't believe that the healthcare bill would cost "untold number of lives". Plus I am not able to verify the numbers of reporters allegedly assigned to the task of reading Ms. Palin's book. However, even if you cut in half the number of AP reporters covering the book, I still find the ratio of reporters of bill to book to be an excellent example of the prostitution of main stream media.

I'm also not saying that Ms. Palin would make a good president for the United States. Frankly, I would prefer a president who looks less cute, and doesn't drop so many Gs from one's vocabulary.

I am saying that I resent the fact that it is so difficult to gain an accurate perspective of certain presidential candidates via today's main stream media. I naively consider such object reporting to be part of their job.

I am saying that our Founding Fathers, while working hard to assure the freedom of the press, did not expect our "watchdogs of democracy" to devolve into such media whores.

.

Smack Down!!!!

I was involved in a contest of wit with a former college cheerleader a while back, and found out I was unarmed.

In order to not embarrass the young lass, let's just call her “Jessica”, okay?

So anyway, one night at the fire station I'm hanging out with a buddy of mine, Dan, who comes into town once in a while to run the ambulance with me. Dan is a terrific guy, very smart and a most capable EMS provider. He also has a wicked sense of humor. So wicked in fact that when the crew Captain makes up the duty roster, if Dan and I are running together the Captain sends out an email warning the rest of the crew. I am not making this up.

So, there I was trading jokes with Dan when a relatively new member of our crew, the former college cheerleader, wanders over and encroaches upon the volunteer fire department comedy channel. She starts complaining about how difficult it is to have a boy friend because boys mature SO much slower than girls. Dan and I, in sync and with no need of rehearsal, start saying "Oh yeah, they sure do!! SNORT! SNORT!! SNORT!!!!”

Basically making complete asses of ourselves, because, you know, we're BOYS!

Besides, to be fair to Dan and me, Jessica WAS warned.

Anyway, as Dan and I are snorting away Jessica rolls her eyes like a typical mature girl and walks away.

Shortly after that the former college cheerleader wanders back, probably because of Dan and my magnetic personalities.

She continues her lament and then says something that triggers my response of "Well ... you know ... boys DO mature slower than girls.", which I thought was incredibly witty. Dan and I prepare to begin our famous snorting routine once again when we are ambushed by Jessica as she opens her eyes wide, stares at me and says in a slightly brittle tone of voice (If I do say so myself):

"YEAH?!? WELL YOU'RE RUNNING OUT OF TIME!!".

Ouch.

Body slam.

Cheerleader - 1

Seasoned EMS provider - 0

Attached is a picture of the former college cheerleader. We had just run two calls, one including a difficult extrication from a car wreck. It was near midnight and we still had six hours of shift left. We are all tired with bags under our eyes.

She doesn't look like a perky college cheerleader NOW, does she?!?

So there.

I know that’s probably petty of me, but then again I’m a boy.

Love, actually

One of my lovely wife’s favorite movies is “Love Actually”

It is a Christmas movie, except this particular movie is seen many times a year in our household, unlike my Leg Lamp. But that’s another story.

Anyway, the movie begins and ends with a wonderful collage of people greeting each other in an airport. The touching scenes seem genuine, and indeed they are. The director secretly recorded families and friends greeting each other and if they caught a particularly good greeting, ran out and asked the participants to sign a waiver.

The scenes, as well as the movie, are heart warming.

However, it makes you wonder: who are these people? From where did they come? Where will they go next? What is their relationship to one another?

What is their story?

Ironically the same applies to volunteering as hosts in the USO lounge.

Every once in a while, not on an infrequent basis, someone will come into the lounge, drop a donation into the kitty, smile, and walk out.

Not a word is said, except of course our “Thank you”.

Who is this person? What is their relationship with the USO that would make them pop in, donate, and then move on in a Lone Rangeresk like manner? (Pity the reader who doesn’t recognize the reference. “Tonto, do NOT go into town alone! OOOOHHHHH!!!! I’ll bet that’s going to leave a mark”).

So, one wonders about this kind individual who supports the cause of the USO in such a stealthy manner.

For example, one day, a tall, lean gentleman stops in and donates, leaving as quietly as he entered.

Salt and pepper hair. Nice looking. Pleasant face.

Why?

Who?!?

Former military with good memories about the USO?

Family member current military? Friend in the military? Distant past relative current/former military?

Is he a fan of the Lt. Dan Band?

Does he listen to the local radio host Jack Diamond, a fantastic supporter of the USO?

Did he think of the deserving troops when he saw the USO sign?

Was he a Vietnam Veteran with thoughts of challenging service? Was a childhood friend a Vietnam Veteran?

Does he have a child in the service?

Is he just grateful, like me, to live in the land of the free because of the brave?

Alas, we have no waiver to which to refer for more information. No point of reference. Just a fleeting moment when a stranger, now a friend, stops in to support the cause.

And there you have it.

This particular story has no end. This particular story will remain untold.

Intriguing.

Mystifying.

Just as warm hearted as the movie, but not a movie. It’s real this time.

This one is face to face.

Certainly there are other Mysteries of the Universe, but this mystery feels good, like a warm quilt across one’s lap on a chilly Christmas Eve.

I suppose, in its own way, it is love actually.

.

Two trapped, one fleeing, one fighting and a "WTF"

Halloween is considered a national holiday by my thirty-nine year old son, Ross.

In celebration of this holiday, Ross and family will decorate the home, yard and garage with scary stuff. He and his garage band also play some incredible tunes to entertain friends and family alike. They really are good and fun to watch (and listen).

As this national event approaches, Ross's lovely wife clearly states:

- only so many dollars will be used for new, terrifying displays

- decorating may not commence before October 1st, allowing just barely enough time to get ready for October 31st.

Despite these limitations Ross is as diligent now as he was as a kid, and his Garage of Terror has become a work of art as well as a central feature for the whole neighborhood, including a stop on the local hayride.

Of course, the front yard is duly decorated with the giant blow up spider, complementing the spider webs and headstones.

However, the piece de resistance is his two car garage. For Halloween, the garage is fully decorated including an entrance and, if the kids make it out, an exit. The path to follow is well defined by black sheets hanging from the ceiling, forming a Corridor to Hell. The garage is all blacked out except for the seizure inducing strobe lights. There are severed limbs, spiders, a casket, and ghouls; some in mannequin form, some family members and some local neighborhood kids who apparently hold a grudge against other kids, or are just bullies.

Included in the family of volunteers are Ross’s big brother, Jimbo, my lovely wife with a dark green witch's face and a large mole encased nose, family children, in-laws and, this year, my brother and his wife who currently live in an RV, unless you’re from the IRS in which case they live in South Dakota.

The Garage from Hell is designed with hiding places that are built in at strategic locations, allowing us to jump out and scare the snot out of children of all ages. As a group, we judge the success of our efforts by the decibel level of the screams, the number of kids (of all ages) that start to cry, the number of mothers who pull their children from the arms of the naive fathers as they start to enter the Garage with a Reputation, and finally, the amount of candy that is strewn about the floor of the Hades Garage, left behind by terrified children as they make a break for the exit (only to be ambushed by my brother one last time within sight of survival).

We all have individual stories of success. Mine include:

The two adults whom I trapped against the wall of the garage. An adult man and an adult woman. The woman was too terrified to scream, while her male protector could just stand there and yell “help! Help!! HELP!!!” It got to be so boring to me that I finally moved WAY over so they could make a break for it (only to be ambushed within sight of the exit by my brother).

The teenage girl (our favorite category of victim) who could just scream as she back up towards the recently vacated garage wall. As she screamed and took a step back, I screamed and took a step forward. It went on like that for quite some time. Scream … feminine step back. Counter-scream …. Ghoulish step forward. Scream …. Feminine step back. Counter-scream … ghoulish step forward. And on and on and on. I finally let her go. The kid with her complimented me on my style and gave me a high five.

Alas, one young teenage lady, given the option of “flight or fight” chose the wrong one and smashed my nose with her bag of candy. Felt like rock candy. She got away, and after seeing what happened to me I think my brother pulled back under his rock and let her escape.

Then there was the fearless teenage boy who struted through my kid’s garage, throwing his chest out in order to display his masculinity. My oldest son attempted to scare this kid but the kid just kept walking. As he turned the corner I leapt out with my ghoulish mask. I give him credit, he didn’t officially flinch, but I did detect a crack in the veneer of manhood as he froze in his tracks, eyes growing wide and uttering “What the fuck?!?!”. Regaining his composure, he then strolled past. Heh … heh … heh…. I’ll count that as a win.

Punk.

The speed of flight

In 1927 Charles Lindbergh flew from New York to Paris in 33 hours and 30 minutes. Lucky Lindy risked it all and hit it out of the park.

In 1974 Major James V. Sullivan, (pilot) and Noel F. Widdifield, (reconnaissance systems officer) flew an SR-71 Blackbird from New York to London in 1 hour 54 minutes and 56 seconds.

Only 47 YEARS after Lindbergh flew his historic flight!!

A ten year old kid who celebrated Lindbergh's flight would be middle aged when the SR-71 roared in to London.

Good grief. What astonishing progress in such a small amount of time.

Toby Keith

Tobey Keith, Country singer, is opening a chain of restaurants "I Love This Bar and Grill" restaurant, named after one of this tunes.

First one is in Vegas.

Military with IDs get a free meal.

What a guy.

While on the Dennis Miller radio talk show, he also relayed a comment told to him by Trace Adkins while they were touring together. Adkins said that if he was there when Kanye West pulled the mic from Taylor Swift he “ ..would beat his ass, beat his ass again, and lay down on him, take a nap, and when I woke up I’d beat him again”.

I’m just sayin’.

Why I Volunteer with the USO

My wife and I are honored to volunteer with the USO in the lounge at Dulles airport. I have my wife to thank for this. Although I do volunteer with the local fire and rescue company, death and destruction is not her thing and she preferred to find something we could do together. She came upon the USO at Dulles and we agreed to sign up.

Good stuff.

What a wonderfully rewarding decision. It gives us a chance to present a mere token of our appreciation to our troops by serving them refreshments at the lounge as they go about their worldly travels. As it turns out, the other reason I volunteer at the USO has to do with the people I meet, usually in the lounge.

There are the veterans of WWII, ably representing that greatest of generations. Now that that they finally have their own memorial proudly constructed on the Mall, many want to see it. With these veterans passing away at a rate of 800+ a day, time is of the essence. What are known as Honor Flights bring these veterans into local airports. The USO meets them with bottled water, snacks, wheelchairs and portable O2 bottles. The veterans are hosted and bused down to their nation's capital to visit their memorial, and to visit with others who fought in that cataclysmic event. They are proud of their accomplishments, and so are we.

Then there is the veteran of the "forgotten" war (forgotten by some, but not by all) who could teach us all the meaning of "cold", having fought on the frozen Korean peninsula during one of their coldest winters. Ever. Cold enough to freeze their guns, and food and thoughts. I have to admit that we met this particular veteran in Hawaii where he lives. After the Frozen Chosin he swore to never be cold again a day in his life and has a home in paradise. Good decision.

There was the Vietnam veteran that stopped in one day and dropped twenty bucks into to the kitty. Just because. Said that the USO helped him out several times and he just wanted to say thanks. That’s always a tough one, isn’t it? When a veteran says thanks to us?!? For what? Anyway, the veteran then went on to say that after a year of combat he returned home unannounced to surprise his parents. His father was working in the front yard when the young vet walked up and said hello. The father did not recognize the scarecrow caricature of his son standing before him. All three of us teared up when the veteran told us his story and we had to remind ourselves that “there’s no crying at the USO!!”

Our own son served during the first Gulf War, stationed in Saudi Arabia repairing the tankers who refueled the fighters who fought the war. He was on the receiving end of the SCUD missiles sent over from Iraq. It must have been fated that one of the last projects upon he worked before retirement was the Air Borne Laser which will defend our troops from such tactical theater missiles in the future, using Buck Rogers laser technology. Our son was the only member of that research team who had faced the pointy end of the missile threat. Thankfully, he came back from the war not only well and healthy, but also with his future war bride, our beautiful daughter in-law who was also in the United States Air Force, outranking our son. Still does. One fond memory they share is witnessing the last USO tour featuring Bob Hope. Can you imagine?

Meeting the veteran from the second Gulf War was quite the experience. A young guy came into the lounge one night. Turns out he’s home for his sister’s wedding. That’s a little odd isn’t it? He leaves war, comes home to celebrate his sister’s wedding, and then returns to war. Can’t quite get my mind around that one. Anyway, the young guy comes into our empty lounge late at night and wants to talk. Vent actually, to strangers he will probably never see again. Fine with us, whatever we can do to help a troop. Seems that he could not get a ride home from the airport so his father was coming to pick him up, about a two hour drive if I recall. The father was irritated with having to drive so far to pick up his warrior son, and the son knew that the father would complain about it upon entering the lounge. During the quiet time prior to his father’s arrival, the young soldier talked to us about the realities of war. No glory there, just very harsh times including the death of his best friend and our young soldier killing the guy who killed his best friend. I wish he hadn’t learned such lessons. I pray that he is well and that in some small way we helped a soldier in need. Eventually the father arrived. The soldier was right, and I bit my tongue.

The veteran of the war in Afghanistan was a delightful teenager. This young lady was personable, friendly and a delight with whom to carry on a conversation. Seems that her goal was to become a military nurse, having already had battle field hospital experience removing the eye of a wounded soldier under the careful instructions of a medical doctor. Holy cow. What a teenager.

The veterans of the War on Terror graced our lounge as well. Any idea where we are fighting this war? Well, there was the ripped young Army Special Forces sergeant waiting in the lounge with his lovely wife. He was plying his trade in the sands of ….. North Africa teaching the indigenous population how to protect themselves from Al-Qaeda. Then there was one interesting afternoon when a hard, lean soldier comes in directly from the Philippines after fighting Al-Qaeda in the jungles for nine months! And I mean he just landed from the Philippines. I suspect he still had mud under his fingernails. He was tense and paced like a caged tiger. After traveling half way around the world he was less than two hours away from the love of his life, that which kept him going for nine months of jungle warfare, that which he could not wait to get his arm around, his pickup truck. Seems that his girlfriend was supposed to pick him up at the airport in his pick-em-up, but she was a no show. He had earlier suspected that there was trouble in paradise, but was hopeful that she would at least pick him up at the airport. The longer he waited the more agitated he became and the closer I came to offering him a ride home. Since I was (and you were) waking up every morning a free person on this soldier's nine month watch, I felt that he deserved such a minor show of gratitude. However, there was a Marine officer watching this story unfold so he quietly called a Marine base near our soldier’s home town and informed the base that there was a young Marine needing a ride from the airport to the base. The Marine officer hangs up the phone and tells the soldier that he is now a young Marine and that a car is on the way to take him home. Whew! You gotta love cross military cooperation. We figured that the driver of the car wouldn’t throw the soldier out once the truth emerged. I told the soldier to just keep saying “Semper Fi” and everything would be fine. The car arrived after the end of our shift, but we suspect the soldier was reunited with his pickup truck.

Then there was the Mom who stopped in just to drop two twenty dollar bills in the kitty. Seems that two of her sons are Marines, one in Iraq and one in Afghanistan. Yikes. Let's review that one again: two of this mother's sons are Marines, one in Iraq and one in Afghanistan. Whenever she can she visits a USO lounge and donates the two twenties, one for each son, all for good karma. We pray that her karma holds strong.

And what of the newest troops? Will they uphold the traditions of the finest military in the world?

There we were, staffing the lounge when a fine looking young Marine comes through the doors. We sensed that he entered with purpose, but provide him the usual “Welcome to the USO!”. His reply was “Those people are crazy out there!”. Uh oh. Young Marine, in BDUs, couldn’t be any more military and he’s met some crazies. Huh. So I ask “What’s up?”, fearing some slight has been done to our young Marine. He tells us that as he is walking though the airport waiting for his girlfriend to arrive and people keep coming up to him, shaking his hand and thanking him for what he’s doing. Well, okay, so far I’m siding with the crazies. The problem with the young Marine is that he has just finished basic training and has not yet been in combat. In his mind, he hasn’t done anything yet and so does not deserve the recognition.

So, let me see, he’s committed years of his life to an all volunteer military, successfully completed basic training with the United States Marines and is on his way to specialty training as a truck mechanic. From what I hear, every Marine is a Marine first, and performs some other job after that. A Marine cook is a Marine first, and then a cook. A Marine truck mechanic is a Marine first, and then a truck mechanic. I also hear that there is no more dangerous weapon in our arsenal of freedom than a Marine with a rifle. And our Marine is embarrassed when people come up to him to shake his hand.

Cripes.

We explain to this newest member of the current greatest generation that people appreciate all that he has done, and will do. He understands, but still shyly awaits his girlfriend's arrival. Secure and yet appreciated in the USO lounge.

God Bless America.

God Bless the USO.

.

Ten bucks and a forklift

World War II had concluded just three years before my Baby Boomer birth. This cataclysmic conflict had inflamed the world and changed the smoldering ruins of that world, and our country, forever.

A dozen years after the final surrender document was signed on the deck of the Mighty Mo, military surplus was still pretty hot stuff, especially for a nine years old kid growing up in Cleveland Ohio. Not too much need for cowboys and Indians when you could go to Whitey's Surplus (still doing business in my home town as of this past summer) and pick up a genuine Army surplus pup tent (I did) or a genuine Nazi army helmet (which I did, but I now suspect it was not so genuine, but I forgive Whitey, where ever his soul resides).

A nine year old kid could spend a lot of time just strolling up and down the crowded aisles of Whitey's Surplus.

On the more practical side, average citizens could buy surplus goods for cheap. Shovels, tarps, tape, etc. Already paid for by your tax dollars, and now sold to you again for very low prices. My father subscribed to a publication that would advertise cool surplus stuff. Sort of like Whitey's but in a virtual big box store, although I think we had yet to invent "virtual" or "big box store" back then.

Anyway, my father would receive this publication and peruse it looking for deals. I don't remember him actually ordering much of anything from it, but I suspect it was fun to look at never the less. What I DO remember is that back in the day you could actually order a surplus Army Jeep in a crate(!). They would ship the crate to your home and you could then assemble the Army Jeep in your garage.

Let's just bask in that memory for a moment, shall we?

Can you imagine a truck pulling up to your garage and unloading a genuine Army surplus Jeep? In a crate?!?! Talk about hours of fun assembling it, followed by actually driving an Army surplus Jeep!!! I would have been the luckiest kid in the world. Heck, with such a Jeep I might have even been popular!!

Oh my.

But my father was far too practical so such a truck never pulled into our driveway.

Sigh.

One day my father received notice that if he didn't bid on SOMETHING from the publication they would stop sending it to him. And there would go the fun evenings dreaming from page to page. To rectify this situation, and to ensure the continued receipt of the publication, my father found a United States Coast Guard forklift for sale. With a spare battery the size of a Prius. Used.

Hmmmm, my father thinks.

So, he bids ten bucks on the used USCG forklift. With spare Prius sized battery.

Heh, heh. That should take care of the problem. Now my father could continue to receive the dream magazine, all because he had placed the required bid, as low as it was, with no risk of him being the highest bidder.

It was a good plan, except of course, nobody else placed a bid on the forklift/Prius.

Nobody. No one. Zip bids except for that one sealed envelop from Cleveland Ohio.

So, my father was awarded the bid. One used forklift with spare battery. In Traverse City, Michigan.

Come and get it.

If you MapQuest Cleveland to Traverse City (I just did) you will find that the two cities are 407.79 miles apart with a travel time of six hours and thirty-eight minutes, plus pee breaks.

One way.

And, we didn't own ANYTHING that could haul a used forklift, plus battery.

All of a sudden this didn't look like a very good idea.

Fortunately, my father was a tool & die maker of great skill, with many friends in the business. He talked to one shop and offered them a pretty good price on a used forklift/spare battery. The shop sent the flatbed truck and driver over to our home (alas, with no surplus Army Jeep crate on the back) picked up my father and me and off we went on a grand road trip.

The Commanding Officer of the base was a little taken aback when he found out the selling price of his used forklift/spare battery. But a deal is a deal so the whole package was loaded up onto the flatbed truck.

The shop owner who provided the truck was a little taken aback when the wheels of the forklift punched through the bed of the heavily overloaded truck, but a deal is a deal. And besides, we were half way home when we noticed that the forklift lost some height. The spare batter, the size of a Prius but with no wheels, sat there just fine. Heavy, but fine.

We made it home and, like some of my bike trips, is now a fond memory. It was a grand adventure and as a nine year old kid I walked away secure in the knowledge of how to bypass highway weigh stations.

Then bucks and a forklift. Doesn't make up for the lack of that surplus Army Jeep in a crate (how cool is that?!?!) but it did make for a fun story.

Riding a bike without a helmet - A guest Blog

From one of my best friends. Interesting comments.


.................................................................................


This turned out to be a longer email than I thought but here goes...

My son goes to a Jesuit high school. We had Back to School night last night. The sophomore history teacher introduced the new edition history book. "We dont teach history the way you learned it", she said. "That was 'top down' history. We teach 'bottom up' history, from the point of view of the average person that lived during those times.". In 6th grade, a class project that covered Columbus , a crayon drawing was taped to the wall. It looked like a typical class project, kind of sweet. Until I got a closer look. Written next to the face of Columbus were the hand written words, "terrorist", "exploited the Indians", "murderer".

This is the playbook of a movement that has been underway for 70 years - sympathy between the progressive movement, Marxists and the left.

These people do not teach the ideas of the Federalist papers. They teach that the men that founded the country were bad/evil people. By discrediting the people, they then proceed to discredit their ideas. By discrediting their ideas they discredit the system the founders set up. That system is called the Constitution of the United States .

Today look at the venom directed at Sarah Palin. Why does she represent such a threat that a posting to Facebook page requires the national media to mock her? The reason, if they can destroy her as a person, they destroy the ideas she conveys. My point is not that Palin is the solution, its the tactics used in an attempt to destroy her. Why else so demonize a woman that was able to rise from school board, to city council to mayor, governer and candidate for VP. Oh yes, married to one guy, big family, walks the talk on traditional values.

I live in an area where 80% of the people voted for Obama. Those are numbers that Fidel, Hugo and Putin would envy. I would say the revolution is complete in California . They have achieved this by co-opting well intentioned leftists as they have done throughout the world. They infiltrate the media, schools and local political institutions by talking like moderates until they are in power. Once they obtain critical mass, they simply take over. The process takes time because it works bottom up.

Hugo Chavez is running this playbook at warp speed. We are simply experiencing it in slow motion so its harder to spot. More importantly Obama knows that if he moves too fast or overtly the opposition still has the critical mass to stop the "remaking of America ". Make note of his reaction when something he says causes backlash - he'll mock the criticism, claim he used a "poor choice of words" or other feign. In practice, however, his actions are inconsistent with the moderate positions on issues that attracted guys like Warren Buffet to support him.

The Tea Parties and Health Care furor give signs of hope. The 2010 congressional election is the last chance to slow the train. The reason I say slow it is that it may be too late to change the direction in any fundamental way in less than a generation. Both our national parties are advancing the same general agenda. In Australia 60% of the population receives direct government benefits. The only two political parties are the labor and liberal parties - the latter considered the more conservative of the two but both are left wing by any standard.

We now have less than 50% of our wage earning population paying taxes. The Democrats just sent checks ("tax cuts") to the half that pays no income tax - including thousands of felons in prison. They want to do it again. Per the article Rob distributed there are tens of thousands of dollars more in benefits they want to pay-out to the millions of people that pay nothing into the system. Once that money flow is fully established, it can never be turned off. People that rely on the government for housing, food and health care they are serfs to the state and will never choose to shut off those benefits.

California is being forced to cut billions in spending because (a) they were unable to raise taxes, (b) the Constitution requires a balanced budge, (c) the bonds are near junk ratings so they cant borrow and (d) they can't print money. The Feds ARE raising taxes, are printing money and are borrowing trillions. The result - high tax rates and/or hyperinflation have the effect of wiping out the "upper 50%" of wage earners.

According to a report published by the Dallas Federal Reserve Bank in 2007, before the economic collapse, the entitlement programs (Social Security, Medicare) programs were underfunded to the tune of $56 TRILLION dollars (vs. our entire annual national output of $13 trillion). In other words, it would take ALL of the domestic output of the United States over 4 years to fund the current obligations this government has to the people. This week the Obama administration announced that the debt of this country will be $9 trillion over the next 10 years. And he wants to spend trillions more!

Is this madness and corruption or a deliberate effort to wipe out our system? The answer - it doesn't matter why its happening, the result will be the same. If your aim is to seize control of the system set-up by our founding fathers you destroy the ability of the people to live independent of the government. Is it possible that a small group of people want to control the system, and the rest of us work for them. Our founders certainly believed it was possible and set up the balance of powers to prevent it. In point of fact they set it up to in reaction to the rule by ONE MAN - the King of England. The founders believed one man is capable to taking away the freedom of nations. Chavez, Putin and tens of other dictators around the world show us it is possible today.

If you care about any of this you must take action. Voting is a first step but active discussion about these issues in a rational, fact-based way is vital. Free flow of information and ideas between individual people remains the most powerful force in the world. A deeper, more long lasting solution can come from this type of dialog. We need to find and support candidates from any party (including new ones) that believe and behave consistent with the beliefs that founded the country.

Support can also mean writing checks and volunteering to help. Attend meetings, work in town councils, school boards and other grass roots organizations. If you do, I promise that you will meet the people I have suggested are out there.

* Is America fundamentally a good country that sometimes gets things wrong or is it a negative force in the world?

* Is our society a just one with people that sometimes do bad things or is it fundamentally unjust and needs to be changed?

* What is the right balance between individual freedom and the governments ability to do whats right for society?

* Some of the founding fathers were slave owners, does that influence what you think about our country?

* Do you think the Constitution is still relevant to our society?

Ask people in these positions what they think is wrong with our current system and what should be done about it. There are many well meaning folks w/ good answers. There are many with answers that will disturb you. There are problems we need to fix but our Constitutional system is not one of them.

If we do nothing then we deliver to our grand children a future less hopeful, less free and less prosperous. I no longer view these issues as left/right. I view them as freedom v. serfdom. The ability to have a life independent of government interference vs. one where the government - the state - takes basic freedoms away. Increasingly, from Bush to Obama, it looks like one man will be the one that decides.

You know, sometimes its OK to ride a bike without wearing a helmet.

Matt

The Music Stopped - A guest Blog

For those who are unaware: At all military base theaters, the National Anthem is played before the movie begins.

This is written from a Chaplain in Iraq :

I recently attended a showing of 'Superman 3' here at LSA Anaconda. We have a large auditorium we use for movies, as well as memorial services and other large gatherings. As is the custom at all military bases, we stood to attention when the National Anthem began before the main feature. All was going well until three-quarters of the way through The National Anthem, the music stopped.

Now, what would happen if this occurred with 1,000 18-22 year-olds back in the States? I imagine there would be hoots, catcalls, laughter, a few rude comments, and everyone would sit down and yell for the movie to begin. Of course, that is, if they had stood for the National Anthem in the first place.

Here in Iraq , 1,000 Soldiers continued to stand at attention, eyes fixed forward. The music started again and the Soldiers continued to quietly stand at attention. But again, at the same point, the music stopped. What would you expect 1000 Soldiers standing at attention to do ?? Frankly, I expected some laughter, and everyone would eventually sit down and wait for the movie to start.

But No!!... You could have heard a pin drop, while every Soldier continued to stand at attention. Suddenly, there was a lone voice from the front of the auditorium, then a dozen voices, and soon the room was filled with the voices of a thousand soldiers, finishing where the recording left off:

"And the rockets red glare, the bombs bursting in air, gave proof through the night that our flag was still there. Oh, say does that Star Spangled Banner yet wave, o'er the land of the free, and the home of the brave."

It was the most inspiring moment I have had in Iraq and I wanted you to know what kind of Soldiers are serving you. Remember them as they fight for us!

----------------------

Pass this along as a reminder to others to be ever in prayer for all our soldiers serving us here at home and abroad. Many have already paid the ultimate price..

Written by Chaplain Jim Higgins

LSA Anaconda is at the Ballad Airport in Iraq , north of Baghdad

Why I Want To Be A Firefighter

For you Babe. At least we try.

January, 1990
…………………………………………………………………………………………











The little girl coughed.










The little girl coughed again, awoke, and was afraid.

She didn’t know why. One minute she had been sleeping peacefully, one arm draped over Pooh (“Thank you Daddy!”) and the next she was awake and coughing. (“What’s wrong?”) Turning on the light she looked around her room. It looked strange. Kind of foggy. She coughed again.

And again.

She smelled smoke and then knew it was not fog. Her room was filling up with smoke, stealing her air. (“Mommy! I need to get out of here!”) The little girl looked towards her door and saw smoke curling up from under the door like a grey cloud of doom. (“This is NOT happening! This IS a dream!”) She ran to her door and grabbed the door knob. It was hot (“OW!”) and burned her hand.

(“Stop …”)

She couldn’t open the door and she didn’t know what to do. She had to get out. She had to get to her mother. (“Mommy?!?!”) Then it struck her. The terror seared her brain. Her house was on fire! (“Oh no! … Oh NO! … OH NO!”) She coughed. It was getting harder to breath. The ceiling was disappearing. The smoke was getting thicker. The room was getting hot and SHE … COULDN’T … BREATHE!

(“Stop, drop and …!”)

What now? Where was her mommy? She cried out for her mother, but her cry was left unanswered, shrouded in a thick cloud of evil. Where was her mother? Why didn’t she answer?

She tried to think. What did she know about fires? One time, a long time ago (“Before Daddy moved away”) a fireman from the local fire station had spoken to her class about fire safety. He looked so handsome in that pretty blue uniform! (“You would have liked him Pooh!”) She almost hoped he would save her someday. (“How romantic!”) She hoped he would come and save her now! What had he told them to do in case of fire? That’s it! Get low to the floor!

(Stop, drop and roll, kids!”)

He had said that it would be cooler there and she would be able to breathe! The little girl dropped to the floor. It was hot and she STILL had trouble breathing. (“You LIED to me!”) The little girl looked up and saw that the ceiling, now made of smoke, was descending, deadly gray tentacles reaching for her. She couldn’t even see the light fixture on the ceiling any more. She had to hide. She had to get away from the smoke and the fire and hide until somebody (“Daddy?”) came and rescued her. She stretched out and pushed her way under the bed.

(“It’s better here. The fire won’t find me and there’s less smoke. I’ll just hide and everything will be ok. I just know it will.”) She coughed and her eyes started to tear. She started to cry. She was very frightened, her throat hurt, her eyes hurt, she couldn’t see, she couldn’t breathe, she was too hot and she couldn’t stop coughing. And she cried, the tears making small clean rivers down her once pretty face, now filthy from the inescapable smoke.

That damn smoke.

Suddenly she heard noises. The little girl heard her mother cry out her name. (“Mommy, I’m here! Help me!!”) She heard sirens and people shouting. She heard strange noises in the house. Glass breaking, crashing noises and crackling. (“Snap, crackle, pop!”) Her mother screamed her name. (“Mommy!”) She coughed. (“Mommy!”) But her mother just screamed her name.

She coughed. (“Pooh! Where are you?”) She forgot to take Pooh with her! She reached out from under the bed but the smoke tried to sneak into her cave. (“Sorry Pooh”) He was still on top of the bed! (“Stop, drop and roll Pooh!”) The little girl peeked out from under the bed and the smoke attacked her eyes once more. She could not reach Pooh. (“Oh Pooh, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”)

The little girl coughed and could not breathe. The air was full of dark smoke that smelled ugly, like burned plastic. She started to grow faint.

She heard footsteps coming up the stairs. (“daddy?”) Heavy foot steps that stopped and then started again. (“i’m here daddy. save me”)

The foot steps stopped outside her door. (‘save me’) The door crashed open and the little girl peeked out. In the doorway stood a monster. It was a huge man-like beast. It had an ugly flat face with no eyes and a nose that extended all the way to its waist(?). It had a strange looking hump on its back. It hissed at the room. The flames of Hell burned brightly behind the beast and it hissed her name (!) in anger. The beast suddenly dropped to all fours and started crawling around the room like a strange dog. (‘it’s going to hurt me’) The flames burned brighter. The monster breathed its strange noise as the room became even hotter. The creature looked around the room and began to feel along the wall, crashing into furniture, coming closer to the little girl. The girl slipped deeper under the bed, curled into a ball and pushed herself into a corner up against the wall. (‘i will hide. it won’t find me.’) The monster crept closer to the bed swinging its legs out looking for the little girl. (‘pooh. help me. don’t … let …..’).

The monster paused at the bed for a short while and then moved on, hissing its disappointment at not finding a victim.


……………………………………………………………………………………….



The man suddenly awoke and felt at peace. He lay there for awhile not moving. He listened and tried to figure out why he was awake. No reason. No unusual noises came from any part of the house. His wife (“Thank you God”) lay at his side peacefully dreaming. His pager, on the bedside table, had not cried out in its sleep. The man turned his head and squinted at the blood shot eyes of the clock, trying to read its mind. 4:30 a.m.

4:30 in the morning and he was awake. Great. It was still dark outside and February cold. Wonderful.

The man gingerly sat up, swung his legs over the side of the bed, and took inventory. His arm hardly hurt anymore, the burn on his hand was healing nicely, and his body no longer ached.

Not bad for an old fart.

OK, then why was he sitting up in bed at 4:30 in the morning? (4:33 the clock corrected him)

And then he knew.

It was payback time It was time to add a check mark to the positive side of the ledger.

Finally.

The man stood up and put on his robe, slipped into his slippers and carefully glided from the bedroom. He proceeded downstairs to the kitchen. He turned on a light, grabbed his favorite mug (“I love you more that chocolate itself”) cracked the faucet and filled the mug with water.

(“The man …”)

He placed the mug in the microwave and zapped it for the required two minutes. He added instant coffee to the now hot water and stirred the witch’s brew as he quietly went back up stairs.

(“The man …”)

The man turned into his dark and cold office, (“Never could keep it warm in February”) closed the door and turned on a light.

(“The man on the wall”)

He slowly strode over to one wall, and for the longest moment stared at the photograph of a man. A talented man. A respected man. Forever young.

The man studied the photograph, but his mind was on the little girl. His thoughts wandered.

Why is it that one moment he is an aging businessman living a normal life, then the pager screams and suddenly he becomes a firefighter.

Go figure.

The man studied the photograph. He thought of the little girl.

The fire had been a tough one. Hot, smoky and a little girl was somewhere in the house. It took two rescuers just to hold the mother back and finally get her to tell them what the little girl’s name was and where she might be. Even with that it was no picnic. (“Are we having fun yet?”) The roof had already burned through. Because of this the inside of the house was hotter than Hell, but at least they could see. (“I’ve got some bad news and some good news”) He had headed towards the bedroom where the little girl was supposed to be. The door was stuck and he had to bash it in. (“Sorry”) The room was still full of smoke as the fire had not yet burned through the roof in that part of the house. The whole house was going up in flames and he would have to search the room by feel. (“Great, bumper cars in Hell”) The firefighter started to his right and followed the wall. He swung his arms and legs out trying to find the little girl. (“I sure hope you’re in here …. I sure hope you’re NOT in here”) No luck. The firefighter banged his arm against a dresser hidden by the smoke. The dresser won. (“OW!”) He moved on. Finally he came across the bed. He swept the bed with his arm but came up empty. (“Nuts”) Something fell off the bed. The firefighter picked the object up, turned it over, brought it up close to his mask and stared at the face of a doll. (“Pooh?”) The bed was empty, the flames were starting to claim squatter’s rights to the bedroom, he was getting scorched, and it was time to boogie.

The firefighter moved past the bed.

(“Pooh?!?”)

The firefighter paused. (“Wait a minute. If I was a little girl in trouble would I abandon my doll?”) He moved back and quickly swept his leg under the bed. The leg struck something. The firefighter reached under the bed, pulled out another doll, and she moaned.



…………………………………………………………………………………………



The man studied the photograph on the wall and he thought of the little girl. The man on the wall had died too soon. (“The good, they die young”). The little girl had not.

Payback.

The room seemed to darken .. it grew silent … bitter cold crept in past the windows … the whole world went away.

Only the man and the photograph remained. The man looked at the photograph, the photograph stared back at the man.

The man lifted his cup of coffee to the man on the wall and in reverent salute said “That’s one, and I dedicate it to you”.

People die, people are saved. Check marks on the negative side, check marks on the positive side. This is one check mark on the positive side of the ledger. More positive check marks are needed.

And God, that’s the deal. You watch over me (Always) and I’ll do my part. It’s You and me all the way, OK? And, if You decide to smile upon me during a fight with the devil, then help me steal a life back from him. Help me balance the ledger.

And people ask “WHY would you want to be a firefighter?”

Why indeed.

The man was tired of good people dying young. He had lost many friends and one real fine relative because of a bitter war with no cause. Accidents happened. People drowned. Terrorists struck. Airplanes crashed. Trains hit other trains. Cars hit other cars. Good people died young. And what was he doing about it?

Nothing.

Nada.

Zip.

Just sitting there watching the news and clucking his tongue like an old lady. (“Oooh, what a shame!”) Enough. Time to do something. Time to fight back. Hard. He could read to kids with cancer or he could run hot meals to shut-ins. (“No! Not enough! If you’re going to do something, then put it on the line.”) But that wasn’t enough. So he became a firefighter. When he helped somebody he wanted to walk away with bruised knuckles and a fat lip. He wanted the bad guys to know he had been there.

He wanted to step into the ring with the devil and have only one of them walk away from the fight. The other one would have to be carried out.

That made things real easy.

You knew who the bad guy was and you knew who the good guy was.

The bad guy danced his dance of death and destruction. When the bad guy partied people were hurt and lost their homes. (“All my pictures! All my memories!”) The bad guy was the devil and he couldn’t wait to belch his fiery breath onto the puny interlopers.

The good guy was the one making a fashion statement in Nomex.

The good guy fought the devil with his tiny tools of the trade. Sledge hammers for smashing, axes for chopping, pike poles for tearing and ripping walls and ceilings, hatchets, hammers, and finally water to cool the bad guy off and kill him.

Big deal. Water.

The bad guy had his own tools. Tools of destruction. Heat, flame, smoke, exploding windows, poisonous gasses (“Honey, that carpeting will look ADORABLE in our living room!”) collapsing roofs, collapsing floors, falling objects, falling power lines, falling firefighters and that ignoble fate, being clobbered by your own fire engine. Finally, when you hit the devil with water (“And the puny human jabs with his right!”) he just sucks it into his mouth, heats it up, and then blows scalding steam right back at your face. A fire scene is an accident looking to happen. It’s already found the place.

So why DOES the man want to be a firefighter?

For the dead who died too young. For the chance, just the chance, to add check marks to the positive side of the ledger.



……………………………………………………………………………………………


The man sipped his coffee.

He probably would never live down all the jokes about him saving one little girl and one Pooh. They could never understand that Pooh had saved the girl, he had just listened to the silent doll.

Suddenly he heard an electronic scream from his bedroom. He raced into the room in time to hear the pager cry out for help. (“Station 3 alert, house fire, smoke showing”)

Somewhere out there in the bitter cold the devil, with satanic glee, waited for the firefighter and plotted his furious attack.

The pager had cried for help and the fire engine’s siren wailed in response. A mating call filled with fear and anger and hope. As the fire engine hurled down the road the firefighter struggled into the harness of his air tank. The fire would probably be a good one. (“Yeah!!”)

The engine roared.

The air horn bellowed.

The tires moaned.

The siren wailed.

The cold wind blew.

Good against evil.

The great red war machine with its flashing lights and tools of saving destruction carried the firefighter towards his destiny.


And he smiled.

A Soldier's Mission

A tale from the USO lounge

"I'm sorry son, but your mother died."

What?

WHAT!?!

The young soldier, at first, didn’t understand what his commanding officer was saying to him.

His mother died?!? When?!?

How?!?!? While he was over HERE?!?!

The CO’s voice faded into the background. An unintelligible noise. Sort of like Charlie Brown’s teacher ... only not as funny.

His mother died?

He has to get home! HE HAS TO GET HOME!!!!

The young soldier jerks his head back up, looking at his CO. "...... 're doing everything we can to get you back in time for her funeral. It’s going to be close. Pack your kit and report back to Gunny. I’m working on your transport now"

The young soldier, packed and dazed, catches the Blackhawk taxi to the desert airport, the first step in the long march home. Over the ocean the thought occurs to him that the last hug his mother gave him was supposed to last a year, not a lifetime.

The longer into the flight, the longer it took to get back to the States.

The young soldier lands at BWI airport, late at night. Exhausted, with no money and needing transportation from Baltimore to his home in New Jersey. He turns to the USO, as so many before him have done for so many years through too many wars. He enters the lounge and introduces himself to the volunteer on duty. Home on emergency leave, mother passed away, need to get to New Jersey tonight for the funeral tomorrow. No money. What can we do?

That USO volunteer.

An incredible person. I don’t know the name of the volunteer. I don’t even know the gender. All I do know is that this volunteer is way smarter than I.

Way smarter.

No money, late at night. What can be done?

This smart USO volunteer tells the young soldier to sit down and have some bottled water. The volunteer is working on an idea and will be right back.

The volunteer walks over to the office for the Maryland State Police. The State Police provide security for the airport. Most of these humorless boys are veterans of the military. Maybe they can help.

And they do.

Once the story is told, probably retold and finally understood the State boys go into action. Phone calls are made, plans are formed.

The State Police, and I mean the State Police from Maryland, Delaware, Pennsylvania and New Jersey all understand the mission. They run shuttles from state line to state line. Like a great car chase, only at legal speeds and with quiet determination. An introduction to the new chauffer, a firm handshake to the departing chauffer, and on up the road.

State by state by state by state.

Everyone understands the mission initiated by this smart USO volunteer.

The young soldier completes his mission, arriving home in the early morning hour. In time to hug his mother’s casket before they put her in the ground.

This march was not about war, but rather remembrance.

With the help of a smart USO volunteer the soldier completed his mission.

Now it’s time for you to complete yours. The next time you are walking through an airport and spot a USO lounge, forgo that expensive pre-flight airport beer. Skip that fancy cup of coffee. Just walk into that lounge and drop five bucks into the kitty.

Five bucks for the troop who would rather be waxing his car, or courting his girlfriend, or hugging her baby, or going on a date with her husband or playing with his grandkids instead of protecting them.

Five bucks.

Make it your mission.

.