Treasure

FireBase 411, 1970 L to R Vic Smidt (Michigan), Sonny Barth (Oregon),me ,Doc Elliott (California), Steve Bittel (Kansas),Bottom: Howard Linhardt (Illinois), Mike Lomolino (Illinois).

Americal Division
11th Light Infantry Brigade
3rd Battalion, 1st Inf
Alpha Company, 1st platoon
Quang Nghai Valley, I Corps Vietnam

Except for our Medic, Doc Winder, who won the Congressional Medal of Honor (see previous post), we were not heroes. We were not part of any large military operations. No one will write a book about us. No one will make a movie about us. Our time "in country", in 1970, probably ran in the middle of the pack. We had it better than many, worse than some. We were for the most part draftees who tried to do our year and come home, let time give our Vietnam memories a gracious death and get on with our lives - most of us made it back, some of us did not - those that did not are the treasure.

When I was recovering from gunshot wounds in Chelsea Naval Hospital near Boston, in 1970-71, my sister Nancy bought me a non-descript photo album to put about 20 photos I had taken when I was in Vietnam. A lot of us carried a small Kodak Instamatic buried in our rucksack or when on the firebase, in our chest fatigue pocket so that when conditions were right (usually on the firebase and not humping in the mountains), we would take some pictures. Looking at them years later, it appears I took too many of me and not enough of the others, but I filled the album with the photos, put it away and rarely looked at it.

When you enter combat, you enter into a contradiction that never unravels. You want to use willful forgetfulness to overcome the experience, but always keep those who you were with in your heart. Forget the war, remember the people; especially those who never came back. I don't need photos to do that, but looking at them now helps. Someone once said that the strangest feeling he ever had was the first time he parachuted out of an airplane, because when he jumped, his brain had no synaptic path for that experience, no point of reference he could relate the feelings to. Combat is like that. Even a year after I returned, I was taking a nap at home and my mother made the mistake of waking me up by tapping me on the shoulder - I took a swing at her before I had even gained consciousness. Another guy I served with made it home to his parent's house and after the first night he went out to the backyard and dug a fox hole. He knew it served no practical purpose, but it made him feel secure; after all, he had slept in or next to one for a year. So I know we are all a sum of our past experiences - they are us - but at the same time those experiences can burrow into your future and eat its way into your individual and chronological life-line: birth, school, more school, war, adult employment, marriage, children, housing, retirement and death. War doesn't deserve a place in that line; its nature is so foreign, so disconnected, so dissonant. If life's a house, then combat builds itself an addition on the property - not attached or associated to the main structure.

I don't want to overdo this, but I always kept the guys I knew well, the ones who never came back, close to me. I don't think this is unique to me. I rarely looked at the pictures and tried not to think about Vietnam and to a large degree I succeeded. I've had a good life. Time really does heal. But at some point, when I got my first, real adult job, I took them with me and Wilson got a real adult job with me. When I met the love of my life, Donna, Doc and Al got married with me. When I had a child, Van had a child with me and when I retire, Al and Munson will retire with me. At some brief point in those events, I thought about them, remembered them and was humbled that I was experiencing good things that they never would experience. If life is a long race, they only got to run a few laps.

Then one day I couldn't find the album. Donna and I took a one day trip up to Washington DC to see the Smithsonian and the Washington Mall. I wanted to show her the Vietnam Veterans Memorial Wall near the Lincoln monument, but when I got there couldn't remember the name of someone I held in my arms as he died on hot morning in July, 1970. My forgetfulness really bothered me and when I got back home, I scoured the home for the photo album. I was sure I had everyone's name written on the back of the pictures (some I did, others not). I looked everywhere. We had downsized our house 5 years before and I feared I had lost the album during the housing move. I searched every box and drawer and the more I searched, the more I realized it was the most important thing I owned and like a fool, had lost it. Then one day, last November, I was in the garage looking for something in a carton and I found the photos under some old picture frames.

They need to be shared.

Howard, me, Sonny, Rex Morris (Texas)

I'm pretty sure this was taken the first day back on the Hill. It was the first day I walked point which accounts for everyone sweating. Every 4 weeks or so we would be cycled in from the bush and surrounding mountains, an area generally called "The Horseshoe" North of a spine of mountains called the Central Highlands.
As a sports writer once said of an athlete he was covering: "Not only isn't he beloved, he isn't even be-liked". It was not a place anyone had real affection for, but being behind sandbags, sapper wire, and barrels of buried phu gas, and clear fields of fire, afforded us more protection than crouching behind elephant grass or a hastily dug hole. When researching this post I was amazed to find a website about the firebase 411 so perhaps I was wrong (just Google "FSB 411" for the site). We also got relief from the C-Rats (the cans of ham and eggs and caraway cheese would make any alternative an epicurean delight...bring on the chipped beef!) We also showered (what, once every 4 weeks wasn't enough?) and a haircut. But best of all was the safety. We got mortared every once in a while, and another company, during their stay, underwent a sapper attack, but overall it was quiet.

James Pabone (New York), Sonny, Howard: the hills, valleys and mountains ran forever to the Laos border.

Walking point was like being a canary in a coal mine. You were first in line while walking on patrol and if something bad was going to happen, it would happen to you first. If you were shot or stepped on a booby trap then everyone else would know and respond accordingly. It was policy that married guys and those who were sole support of someone did not walk point. After 2 or 3 weeks, you would develop "the shakes", a constant trembling from the stress and without any words spoken; another would take over the slot. Not only was it dangerous and emotionally draining, but you would be on intellectual overload while on patrol. Why? Think about this.

While you are walking on a mountain trail slowly, eyes constantly moving in the 180 degree ark in front of you, you would constantly be running scenarios in your head. That stand of trees off to the right, would it make a good ambush site for the NVA? Does it have a good backdoor for them? Could the fire be laid down for maximum killing effect? No, the areas at my 10 o'clock by the rocks would be better cover. They could kill me better from there. Wait, I need to check up in the trees by the bend, but I can't see real well, too may shadows. And on and on. Me, I wasn't that good at point. I was too frightened and cautious and I was shot before I developed any proficiency at it.

Oh, and I almost forgot...the booby traps.

If there were traps, the point man would focus only the immediate ground in front of him and never looking up to canvas the terrain; thinking about each step. The cover man (2nd in line) would then scan everything in front and to the sides. Howard was our best point man as I recall. He had the ability to balance the possibility of his finality with a reasonable pace of forward movement; and he was no fool. We all trusted him with our lives. Needless to say if the point man made a mistake, he would die or become wounded, but also, his mistake could cost others behind him their lives. Just what was needed - more stress.

Ngi Hanh Valley after a patrol: Howard, James Lucas (B'ham, Alabama), Kim (Vietnam), me.

Much of the time our platoon was assigned Kim, a Chu Hoi or Kit Carson Scout. He was a Viet Cong who fought the Americans for years, then surrendered and acted as our guide. He lived with his wife and children just outside the firebase. He was very resourceful and had good survival instincts. We didn't completely trust him, but we never lost anyone when he was guiding us. It was expected he would not fire his weapon except for immediate personal protection. He was a mixed blessing as well. His presence meant our platoon was always up front and there were times when we were scheduled to be CAed (helicoptered) into the Horseshoe and he didn't show up. When that happened we knew it was going to be bad - and it always was; he was an unfailing barometer of trouble I hope though he was able to get out of Vietnam in 1975 when the war ended with his wife and kids; if he didn't I'm sure they all died.

To be continued in another post

Doc, Rest.....In Peace

 Update:   Tomorrow, May 27 2013, is Memorial Day.  To paraphrase Lincoln in the Gettysburg Address, those of little note (me), will long remember...people like Doc.  On the day he died in 1970, our rifle platoon deployed into a large scale ambush, we tried to handle the situation as best we could and we did it after gathering what little cover and concealment we could find, even when it was just flat ground. We wanted to be safe first, react second.  Yes, that day many, against instinct, abandoned that safety when the circumstances scream we do so, such as pulling out downed helicopter crews, laying down supressing fire, and evacuating wounded - all under hostile fire.  But, for the most part, it was courage in short bursts; like the intermitent clatter of an M-60 machine gun.

But not Doc. On the day he died, he was different.  He didn't think of cover.  When he was with my squad early that morning, he stayed in open ground, calmly walking from body to body, ignoring explosions, ignoring getting shot at...he did his job.  He was completely focused - giving assistance - giving love - helping us - trying to keep everyone alive.

The citation below barely touches on what he did that day for us.  We will remember you always, Doc. Memorial Day is your day.

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

Doc,
In a place of casual violence where caring and compassion were on a short leash, you listened to us with our concerns, fixed us up when we had cuts, infections, jungle skin conditions, accidents, stepped on a booby trap or got shot. In a place where few listened to us, you listened better than any person outside a confessional I have ever come in contact with. You kept us well and because of your efforts you helped us to endure. Your quiet, encouraging conversation and sly humor were what we needed and you worried about us like a mother hen.

I didn't know until several days ago that you were awarded the medal. On that terrible day in May you did what you always did; you took care of us and paid an awful price.

Those who were there will never forget you.
We carry you with us always.
You were one of God's better efforts.

Rest in peace Doc.



Medal of Honor Citation
DAVID FRANCIS WINDER
Private First Class, U.S. Army
Headquarters and Headquarters Company, 3d Battalion, 1st Infantry, 11th Infantry Brigade, Americal Division. Place and Date: Republic of Vietnam, 13 May 1970.
Entered Service at: Columbus, Ohio.
Born :10 August 1946, Edinboro, Pa.

Pfc. Winder distinguished himself while serving in the Republic of Vietnam as a senior medical aidman with Company A. After moving through freshly cut rice paddies in search of a suspected company-size enemy force, the unit started a thorough search of the area. Suddenly they were engaged with intense automatic weapons and rocket propelled grenade fire by a well entrenched enemy force. Several friendly soldiers fell wounded in the initial contact and the unit was pinned down. Responding instantly to the cries of his wounded comrades, Pfc. Winder began maneuvering across approximately 100 meters of open, bullet-swept terrain toward the nearest casualty. Unarmed and crawling most of the distance, he was wounded by enemy fire before reaching his comrades. Despite his wounds and with great effort, Pfc. Winder reached the first casualty and administered medical aid. As he continued to crawl across the open terrain toward a second wounded soldier he was forced to stop when wounded a second time. Aroused by the cries of an injured comrade for aid, Pfc. Winder's great determination and sense of duty impelled him to move forward once again, despite his wounds, in a courageous attempt to reach and assist the injured man. After struggling to within 10 meters of the man, Pfc. Winder was mortally wounded. His dedication and sacrifice inspired his unit to initiate an aggressive counter assault which led to the defeat of the enemy. Pfc. Winder's conspicuous gallantry and intrepidity in action at the cost of his life were in keeping with the highest traditions of the military service and reflect great credit on him, his unit and the U.S. Army.

Medal of Honor
Awarded to PFC David F. Winder

Travels 2010: San Diego and Las Vegas

Travel-wise we stayed close to home in 2010 since my ambulation was still not 100% and also since my ankle is made of titanium, I could be worth money in 3rd world countries.

We knew of a couple that moved from San Diego to Cary, North Carolina, purchased a very nice house, moved into it then one spouse went into their new laundry room and started to cry because they did not live in San Diego anymore. That peeked interest. Speaking with anyone who lives in San Diego, was born and raised there, or like our friends, lived there for a time and left; they all claimed it was the best place in the US to live. Never asked why, wanted to find our ourselves.

Both Donna and I had been to Southern California before, just not San Diego. We found the area to be a wonderful place, Mediterranean climate, nice people, and many points of interest. We also noticed high taxes, the worst traffic in the world, and a huge density of people and structures. Plus Gertrude Stein could have been speaking about the Los Angeles area and not about Oakland when she said it "lacked theme". Still Donna and I wanted to find out what was so great about San Diego so we flew there last September.



Our first night we went to “Bring Your Pet Night” at Petco Baseball stadium just for the novelty of seeing a lot of dogs at a baseball game. The next several days we went to Balboa Park, a city park. The Park was wonderful! Balboa Park contains the world famous SD Zoo and 15 impressive buildings of Moorish, Italian, and Spanish influence surrounded by ornate, brightly tiled fountains and gorgeous flower gardens. Each building is a museum or cultural center. There is also an open- air Pipe Organ Pavilion with nightly organ concerts – we went twice.



Being in Southern California, we also drove up to La Jolla Cove to see the sea lions and rich people. We ate at Georges by the Sea in downtown La Jolla that had wonderful scenic ocean views. They sat us by the kitchen though, since we looked like most patrons’ grandparents and were probably not helped by the fact my khaki’s had the ever present soup stain from the previous meal - not black jeans with the pre-cut designer knee holes and the Mercedes CL600 convertible which the pants could sit in. The wait staff gave both hurried and slow service, probably unsure if we were early or late to our AARP meeting - the food was very good though. We then drove south to the less affluent Pacific Beach that was filled with an eclectic mix of young families, old folks, teenagers, and on the boardwalk, young people with tattoos and the pallor of a recent stay at a correctional facility. More our kind of people.

We took a city tour that brought us across the Bay to the iconic Hotel del Coronado, a landmark structure with large wings of white clapboards topped by red-shingled roof expanses and turrets. The back of the "Del" faced the beach and was landscaped with large swimming pools skirted with hundreds of white chaise lounges and very unique and beautiful plants. Donna knew many of the flower varieties without looking at the attending signs, I of course, added to the enjoyment by saying, "Look, a plant!" The beach looked perfect, but we couldn't understand why everyone was at the pool and not many on the beach. Why spend $500 a night on a beach vacation and go to the pool? It would be like getting a ticket to Augusta and then spending your time playing miniature golf. We knew the answer to the riddle as several Navy fighters skidded low across the beach (San Diego has a very large naval presence) and provided the same decibel level as the front row of a Stones concert. The backwash from the jet engines probably gave birth to the beach's divots. Just hope they wait to start the strafing runs during the off-season.

For such a large city, San Diego was easy to get around with one stipulation. If you travel there, be sure you have a map of the area with the shopping malls clearly marked. San Diegoans seem to place them in high regard. Directions always seemed to be given by major highways and malls. ”Right, you want to take a left about two miles before you hit Fashion Valley Mall… if you approach the Westfield Mall, turn around.” San Diego? People like it because it is Southern California without most of the attendant problems – size, traffic, etc….but has malls. If they ever put up a public sculpture downtown it will probably be a statute of a shopper.

LAS VEGAS




As you know, I have been extremely concerned with our economy. Since the past and present Administration has made no headway increasing the M1 money supply to kick-start aggregate lending. I, well, you know the old saying, “if you want to get something done….”

So I decided to take Donna to Las Vegas for two days on the way back to North Carolina.

We also stopped off to see our friends Kathy and Jay Healey: photo provided (I’m the handsome one.) Always a unique place, Las Vegas routinely commits a hit-and-run on the notions of a mundane and ordinary life. A pile of neon that stands in protest of “buy and hold, keep your nose to the grindstone, and a penny earned.” A city where the hare wins the race and still has time for the casino buffet. In the morning, coming out of the breakfast buffet at the Bellagio (Donna had pork – totally out of control!), she won $90.00 at the slots. So much for the economy! We did notice that a lot of the men of my certain age all seemed to be dressed entirely in black and had very young ladies on their arms; must have been their daughters. That night we celebrated our largess by doing some fine dining at a steakhouse in the Paris. Walking through the spacious dining room filled with men in black and their “daughters”, I noticed one large, elderly gentleman seated between two “daughters. He was dressed entirely in white – white shoes, socks, pants, shirt and suit coat. He had jet black hair. He was smiling. He looked like a lone cue ball resting on a black felt pool table of eight balls. He reminded me of a character in one of the old Universal International black and white horror movies from the 60s. You know the asylum orderly, dressed in a white uniform, who forgets to secure the lock of the maniac’s cell while picking up the supper tray. That always happened early enough in the movie to give you enough time to run up and get some popcorn before the maniac took his revenge. Snacks with carnage
.
We shouldn’t blame the orderly though. He was probably just thinking of his daughter.

Odds N Ends

So I was performing the most ugly and depressing task of the year. No, not doing taxes, dredging through all my files looking for, well, misfiled, tax receipts that were not put in the accordion tax folder. As you know my mind is filled constantly with great thoughts so small mistakes will happen. So I found this ditty in the "God" file. Yes I have a file with the heading "God" and I am sure I will hear about it on a date certain in the future.

"What!, you put Me between the Auto Insurance file and the Fidelity Diversified International Mutual Fund folder? I couldn't go first? I couldn't be put at the beginning of the drawer? Not important enough to you, Heh?"

Can I say, "Sorry God, don't take it so personally." Can you say "personally" to God? Need help here.

Anyway, I found this poem in the "God" file and thought it would apply for this winter - whether you live in New Hampshire or not. I have no idea where it came from so cannot attribute to whoever wrote it.

It's winter in New Hampshire
And the gentle breezes blow
Seventy miles an hour
At thirty-five below.

Oh how I love New Hampshire
When the snow's up to your butt
You take a breath of winter
And your nose gets frozen shut.

Yes, the weather here is wonderful
So I guess I'll hang around
I could never leave new Hampshire
I'm frozen to the ground!

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Here's a question you never want to ask. "How old am I?"

So I woke up yesterday and started on my first cup of coffee with the newspaper. I was reading about an article on Baby Boomer financial net worth from ages 45 to 69. 45 years old? Someone would have to have been born in the late 60s to be 45. Isn't the definition of a Baby Boomer someone born during or 10 years after WWII? I may have missed it, but I don't remember a birth spike during the Nixon administration. I mentioned this to Donna and pointed out I was very happy to be turning 65 this April.

"You're not going to be 65 this April", said wife Donna.
"Of course I am, don't you think I know how old I am?"
"Apparently not".
"I was born in 1947. I'm 64!"
"No, you're' 63 right now - do the math."

I didn't have pencil and paper and with only 1/2 cup of joe in me, I found mathematical calculation beyond reach, but not the laptop, so I fired it up and goggled, "How old am I". It brought me to a Mathkids site, punched in the DOB and behold - 63 going on 64!
It even tells me how old I am in weeks, months, and seconds. There's a lesson here someplace; just not sure what it is.

-----------------------------------
With the same cup of coffee, I tuned into CNN and a crawl came on that indicated the advent of a new phone app for Catholic confessions. As with most banners; just headlines; no details. So with the laptop already fired up, I googled and received sketchy information on the new smart phone application. For $1.99 you can download a "practice" confession of sins with a questionnaire and different acts of contrition. I am not making this up. I guess this is for people who can't differentiate between the minor sins like wearing the color blue with the color green and the really bad ones like premeditated murder, buying one of those foreign compacts that look like a wood shim on wheels, or worse, if you're a woman, having one of those handbags that can contain everything you've ever purchased plus a cord of firewood - then swinging it helter skelter in the checkout line at the local supermarket with all the force of a demolition ball and chain against the side of a crumbling skyscraper. It's not a handbag, it's checked baggage...don't get me started.

In my experience, going to confession is one of the most difficult parts of the Faith. Who wants to tell anyone, let alone God, their sins, but tell we must (see John 20:21-22, 2nd Corinthian 5:18, or my personal favorite because it is the simplest, Matthew 16:19). Whenever I'm around a bunch of whinny baby boomers (probably the 45 year olds) complaining about how things "used to be", I think of the people in church waiting for confession on a Saturday afternoon. If you walk into a Catholic Church, any Catholic Church on that afternoon, you will see people of all ages; young parents with their kids in tow, geezers like me, and most heartening, high schoolers and college age kids. These people's presence demonstrate a triumphant of love and humility over complacency and ego. They all try to get closer to God and humble themselves. It is not easy and must be particularly hard for the younger ones trying to find their way in life, their first instinct is to lean against themselves as their only support. To my mind, they are involved in a heroic act. You want a hero - don't look to Indiana Jones, look to Joe Jones walking into the Confessional. So, unlike the 45 year olds, I think we are doing just fine.

Just hope the phone app helps and not hurts. It will be another reason I won't be getting a smart phone since I'm always looking for a plan B. I can see myself doing the app then taking my time about actually going to Confession. I hope there aren't many Catholics like me. If there are, in about six months, I can visualize the Priest giving a short homily called, "Smart Phone Sins Stink (To High Heaven)." We'll see.

Travels 2010: Stand-Bye

"And this is good old Boston,
The home of the beans and the cod,
Where the Lowells talk only to Cabots,
And the Cabots talk only to God."

-Harvard University Toast

I work for an Airline and if lucky, get to fly at low cost if there is an empty seat. So last October, Donna and I wanted to go visit with my sister and some falling leaves in Southern New Hampshire so we sauntered to Terminal C at Raleigh Durham Airport one morning and awaited flight. During the relaxing afterglow of the TSA inspection station, we ran into Stephanie and Adam Parken with their delightful one year old child, Everett. We know them through our friend, Kristen Symank (See Get Shorty-2009 post). When God wants to introduce a gentle smile in your life, He introduces you to Kristen or someone just like her...so Adam and Steph come highly recommended.

Steph was going to Texas to visit family and Adam got a gate pass to assist in transport; his help was needed since Steph was pregnant with another child. As I watched them with Everett I could see that if parenting skills were measured against athletic grace then Steph and Adam would reside on the ark of a Ted Williams' swing of the bat. The Parkens were natural at it and the world will only get better with a new addition under their tutelage.

We bid adieu and went to our different gates. They left, we didn't. At takeoff Donna and I were on the wrong side of the jet bridge door for the 7:15am through JFK, the 9am through Washington and the 10:25 through Chicago. I opened the new Michael Connelly mystery, then closed it and had an epiphany! I could help Adam and Steph give their new child a name! The fact that I don't know them well shouldn't be an impediment...I'm sure they will be thrilled. They can now devote all their time and effort toward little Everett and their new baby!

Given thought, most names have become too mundane, too, well, known. I always thought it would be interesting to name a child after a "thing" instead of a person. It opens up a lot of lanes. Architectural?: Chrysler(building), Empire (State Building), or Golden (Gate)...or perhaps a natural resource: Grand (Canyon), Lake (Michigan), or Missouri (Breaks). No? Not highfalutin enough? How about naming her after an S&P corporation? Proctor, Gamble, Microsoft, or Kubota (tractor)? No?

I liked the idea of a multi-national corporation though, but let's get classy. Name her after a European bourses listing: Peugeot?...ugly car design...Rio for Rio Tinto?...yes, I like that except they are currently immersed in a scandal. Too bad, Rio would be nice and also hit several name categories to boot.

What to do. Then it hit me. How about Everette? Since they had an Everett (boy), and probably getting a girl, Everette...they would be a matching pair. Think of the money they could save in initialed clothing. Aren't I good! Everette it is!

Yes?

No, No, No. It is a horrible idea! Everette - would inevitably be mispronounced as "Eva-ret" which sounds like an experimental drug in its third week of FDA trials. Besides, what if Steph, Adam, or both develop speech impediments in later life. Couldn't you just hear Steph yell to the kids from the kitchen, "Ava-ret don't forget to wear the pink shoes with the blue dress." Too much money from Everett's 529 college fund would have to be diverted for therapy.

Then it hit me! From now on all children should have two names; one "written" and one "spoken". Look at the name, Everette. Doesn't it look grand on the page - almost poetic? Look how the letters live well together in print. I just can't give it up. Everette conjures up a romantic notion not observed since Evangeline, the epic tone poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow that chronicled the forced move of Canadians to Louisiana during the French and Indian Wars in the early 1700s. Perhaps some erstwhile Longfellow years from now will write about Everette, a tale involving celestial truth and maybe some intergalactic space zombies. You never know.

So they can name the new baby whatever spoken name they like (anything from Sara to Snappy works for me), but I hope they take Everette as the written name under serious advisement.

Donna and I never made it to Boston. No empty seats. I guess the Lowells and Cabots were having a family reunion.

I wonder what their first names were?

I LIKE IKE: Travels 2010, South Dakota

Just put a tire in each corner of my parents' lives and they knew bliss. My father received two weeks vacation every summer and in one of those weeks my parents would motor my sister and me through New England and the Mid-Atlantic states. As soon as we hit the road, their demeanor would lighten and take on the joy of expectation, even though as kids we were, well, bored. For them it wasn't about seeing, it was about movement. Jack Kerouac, the author of On the Road, could write about, "What is that feeling when you're driving away from people and they recede on the plain till you see their specks dispersing?...But we lean forward to the next crazy venture beneath the skies." My parents would second that, right after they stopped at a Stuckey's or HoJo for lunch and gas; then go.

Dwight Eisenhower, when he was Supreme Allied Commander during WWII, was impressed with the autobahn system in Germany which allowed them rapid movement of interior lines of defense those highways afforded them. When elected President in the 50s, Ike replaced our patchwork of roads with a federal interstate highway system. Thinking about it, this act was the his most lasting legacy and the last time a a President did something that affected everyday people. (Jimmy Carter you say? You could be right, the first of 24 military satellites were launched in the Carter Administration hereby ensuring everyone's security from nuclear attack in the latter 20th Century...and more importantly technology that led to the GPS. Men never, ever had to ask for directions again.)

So it was inevitable that when my father retired from the shipyard in the late 60s, he and my mother drove from sea to shining sea, way past the mileage allotment of a summers' week. They took two months. When they returned I asked my father what part of the country he liked best: Rocky Mountains, Pacific Northwest, high deserts of the Southwest? He always answered the same, "The Black Hills of South Dakota." The Black Hills of South Dakota? what did I miss? So after 40 years, I decided to find out.

Donna and I took a connecting flight through Chicago then westward to Rapid City. The flight was uneventful. If I had read Flying for Dummies, I would have learned not to accidentally pack the book and newspaper in the checked bag. But I didn't so I did. The time was spent perusing the latest Skymall magazine from the plane's front pocket ("X5 Hair Laser - the Next Generation! It's all over the news media! Only $299.95....Temple and eye Massager. An air bag massager that expands and contract around the eye socket! All for only $149.95!) Whoever said it was the journey and not the destination was never stuck in a plane for 3 hours with Skymall.

Upon flight approach we saw strings of hills in deep shadow fronted by vast, green open spaces and a sense of infinity and space you only feel west of the Mississippi. It was as if when God created our country's topography, East to West, He reached half-way, stopped, then remembered to give us a sense of wonder and the never ending...God must be getting older just like the rest of us.

But give us a sense of wonder He did. East of the Mississippi, dirt has definition. Every meadow has an end. Even if we cannot see it over the rise, we sense the far side of it. In the East, a stand of trees is a complete stand of trees that is to be admired within its space, but not much is left to the imagination. The West gives a sense we are one grain of sand on an endless beach, a small part of God's creation, and somehow that knowledge gives comfort and humility because we know we are part of something large. In South Dakota there are gentle sloping folds of pastures dotted with an occasional Jericho tree and meandering cattle - all garnishments on nature's entree; just miles of space between between the Badlands to the South and Black Hills to the North. We only get that sense of vastness in the East when we are close to an ocean.

Donna and I admired the honesty of the place. No town had more than two syllables in its name; Lead, Custer, Deadwood, and Spearfish, etc. Most people we ran into knew only friendly persuasion and not argument. Isn't it always interesting that people are the nicest and friendliest in areas where they are least in number? Why is that? We've always found North Carolina folks friendly, but even the Tar Hells don't strike up conversations with strangers in restaurants who are a table away. They do in South Dakota. And speaking of restaurants, we were expecting that fine dining would involve the distribution of paper napkins instead of instruction to use your sleeve, but we found some great eats thanks to our friends jack and Anita Marshall who went a month before and dutifully took great notes for us.

Yes, we saw Mount Rushmore. A very impressive work of art, but what most impressed us was the area the "Presidents" were located. This area of the Black Hills is (and was) considered sacred ground to the Lakota Sioux Indians; a spiritual place they used for burial grounds. Life is not fair. If the Indian Wars in the late 18th Century had a different result, the Lakota may have gone in and paved over Arlington Cemetery and put up some grand totem poles, so Donna and I admired the sculptures, but not the chosen location.

On the last day we were on a road that cut through gulches and ascending spurs from Deadwood to Rapid City and came upon a most delightful sight. Above the road, the Hills were covered with clouds that skirted the hilly apexes and afforded the meadows a birthing room for rainbows - a lot of rainbows. We stopped counting at 8. Some spanned miles and some spanned no more than 100 yards. Goodness we even saw a double rainbow! Never have seen anything like it, even in Hawaii.

So why did my father like the Black Hills so much? They don't have the majesty of the Rockies or the artistic epiphany realized when sunlight plays against the complicated shadows of the Grand Canyon. They looked no different that the White Mountains of New Hampshire or the Green Mountains of Vermont - just shorter. What gives? My guess is that my father liked the Black Hills because it was really the first inkling of what was to come as my parents drove further West. The ride from New England to the lower Mid-West provides some scenery of interest, but not great interest. The Dakotas invite change and a glimpse of the wonders to come. Kind of like focusing only on a small finger of Mount Rainier outside Seattle, then looking up and realizing the whole magnificent Mountain.

Happy 2011!!

I hope you and I have a very smooth, blissful, and virtuous year, but between you and me - we know that's not going to happen. It never does and probably is not supposed to. During this year the windows of life will at times fog up and have scratches on them. Sometimes we will loose direction because we close our eyes. Sometimes we will walk unexpectedly into life's sharp elbows, other times the injuries will be a matter of self-infliction.

But there can be times of beauty. Ms. Cassidy is no longer with us, but while she was here on earth you can tell that her heart had a good talking to with her voice. For us, during the in-betweens of healing, I hope and pray that you and I, like Ms. Cassidy, can see the beauty and good in life.