tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25328668900549563542024-03-05T20:55:03.163-08:00Papa StoriesInner Prophttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16322632457004892062noreply@blogger.comBlogger46125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2532866890054956354.post-6217263354968015572016-10-01T07:13:00.001-07:002016-10-01T07:13:41.274-07:00Corn!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">My eldest sent me a link the other day.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: blue; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">"I just found out about this. Highlights include, "we cook approximately 50 tons of sweetcorn with an antique steam engine and distribute the corn FREE"</span><br />
<span style="color: blue; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: blue; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I wish we could have taken Papa to it. Maybe this can be the kernel for a "papa loved corn" post on the blog?"</span><br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.hoopestonjaycees.org/festival/images/festival%20banner%203.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://www.hoopestonjaycees.org/festival/images/festival%20banner%203.png" height="84" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">http://www.hoopestonjaycees.org/festival/history/default.html</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"></span><br /><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I don't really have any stories about Dad and corn but I can tell you some interesting things about it.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Dad loved corn, but he was allergic to it. The fresher it was the worse it was. He was pretty much okay with frozen, canned bothered him a bit, but fresh corn on the cob made him sneeze kernels out his nose the rest of the day. I remember him opening his white handkerchief (which he always carried) and showing me the yellow nugget nestled in the mucus.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">He liked to put corn in his cooking. On the rare occasion when Mom was out for the evening and Dad was home to make dinner he would make cream chipped beef (which I loved) or omelettes. He would put corn in the omelettes.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">When we went to the <a href="http://generalcheese.blogspot.com/2013/03/another-anniversary-what-do-you-mean.html" target="_blank"><b><span style="color: blue;">Great Smokey Mountains</span></b></a> to hike a portion of the <a href="http://generalcheese.blogspot.com/2015/08/happy-fking-birthday-dad.html" target="_blank"><b><span style="color: blue;">Appalachian Trail </span></b></a>with the troop they found a farm-stand selling corn on the cob by the bushel right next to the cornfield where they were grown. We bought a bushel after we got off the trail and borrowed what was probably a 30 gallon pot to cook all of it.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I'll tell you the corn kernels were flying that day!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
Inner Prophttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16322632457004892062noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2532866890054956354.post-44691318625780822802016-09-19T18:01:00.002-07:002016-09-20T06:25:05.797-07:00Happy Talk Like a Pirate Day!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Today is <b><span style="color: blue;"><a href="http://talklikeapirate.com/wordpress/" target="_blank">International Talk Like a Pirate Day.</a> </span></b> In honor I'm going to tell a short story I remember from being a young buccaneer.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://thumb7.shutterstock.com/display_pic_with_logo/514156/162927821/stock-photo-pirate-holding-knife-in-his-mouth-on-white-background-162927821.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="186" src="https://thumb7.shutterstock.com/display_pic_with_logo/514156/162927821/stock-photo-pirate-holding-knife-in-his-mouth-on-white-background-162927821.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Do NOT try this at home, ARRRR!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">One evening at dinner for some reason I put my knife in my teeth. We were having steak and potatoes, one of Dad's favorites.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">When I put the knife in my teeth Dad said, "Don't do that, you'll cut your tongue."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">I took it out but I protested, "But pirates always carried their knives in their teeth."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Dad said, "Why do you think they talked so funny?"</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">I can say categorically that Dad was not always ahead of his time, but</span><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">, there you have it, Talk Like a Pirate explained about twenty years before it became a thing. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Have some rum (maybe some Stoh rum, ah but that's a different story for a different day) and enjoy the holiday ya scurvy dogs!!!</span></div>
Inner Prophttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16322632457004892062noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2532866890054956354.post-25494067587301769322016-07-18T16:37:00.000-07:002016-07-20T05:28:27.984-07:00Trick of the Teeth<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I went to the dentist today for only the second time since I got my braces off in high school and it reminded me of this story.<br />
<br />
This is going to sound like my story, but stick with me and I'll explain why it's really Dad's story.<br />
<br />
When I was about thirteen I got braces. Before they could put them on they needed to pull eight baby teeth. These teeth were never going to come out on there own. They had full roots and were not deteriorating like normal baby teeth do. They had to put me under and perform oral surgery to remove them.<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhS0bVZsHgwup0tZuKzcZM2ShhzW5T6BCxw_hGCdP74Vowr27g_iOXham6diNa5RPfOcJ4TwZsM7g7bM6XvWo3vKcECD0TQjI3FQSXxfyBX7bCOgffnbbI7ZKy4r0lcqrdLZus2gWGGUaQ/s1600/Braces.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="116" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhS0bVZsHgwup0tZuKzcZM2ShhzW5T6BCxw_hGCdP74Vowr27g_iOXham6diNa5RPfOcJ4TwZsM7g7bM6XvWo3vKcECD0TQjI3FQSXxfyBX7bCOgffnbbI7ZKy4r0lcqrdLZus2gWGGUaQ/s200/Braces.JPG" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dad, Mom and Brace-face</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
They used a general anesthesia and put me to sleep. When I was coming out from under the anesthesia Dad was waiting in the room there with me.<br />
<br />
"How'ya feeling, son?"<br />
<br />
I suppose I mumbled something like <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=txqiwrbYGrs" target="_blank"><b><span style="color: blue;">David After the Dentist</span></b></a>.<br />
<br />
"You know," he said, "they x-rayed your skull. They needed to find out how much your skull has knit together to see how much growing you are still going to do."<br />
<br />
"Oh yeah?"<br />
<br />
"Yes. They said you were [unknown to me now] % grown. By that calculation you will grow to be six foot eight."<br />
<br />
"Six eight? Wow."<br />
<br />
"Well, that's just a potential. You might get to be that tall if you don't do things that would stunt your growth."<br />
<br />
"Stunt my growth; like what?"<br />
<br />
"You know, like drinking and smoking. If you want to grow to your full potential no drinking or smoking for you."<br />
<br />
I was only thirteen, but I took it to heart. I did not have any alcohol until I turned twenty one, and I didn't really ever smoke.<br />
<br />
Did you spot the Dad part of that story? I figure they never told Dad any such thing. He knew me and knew just the challenge I would take up (nearly any) and stick to doggedly. It was a golden opportunity and Dad never let those pass him by.</div>
Inner Prophttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16322632457004892062noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2532866890054956354.post-27341954272047189312016-07-10T17:44:00.002-07:002016-07-10T17:56:20.403-07:00Showers in the Rain<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">I have a very short one today. It is inspired by a conversation I had with my daughters about showering in rainwater. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">I remember a time in my youth when it was raining cats and dogs. The downspout off the front porch broke, or the gutter just overflowed from the volume of water. We were all quite frightened by the rain and lightning. It was a very intimidating summer storm in the middle of the afternoon.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">I think the power of the storm and our fear of it was partially why Dad did what he did. He said rainwater was the best for washing your hair. He ran into the house and came back with is swim trunks on and a bottle of shampoo. He stuck his head under the waterfall that was coming past the front porch and happily washed his hair.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">It was a little nothing, but very Dad and it stuck with me for some reason.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Does anyone else remember this? Can they elaborate on it?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">It also reminds me of the story about the impromptu shower he and his USMC unit took when they were finally relieved on that island off <a href="http://generalcheese.blogspot.com/search?q=shower" target="_blank"><b><span style="color: red;">Taiwan</span></b></a>. </span><br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAnsgGLaAo7FAJCXoe6DrmuIzTUB6RKIUflk4iHaiNdFX6_UOOL5ZSc5vVxFx2VEoAsdM0nzo3hoUXr_C6vYBGdhEOyK30ETjBXQAbJq8QLLD8j3PLUC_5_Tazj8npEJ_5IooEmuDuFFM/s1600/Georgia+Crew+76.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="155" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAnsgGLaAo7FAJCXoe6DrmuIzTUB6RKIUflk4iHaiNdFX6_UOOL5ZSc5vVxFx2VEoAsdM0nzo3hoUXr_C6vYBGdhEOyK30ETjBXQAbJq8QLLD8j3PLUC_5_Tazj8npEJ_5IooEmuDuFFM/s200/Georgia+Crew+76.JPG" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">1976 Georgia crew heading home</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">It also reminds me of the time we were driving back from Dad attending Signal Officer Basic Course in Fort Gordon. It was late spring 1976 and the snow run-off was still pouring off the mountains. In Tennessee we stopped along the side of the road and Dad filled up a large thermos of ice cold water. It was some of the best I ever tasted.</span></div>
Inner Prophttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16322632457004892062noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2532866890054956354.post-12115537899510320602016-01-25T15:43:00.000-08:002016-01-25T15:43:52.053-08:00Papa the Priest<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://tyronetribulations.files.wordpress.com/2013/04/decourcey_8.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://tyronetribulations.files.wordpress.com/2013/04/decourcey_8.jpg" width="120" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">NOT Dad. <br />(image:<br />http://tyronetribulations.com/tag/altar-boy/)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
My mom recently sent me an email that got me to thinking about religion and the military, which got me to thinking about Papa. Few people know that my dad was a priest once, for a few hours. That's probably because he wasn't, he just pretended to be.<br />
<br />
I think this story starts with Papa the failed altar boy. Papa grew up Roman Catholic. Back when he was a boy the mass was always in Latin. Papa tried out to be an altar boy (they were only boys back then too) but he just couldn't get the hang of the Latin.<br />
<br />
Move forward maybe twenty years. Papa was a police officer and they had a particularly troublesome person in custody. He was locked up, but he wouldn't stop causing trouble and he kept yelling that he wanted to talk to a priest.<br />
<br />
This was the middle of the night in a terrible neighborhood and there were no priests available.<br />
<br />
My dad, the ever resourceful said he would talk to the man. He turned up his collar and buttoned it so that you couldn't see it was an ordinary shirt under his jacket. I think he arranged it so that only a small square of the white collar was showing. Then he went to the man and asked him what his troubles were.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://www.chicagopcm.org/images/star350.gif" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://www.chicagopcm.org/images/star350.gif" height="200" width="200" /></a></div>
<br />
The man said he wanted to confess his sins. My father did his best to imitate what a priest would do when hearing confession (he had been to confession plenty of times himself at St. Edward's grade school). The man made his confession (that's what they called the sacrament of penance back then) and Dad told him to say ten Our Father's and ten Hail Mary's. The man thanked him and settled down.<br />
<br />
A few days later, feeling supremely guilty Dad went to the CPD chaplain and told him what he had done. The priest was a very worldly and understanding man. He asked if Dad had shared what he had heard with anyone. Dad said, "no." The priest told him that God hears confession<i> through</i> the priest. As long as the man was talking through Dad to God then the confession is legitimate and Dad was okay for doing it.<br />
<br />
Then he told Dad to say ten Our Father's and ten Hail Mary's and never do it again.</div>
Inner Prophttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16322632457004892062noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2532866890054956354.post-88162338189661365232015-08-06T20:05:00.004-07:002015-08-06T20:05:54.160-07:00Happy F@#king Birthday, Dad!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://thumb1.shutterstock.com/display_pic_with_logo/1090763/223456678/stock-photo-birthday-cake-with-burning-candle-number-223456678.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://thumb1.shutterstock.com/display_pic_with_logo/1090763/223456678/stock-photo-birthday-cake-with-burning-candle-number-223456678.jpg" height="199" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I'm imagining it's an ice cream cake</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Today would have been my Dad's 72nd birthday.<br />
<br />
I've told you about Dad's <a href="http://generalcheese.blogspot.com/2010/08/happy-birthday.html" target="_blank"><b>day of birth</b></a>, and how he celebrated at <a href="http://generalcheese.blogspot.com/2011/08/happy-birthday-papa-welcome-home.html" target="_blank"><b>Owasippe</b></a>. Now I'm going to tell you about one of the most memorable of Dad's birthdays: the first time I ever heard him drop an F-Bomb.<br />
<br />
I told you about our 1981 <a href="http://generalcheese.blogspot.com/2013/03/another-anniversary-what-do-you-mean.html" target="_blank"><b>Appalachian Trail</b></a> trip. When it was all over we were driving home for two days. We had Mr. Zaremba's van, mostly loaded with gear; and Dad's van, the "Rally STX" or "The STX" for short (pronounced either "stix" or S-T-X).<br />
<br />
On the morning of the first day, after driving a few hours we stopped for breakfast. It was Dad's 39th birthday and Mr. Z took him in a dinner for a nice breakfast while the youth stayed out in the van and ate leftover trail breakfast.<br />
<br />
Trail breakfast is mostly breakfast bars so it went pretty quick. While we were waiting for the adults to finish, my brother Shawn took a bungee cord and hooked on end to the bottom of the open sliding door and the other end on the top rain gutter. Then he started strumming it like a standing bass.<br />
<br />
Bum bum bum bum bum bum SNAP!<br />
<br />
The top metal hook slipped off the roof gutter and smacked him right in the eye. He collapsed on the ground clutching at his eye. We knew he was badly hurt so I ran into the restaurant to get Dad and Z. We came out and everyone was crowded around Shawn, who was sitting on the ground holding his eyes in his hands.<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpPYBpxHWiAe8ZE01LIHg1g9JZqqCs-s14fyizrgIxexwyKk2nM1p1SMf7w0LKgk7HITdjbs0OK37ZL6yweHni3vD6bYKUKBWgWRrHuhx4PelDuODxABemMC53i3UP35EBWD1ocii-KRc/s1600/AT81.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="252" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpPYBpxHWiAe8ZE01LIHg1g9JZqqCs-s14fyizrgIxexwyKk2nM1p1SMf7w0LKgk7HITdjbs0OK37ZL6yweHni3vD6bYKUKBWgWRrHuhx4PelDuODxABemMC53i3UP35EBWD1ocii-KRc/s320/AT81.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The STX in all her glory, and some other people</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
"I can't see, Dad." Shawn said.<br />
<br />
"Uncover your eyes, son," Dad said.<br />
<br />
Shawn did and looked up at Dad. Dad said his one eye was completely red. It had filled with blood.<br />
<br />
He told us to all get in the van and he would try to find a hospital. We were in the middle of Somewhereville, Tennessee or Kentucky. Dad found a medical clinic.<br />
<br />
They clinic said they couldn't do anything for him, but they did call and talk with our eye doctor back in Chicago. Our eye doctor said it could be treated, but he would have to get back right away, and he shouldn't fly because the change in pressure could cause more damage.<br />
<br />
Shawn and I got in Zaremba's van. The plan was for Z to drive like a bat out hell, trusting on Police professional courtesy to get out of any potential tickets. The thought was that the van with few people should take the speed risk while Dad, with the bulk of the "children" should drive slower and more cautiously.<br />
<br />
We drove straight through. Shawn had both eyes bandaged over. We had a pot full of corn on the cob that had been made the night before and to stay awake, and avoid stopping for food, we ate it. Zaremba would hold the cob in both hands and steer with his elbows as he ate each individual kernel off so clean there was nuthin left for the hogs. And he did all this while singing barbershop quartet songs and driving well over 90 mph.<br />
<br />
We got to the hospital late at night. They fixed Shawn up, but he spent a week in the hospital with both eyes bandaged.<br />
<br />
What about the F-bomb? Oh, while we were looking for a hospital Dad looked over at Shawn and said, "Why the F@#k did you do that?"<br />
<br />
Happy Birthday Dad, and you know what, we ARE impressed.</div>
Inner Prophttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16322632457004892062noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2532866890054956354.post-4088521743561589062015-06-21T12:27:00.002-07:002015-06-21T12:27:53.777-07:00A Double Happy Father's Day<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I've now lost both my Father and my Father in Law, so I wanted to share this story. It's not really much of a story, but it means a lot to me and my wonderful bride.<br />
<br />
Because Dad had no daughters (at the time) he thought he would never get the chance to walk a daughter down the aisle. When we were about to be married he made a very special request of my Father in Law to be.<br />
<br />
Because he loved Maria and was as excited as anyone to have her as part of our family he asked if it would be possible to show that by meeting my Father in Law and my bride half way down the aisle, and walking with them the rest of the way.<br />
<br />
I didn't learn until years later that my Father in Law was very uncomfortable with this but he loved his daughter and my wife loved my Dad and wanted to do this for him. He reluctantly agreed.<br />
<br />
I am eternally grateful to my Father in Law for doing that for my Dad.<br />
<br />
Dad always was, well, let's say, a rule bender. I hope the two of them are together somewhere now enjoying the memory because I sure am.<br />
<br />
Happy Father's Day, gentlemen!<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIRtNX_q0btAdP9ptfWCpZysfIgDwjQFeNDBg9_1fbqrqEIhBQjCH_-H7jjsSghI-8WardmlzP6hsclmBsaVD3EMp4y0_G-c4_xBIR_I8rGy19HQookg4JJtbM6B5uthZ_ooH4k7nS1d0/s1600/Wedding+Aisle.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIRtNX_q0btAdP9ptfWCpZysfIgDwjQFeNDBg9_1fbqrqEIhBQjCH_-H7jjsSghI-8WardmlzP6hsclmBsaVD3EMp4y0_G-c4_xBIR_I8rGy19HQookg4JJtbM6B5uthZ_ooH4k7nS1d0/s1600/Wedding+Aisle.JPG" /></a></div>
<br /></div>
Inner Prophttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16322632457004892062noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2532866890054956354.post-74276233163823731062014-10-18T09:44:00.000-07:002014-10-18T09:50:51.721-07:00Mystery Handcuffs Found<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<a href="http://www.antiquesnavigator.com/ebay/images/2012/180797642067.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://www.antiquesnavigator.com/ebay/images/2012/180797642067.jpg" height="150" width="200" /></a>About a week ago I got a message from a very nice lady. She said she was cleaning out her late father's garage and made a very interesting find.<br />
<br />
She found a leather case and inside were a pair of handcuffs.<br />
<br />
The cuffs were found in <a href="http://www.romeoville.org/" target="_blank"><b>Romeoville, IL</b></a>. Her father was a supervisor at General Motors so this was very odd. The lady said her family had never been in trouble with the law so they were most likely never used on father. She had no idea why they would have been with his possessions.<br />
<br />
The most odd thing about them though was that they were engraved, like by hand with a <b><a href="http://www.dremel.com/en-us/tools/Pages/default.aspx" target="_blank">Dremel Tool</a> </b>or something. The engraving says:<br />
<br />
11/9/04 William G. La Fleur<br />
<br />
We think Dad was the only William G. La Fleur to ever serve on the Chicago Police Department.<br />
<br />
The lady who found them started investigating. Apparently the brand (Chief of Police from Japan) is a brand that the Chicago Police use and these were made in the 1970s. They are well used so they could easily have been Dad's, except he retired from the CPD in 1997.<br />
<br />
I wondered if they hadn't been from Dad's time in the MPs with the Illinois National Guard, but he retired from the Chemical Brigade in 1998 and hadn't been with the MPs since the 80s or 90s (if I remember correctly). Mom, Dad and Elizabeth had moved to Rochelle in 1998.<br />
<br />
As far as my mom; my brothers Shawn and Garrett; and I know, November 9, 2004 was not a specifically important date in our family. There was a William La Fleur in the employ of the City of Chicago in 1904, but he was a fireman and the cuffs aren't old enough anyway.<br />
<br />
The lady said she was sure they had once belonged to Dad, so she wanted to get them back to the family. I've asked her to send them to me. When I get them I'll photograph them and share the photo here.<br />
<br />
If you know anything about these cuffs or might have an idea of their story, please let me know.<br />
<br />
I've made up a story in my own mind about them, worthy of a Papa Story, complete with aliens and mysterious nights and Ernie the cop. I'll go with that if no one can come forward. Like the best Papa Stories I will even have physical evidence.<br />
<br />
<br /></div>
Inner Prophttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16322632457004892062noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2532866890054956354.post-32198931065045187202014-05-21T04:54:00.001-07:002014-05-21T04:54:54.456-07:00Xanadu Fighting<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://madmikesamerica.com/wp-content/uploads/2011/10/Coleridge2_102211.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://madmikesamerica.com/wp-content/uploads/2011/10/Coleridge2_102211.jpg" height="120" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">No, not this one</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
"In <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kubla_Khan" target="_blank"><b><span style="color: #cc0000;">X</span><span style="color: purple;">a</span><span style="color: orange;">n</span><span style="color: blue;">a</span><span style="color: lime;">d</span><span style="color: magenta;">u</span></b></a> did Kubla Khan<br />
A stately pleasure-dome decree:"<br />
- Samuel Taylor Coleridge<br />
<br />
When I was about in 8th grade my Mom dragged us all, my three brothers, my Father and me to see a movie. She was a fan of disco and roller skating at the time (she and my Dad even both bought roller skates (hers, white; his, black)).<br />
<br />
The movie was <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Xanadu_(film)" target="_blank"><b>Xanadu</b></a>. I won't go into what the movie was here. If you don't know about it you can check Wikipedia. What I will tell you is that is was a disco-roller-movie and of course the only one happy to go was my Mom.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMmI2bGxpNqK2g9TCHKIW1oAeSjU6C-5At6mPo9-Dt0iXG_0DnXDukducdtqttVNcA90vF3trmk6_MISAxLLlnxY7BAKVfY10Z9QMf1vCV6KcEjZvtvjf0y8ufpqk2d304E7j9wHGDWJw/s1600/Rush-Xanadu-coverfront.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMmI2bGxpNqK2g9TCHKIW1oAeSjU6C-5At6mPo9-Dt0iXG_0DnXDukducdtqttVNcA90vF3trmk6_MISAxLLlnxY7BAKVfY10Z9QMf1vCV6KcEjZvtvjf0y8ufpqk2d304E7j9wHGDWJw/s1600/Rush-Xanadu-coverfront.jpg" height="200" width="196" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Not this <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Xanadu_(Rush_song)" target="_blank">one</a> either</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Behind us, about two rows were two men. If I remember correctly they looked like toughs, bearded, leather jackets, tattoos, each about 200 lbs. I don't know why exactly they were there, I won't even take a guess at the several ideas that immediately spring to mind. The only thing I know for sure is that they were not there to enjoy the movie in silence.<br />
<br />
They talked loudly through the movie, and not to each other. They complained how bad the movie was to the screen and they berated the audience. I'm pretty sure they used words not in our First Communion books (if you know what I mean), but I have no clear memory of that.<br />
<br />
My Mom kept shushing them. Then she would lean over to my Dad and tell him to do something about them. I don't remember what my Dad said. I'd like to think he said something like, "What do you want me to do shoot or arrest them?" All I remember is that he didn't do anything while the movie played.<br />
<br />
At the end of the movie my Mom stood up and gave them a piece of her mind. They stood up and challenged my Dad. He stood up and said something about them leaving quietly.<br />
<br />
The thing I remember so clearly and what amused me to no end was that when my Dad stood up and it looked like he was going to have to step outside with these two; several other men, most likely other fathers or husbands who had been drug to this horrible movie by their wives, who had been sitting and steaming at just having to be there; stood up behind my Dad.<br />
<br />
I heard one of them say, "We got your back, man."<br />
<br />
Several angry father/husbands just looking for something, anything to relieve them, to clear their minds of this roller-disco experience against these two loud-mouths. They decided discretion was the better part of valor and left quietly.<br />
<br />
I don't know about the adults, but that made the movie for me.</div>
Inner Prophttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16322632457004892062noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2532866890054956354.post-41866553542880499082014-01-30T19:47:00.000-08:002014-01-30T19:47:07.534-08:00Oh Christmas Tree!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZ5pStbc2RbcDMwEoENM95vEBRNvklzReOOpL_mwQ2M4CZ-VgYjfvpG3MNfQ3_6AKimG7Lm3BoMDgXyZNvxTlFAAN2Ev-hS8enLbPLrVfEoexmFE5oRI0amnMCx9vqOqU-BEwVsQQamAQ/s1600/Christmas+75.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZ5pStbc2RbcDMwEoENM95vEBRNvklzReOOpL_mwQ2M4CZ-VgYjfvpG3MNfQ3_6AKimG7Lm3BoMDgXyZNvxTlFAAN2Ev-hS8enLbPLrVfEoexmFE5oRI0amnMCx9vqOqU-BEwVsQQamAQ/s1600/Christmas+75.JPG" height="155" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The boys - Christmas '75</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
We just put our Christmas tree away for another year and it made me think of a sort of Papa story. We've always had artificial trees as long as I've been around, but Nani and the Nortons (in other words, the La Fleur side of the family) always had natural trees.<br />
<br />
Well, it seems that Dad grew up with natural trees. I think he may have told me stories of hunting for a good one when he was younger, but I can't remember them. I do remember the story of the last natural tree our family had though.<br />
<br />
In August 1964 Mom and Dad got married. Christmas 1964 was their first one together. <br />
<br />
I know that Dad stayed in the USMC for a while after they got married and they lived with Nani for a while, but if I remember the story correctly Mom was expecting. Since I was born in November she wouldn't have been expecting Christmas '65. It must have been 1964, only a few months after they were married, when Mom was expecting their first child that this story happened.<br />
<br />
The house on Kostner always had a huge plate glass window in the front, and they used to have the tree right near the window.<br />
<br />
That first Christmas Dad told Mom that when he was gone, if the tree ever caught fire she should grab a chair and throw it through the window. Once the window was broken she should shove the burning tree out of the house through the opening.<br />
<br />
I'm sure Mom looked at him and asked if he really just told a pregnant woman to throw a burning Christmas tree through a window.<br />
<br />
Needless to say, Mom was not going to put up with that, ahem, "stuff." The very next Christmas they had an artificial, flame resistant tree and have had one ever since.<br />
<br />
Merry Christmas everybody.</div>
Inner Prophttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16322632457004892062noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2532866890054956354.post-83233248740418309932013-11-08T06:27:00.003-08:002013-11-08T06:27:37.333-08:00The Rest of the "Japanese" Stories<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I was just talking with Dad's old Marine buddy, Don Provin, the other day. He was asking what stories I had from my Dad's time in the USMC and when he was deployed.<br />
<br />
I figured I'd steer him in the direction of this blog, but there are still four stories I can remember about that time that I haven't shared here. I hope these help Don and I hope they are all the ones there were. If anyone can remember more please let me know so I can post them.<br />
<br />
The first two are what Dad called his:<br />
<b><br /></b>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>"Japanese Toilet Stories."</b> </div>
<br />
As they are toilet related I don't think they are appropriate for this blog, and they really wouldn't help Don as he was looking for combat stores which these are definitely not.<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOkYHZy1eydbBNw_CVdWmziayvTnoy8ldaSFS_Y46Eb3Dv4G2s5yBmj3zB4yWcbMjww-tgCwECr8MGFajq-1qytWbD_4dJ8Nku90KJvKG0H4CxFYSD6Rt3CA0nYtoBa47R0RD6c31SKo0/s1600/3a-Men%2527s+room+Muhimbili+Sep13.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOkYHZy1eydbBNw_CVdWmziayvTnoy8ldaSFS_Y46Eb3Dv4G2s5yBmj3zB4yWcbMjww-tgCwECr8MGFajq-1qytWbD_4dJ8Nku90KJvKG0H4CxFYSD6Rt3CA0nYtoBa47R0RD6c31SKo0/s200/3a-Men%2527s+room+Muhimbili+Sep13.JPG" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Japanese toilet" in Dar Es Salaam</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Let me just say this about them. The first one involves fecal matter and what Dad always called a "Japanese toilet." I've included a photo of a toilet of that kind. They are sometimes called Asian toilets. I call them "floor toilets."<br />
<br />
The second story involves stitches. I will not relate the story but if you watch the movie, "Something About Mary" and you know the story you might recognize the situation there.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
The other two stories are disconnected in my memory. I really don't remember where or when they were supposed to have taken place, but I assume they were sometime while he was deployed overseas (primarily to Japan). I could call them the:<br />
<b><br /></b>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>"Japanese Knife Stories."</b></div>
<br />
The first isn't really a story, but rather a quip or anecdote. Dad said there were these UN soldiers who each had a knife. Their tradition was that if the knife was unsheathed it must "taste" blood before being re-sheathed. <br />
<br />
I know of two sets of people who have knives with this as a rumored tradition. The first is the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gurkha" target="_blank"><b>Gurkhas</b></a>, but I think it is just a myth with them and their kukri knives. I know Dad did admire the Gurkhas and may have met some, but the tradition seems to not be true.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/8/8d/Kirpan_small.JPG/800px-Kirpan_small.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/8/8d/Kirpan_small.JPG/800px-Kirpan_small.JPG" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Kirpan</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
The second group that I know has a knife tradition (real group, not the fictional <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Crysknife" target="_blank">Fremen</a> of Dune) is the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sikh" target="_blank"><b>Sikhs</b></a>. One of the five K things they need to have or do is carry a <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kirpan" target="_blank"><b>kirpan</b></a> knife. It is true that the kirpan must taste blood before being put away.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/e/ec/Ka-bar.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/e/ec/Ka-bar.jpg" width="121" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Compare them yourselves</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
The story is that the Marines wanted to compare knives. They showed their <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/KA-BAR" target="_blank"><b>Ka-Bars</b></a> and asked to see the kirpans. The other soldiers obliged and when they were done the Sikh soldiers pricked their thumbs and put their knives away. <br />
<br />
This was very curious and amusing to the young Marines. They returned to their own group, sitting not too far from the other soldiers. When another Marine joined their group who had not seen the kirpans before the first group would tell them to go over and ask to see their knives.<br />
<br />
The Sikhs were good-natured about this for the first one or two times, but they quickly caught on that the Marines were really just trying to see how many times they would cut themselves. The next time they sent a Marine over to ask about the knives they took one out as asked, but before putting it away this time they stuck the Marine before putting it away.<br />
<br />
The last story really upset me when I heard it and so I never asked for a retelling or further explanation. <br />
<br />
<b><span style="color: red; font-size: x-large;">If you are squeamish then you should stop reading right now.</span></b><br />
<br />
Dad said he was cutting tall grass with some Australian soldiers. They would take a handful of grass and twist it around to hold it up. Then they would come along with their knives (machetes or Ka-Bars or whatever, I didn't get the details) and cut the bundle of straw at the base.<br />
<br />
Dad said he was working near this Australian who, when he made the bundle with his left hand, left his thumb sticking out. He brought the knife across too close to his hand and cut his thumb.<br />
<br />
The way I remember it, and I was prone to imagine the absolute worst when I was younger, what that he cut his whole thumb off. Later I rationalized that he probably one cut the tip off. Now thinking about it I'll bet my Dad had said something like, "He cut the whole thumbnail off."<br />
<br />
Regardless of how much he cut, it was substantial enough that the Australian could pick up the severed piece. The story goes that the Australian was so tough that he just picked up his thumb and kept right on cutting grass. </div>
Inner Prophttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16322632457004892062noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2532866890054956354.post-66863317973906856962013-08-24T21:25:00.000-07:002013-08-24T21:25:21.013-07:00A Smell Memory<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
This is more a vignette then an actual story.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://heatingandairwholesale.com/wp-content/uploads/2011/08/1261-Wood-Stove.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://heatingandairwholesale.com/wp-content/uploads/2011/08/1261-Wood-Stove.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
<br />
When I was young my Dad had a workbench near the basement door. In that area was also a radial arm saw (that sort of defined the space, as it was the last thing before the washer and dryer), the brick chimney and a wood burning stove.<br />
<br />
My Dad kept a scrap barrel. All the little pieces of wood that he cut off, or pieces he cut wrong, or extra pieces he put in that barrel.<br />
<br />
Probably a couple of times a year he would clean up the work area. Mostly it had been made completely disordered by us. He would set aside some Saturday, usually in winter or late autumn.<br />
<br />
He would start a fire in the old wood stove and burn all the scrap. He would clean things up and hang up the tools. Eventually he would sweep up an the whole place would be clean and cozy.<br />
<br />
I loved those days. We would work together to clean up and in the end the results were dramatic. It made you want to start a new project.</div>
Inner Prophttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16322632457004892062noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2532866890054956354.post-39396899637302716802013-08-16T14:20:00.003-07:002013-08-16T14:20:30.220-07:00Buzzing Uncle Jeff<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhM2UU1lFF31nQX4_qFwfqjDcGdv39DCTjwIOmz7ByKdpvADYWHjon2vwCWbPUH2Y_f648IcamO6JcalXxftQJLj7Viu5MU1oVaKgI1uqb7zaFiWap9GI7wfw16eiiUuJ8U4t2gHjRajQg/s1600/Summer+67.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="136" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhM2UU1lFF31nQX4_qFwfqjDcGdv39DCTjwIOmz7ByKdpvADYWHjon2vwCWbPUH2Y_f648IcamO6JcalXxftQJLj7Viu5MU1oVaKgI1uqb7zaFiWap9GI7wfw16eiiUuJ8U4t2gHjRajQg/s200/Summer+67.JPG" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dad, Mom, me, Shawn, the pool, the fence and the Kennedy</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I hope I can remember all the Dad and Uncle Jeff stories, but here is one especially for summer.<br />
<br />
When Dad was in the CPD, at one time they offered a program for officers who wanted to fly the police helicopter. Dad applied and had some flying lessons before they canceled the program, probably because of budget constraints.<br />
<br />
At the time we had the pool in the backyard on Kostner and the six foot red wooden fence. The pool was within about two feet of the fence on the south side, facing the Kennedy. It was fairly common practice for young men to climb out of the pool and onto the fence. They would then jump into the pool. I had seen it done many times, but I think that by the time I was old enough to try it, we had replaced that fence with a chain-link (cyclone) fence.<br />
<br />
Apparently Uncle Jeff liked to startle Dad when they were younger. I say startle because, of course Dad wasn't "scared" of anything, but if you jumped out of a hiding place and yelled boo you could catch him off guard and make him jump.<br />
<br />
Actually, now that I think about it, the only things Dad was afraid of were Mom and his children.<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxARJDHhnSSkN3-o8Sz-FdLA8iFMIO5BDqBuc2-FSgx7DH5B8EF8pcpSv1lHujmk1VahhSREoyOxf4_FU3iZxuawqhTNrZ-dDVySkCO0S2AiOPohPDNvBvvS0yjUnpDED7urwuDHEuH_Y/s1600/Ryan+Fence+75.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxARJDHhnSSkN3-o8Sz-FdLA8iFMIO5BDqBuc2-FSgx7DH5B8EF8pcpSv1lHujmk1VahhSREoyOxf4_FU3iZxuawqhTNrZ-dDVySkCO0S2AiOPohPDNvBvvS0yjUnpDED7urwuDHEuH_Y/s200/Ryan+Fence+75.JPG" width="187" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ryan on the fence: one of the scary things</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Anyway, Uncle Jeff liked to hide and jump out to see Dad jump.<br />
<br />
One day while Dad was getting flying lessons in the police helicopter Uncle Jeff was visiting the house and swimming in the pool. The instructor let Dad fly up the Kennedy and they were going to practice auto-rotating.<br />
<br />
Auto-rotating is when the power goes out in a helicopter (the engine dies or some kind of power train failure). The blades and the system are designed to keep rotating. As long as you were going a certain speed forward you can ride the free spinning rotor blades safely down to the ground.<br />
<br />
They weren't going to land, the instructor was just going to give Dad a taste of how auto-rotating feels.<br />
<br />
As it turns out they were very near our house when the instructor turned off the engine. So, there was Dad, coming in out of the south west and the low afternoon sun in a silent helicopter. And there was Uncle Jeff climbing out of the pool and standing up on the fence getting ready to jump in.<br />
<br />
Dad turned on the loud speaker and said, <b>"HEY YOU, GET OFF MY FENCE!"</b><br />
<br />
Dad said that after that day it never bothered him if Uncle Jeff tried to startle him, because Dad knew that he would never be able to top that.</div>
Inner Prophttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16322632457004892062noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2532866890054956354.post-43757760994354809622013-06-16T08:26:00.000-07:002013-08-16T14:32:29.666-07:00Happy Fathers' DayWhen I joined the National Guard I was looking to fly helicopters. I enlisted and became a helicopter mechanic (MOS 67N Huey Crew Chief), but after I enlisted and before I started ROTC the Army tightened the requirements for helicopter pilots so that they needed 20/20 vision to start flight school. I needed glasses.<br />
<br />
I quickly looked around for another military career path and decided on Signal. I won't get into that decision now. Dad was Signal Officer qualified, but he was also Infantry qualified, Chemical qualified, Medical Services qualified and MP qualified. At the time of my decision I think he was with the MP Battalion.<br />
<br />
I decided on Signal and started drilling with the Signal Battalion as a Cadet. A few months after that I went to one AT (annual training, or summer camp) with them and was stuck in an officer position with almost no training whatsoever. Needless to say, it was very stressful.<br />
<br />
At the time my Dad had just come back to the Signal Battalion as the Executive Officer (XO). One day when I was almost at my wit's end Dad happened to stop by. He told me a funny story about the Battalion Commander. It cheered me to think that the Old Man had troubles too, and it cheered me just to know that here was a guy I could disappoint and fail, but he would still love me. That was enough. He didn't actually cheer me up with a pep talk or anything like that. He told me the story, told me he loved me and left.<br />
<br />
Two years later I was a commissioned Second Lieutenant and a Platoon Leader in the Signal Battalion. Dad was the commander and I was attending Signal Officer Basic Course in Fort Gordon, GA. We were having a class on Officer Evaluation Reports (OERs) and discussing conflicts of interest.<br />
<br />
For OERs you have a Rater, an Intermediate Rater and a Senior Rater. The Rater is self-evident. The Intermediate Rater just makes sure the paperwork is filled out correctly. The Senior Rater is your commander's commander and is very important to your rating.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0m2leZlKKoL4RmrUd1M-w85u7mN7w0mkmSfmeA636FpyKMV_MOJZypIQsC6PfgfG0lBKahnGADpKmiSXXBSX4uGo1ogLYykZW__r8UBys1Vh7gcyXA6P40o6wL5ZvKKCqMAC6CsCcQyY/s1600/Dad+and+Me+Dress+Blues.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="167" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0m2leZlKKoL4RmrUd1M-w85u7mN7w0mkmSfmeA636FpyKMV_MOJZypIQsC6PfgfG0lBKahnGADpKmiSXXBSX4uGo1ogLYykZW__r8UBys1Vh7gcyXA6P40o6wL5ZvKKCqMAC6CsCcQyY/s200/Dad+and+Me+Dress+Blues.jpg" width="200" /></a>I asked the instructor, "What if your Senior Rater is your father?"<br />
<br />
He never answered me. He just slowly turned and said, "You're in the Guard, aren't you?"<br />
<br />
Dad had it covered already. He had the XO be my Senior Rater. I know that could have been questionable, but she was a real <a href="mailto:hard@ss">hard@ss</a> and those were some of my toughest evaluations.<br />
<br />
Happy Fathers' Day.Inner Prophttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16322632457004892062noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2532866890054956354.post-58081888405436229712013-04-10T20:06:00.001-07:002013-04-10T20:06:38.081-07:00New Scoutmaster<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/proxy/AVvXsEh3M3EdsPmabSQ_qOMlaXhaj40_Ze4JsvcBfLD3WswkK8Dpiz0C_vj2BC24KArd-fSbarEbpnZ2QlRtHcHEjCnlw-Rx4GnBGOMta7n_iSRZz1fUz0x-c64UDaVO1VW7ICV9VkETRMQ3BqnK2eO4otiGSnqdyXlnFsEzoA0ae8TAdHVY_hyB_sN6fsM=" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" bua="true" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/proxy/AVvXsEh3M3EdsPmabSQ_qOMlaXhaj40_Ze4JsvcBfLD3WswkK8Dpiz0C_vj2BC24KArd-fSbarEbpnZ2QlRtHcHEjCnlw-Rx4GnBGOMta7n_iSRZz1fUz0x-c64UDaVO1VW7ICV9VkETRMQ3BqnK2eO4otiGSnqdyXlnFsEzoA0ae8TAdHVY_hyB_sN6fsM=" width="165" /></a></div>
I'm on a Boy Scout bend lately. It is probably because I've been very heavily involved myself and it makes me think.<br />
<br />
I was working with one of the ADC's last night and we were talking about helping a troop move on to a new Scoutmaster. It made me think of how my Dad ended up becoming the Scoutmaster of Troop 881.<br />
<br />
I told you in <a href="http://generalcheese.blogspot.com/2011/02/2-for-second.html" target="_blank">this post</a> how Dad ended up at Pack 3881 and eventually Troop 881 as a scout.<br />
<br />
Dad went away to join the USMC after High School. He was not really available for a couple of years. When he did come back he stopped in to the basement of the Irving Park Baptist Church to say hello to his old troop.<br />
<br />
He found a group of boys doing scouting stuff, being led by their boy leaders. What he didn't find was any adults. There was not one adult there on that Friday. I'm guessing this happened sometime after the Autumn of '64 since that would have been when he was already married and home to stay (when did he leave the Active Marines?).<br />
<br />
Tony Baneshki (I'm sure I spelled that wrong, would someone please write in and help me with that?) was the SPL (Senior Patrol Leader) at the time and he told Dad that their Scoutmaster had just quit.<br />
<br />
Dad volunteered on the spot. <br />
<br />
He would have been only 22 at the time, a mere boy himself. Back then they didn't have <a href="http://www.scouting.org/scoutsource/HealthandSafety/GSS/gss01.aspx" target="_blank">Youth Protection</a> or Two Deep Leadership like they do today (and have since the late 80s). A single adult could lead a troop, and so he did.<br />
<br />
I have heard Dad say he was sure he learned more from Tony than he taught him. In a few short years Tony would do everything for his Eagle and leave for the USMC himself. Tony's paperwork got lost in the shuffle and he ended up not actually being presented his Eagle Scout award until 1983 when he, Jac Charlier and I were all presented it together.
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://goodcomics.comicbookresources.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/boyscout.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" mta="true" src="http://goodcomics.comicbookresources.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/boyscout.jpg" width="136" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pre-Leave No Trace I guess</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Something today reminded me of this story. I think my Dad told this to me once, and I'm not sure if I got it right, but I don't think there is anyone around who was actually there so I don't think anyone can call me on this.<br />
<br />
When I was young we used to make up our own skits for Boy Scouts. We had an electric campfire that we brought out at the end of each Friday night scout meeting and we gathered around to sing songs and do a skit.<br />
<br />
I remember one that we did that had something to do with the Space Shuttle.<br />
<br />
Anyway, I guess we weren't the first scouts of troop 881 to do this. Back in the day when Dad was a youth they did it too.<br />
<br />
Once, when Dad was the Senior Patrol Leader (SPL, or for those unfamiliar with the Boy Scouts, the person who actually runs the meetings and leads the troop, the Scoutmaster is supposed to only be there as a guide) the boys in the troop wrote a special skit.<br />
<br />
The skit started out with some young boys being roughed up by some older boys. A rather large boy ran in and fought the older boys until they ran off. Then the whole scene repeated with the heroic boy jumping in to save the young boys. <br />
<br />
Finally on the third rescue one of the boys asked the gallant champion, "Who do you think you are, Superman?"<br />
<br />
The stalwart lad replied, arms akimbo, "No, I'm Bill La Fleur!"<br />
<br />
I understand Harcus got a real kick out of that.<br />
<br />
 <br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSar0WEyNN4l8W_nA0LEh6lCgTIUlY1brMl9lnmbyXE2IqjPRO6U5pQpMsQd1FFQnUgUW2SEiaoKY8aBuXtPqkUiOdub6dOAgaLy7RBHEVccbyjn_avdTtnhIZlsZJldIXmPnhBNagAbE/s1600/Super+WGL.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="128" mta="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSar0WEyNN4l8W_nA0LEh6lCgTIUlY1brMl9lnmbyXE2IqjPRO6U5pQpMsQd1FFQnUgUW2SEiaoKY8aBuXtPqkUiOdub6dOAgaLy7RBHEVccbyjn_avdTtnhIZlsZJldIXmPnhBNagAbE/s200/Super+WGL.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I guess he should have had one of these.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
 Inner Prophttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16322632457004892062noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2532866890054956354.post-30067332944023890252013-03-28T20:39:00.003-07:002013-03-28T20:39:40.393-07:00Another Anniversary. What Do You Mean Down?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://www.elkspringsresort.com/images/great_smoky_mountains_national_park.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="http://www.elkspringsresort.com/images/great_smoky_mountains_national_park.jpg" usa="true" width="200" /></a></div>
As I sit here with my bad knee up, and thinking about Dad's anniversary I am reminded of our 1981 trip to the Great Smokey Mountains portion of the Appalachian Trail.<br />
<br />
<br />
In 1981 Dad was 39, seven years younger than I am now, but he too suffered from a bad knee that year. That combined with a bad experience he had on the 1971 attempt at the same trip made him take up a particular strategy for the '81 trip.<br />
<br />
In '81 Dad and Rich Zeremba were the two adults and there were seven scouts, Jac Charlier, Dave McCormick, Don Cotar, Shawn, Ken Klusendorf, Myles and me. I was the Senior Patrol Leader, but we were all very seasoned, experienced, expert campers.<br />
<br />
Dad's strategy was to hang back with Z, be the last ones to leave camp each day, and to be the last into camp each evening. We had no problem with this as we had a crack crew and a great youth leader (me) with a plan (duty roster).<br />
<br />
We young bucks loved to stop for a rest and as soon as the adults reached us on the trial, we would hop up and rush off. I rarely saw Dad on the trail.<br />
<br />
One day as they we were hiking along we passed a Ranger who was doing some sort of ranger-y things in the National Park. I remember I didn't pay him much mind, but when Dad reached him they had been having a rather rough day. It was one of our longer days and it seemed like we were hitting several peaks.<br />
<br />
Leaning wearily on his hiking staff, and breating heavily, Dad asked the Ranger how far it was to the campsite. The Ranger said that it was only another couple of miles and not to worry because it was all, "basically down" to the camp.<br />
<br />
It was five miles I think and when Dad and Z finally made it up the mountain to the top where our camp was he collapsed in the Adirondack shelter mumbling something about how, "Up" was the same as, "Basic Smokey Mountain Ranger, 'Down.'" From that day forward Dad used that phrase whenever he could. <br />
<br />
We woke on our last day on the trail with only seven members in our shelter. Dad and Z were gone, and so were their packs and gear. This was very disturbing because we woke with the dawn. They must have left in the dark of night.<br />
<br />
We quickly got ready and got on the road ("hit the bricks" as Dad would say) as soon as we possibly could.<br />
<br />
I was hesitant and wanted to search around before we left, just in case, but the rest of the boys were determined to catch Dad and Z up before the end of the trail.<br />
<br />
I was the last to leave that day.<br />
<br />
Somewhere about halfway through the day's hiking Jac and Don caught up to the adults. They wouldn't let them pass. It seemed that my Dad was, despite being last every other day, and clearly the slowest member of our group (with his bum knee and all) determined to be the first to finish with whole length of the park.<br />
<br />
Sure enough he was. I found him laying on the grass beside the road with his feet up and his shoes off. We had reached our pick up point about four hours ahead of schedule and with no way of alerting our Ground Support (Aunty Mae).<br />
<br />
So, in the end the Ole Man put one over on us. He pulled a Kobiashi Maru and changed the rules of the game so he could win.<br />
<br />
As the song says, Dad, "...cut a hole and pull me through." If anyone can, you can.Inner Prophttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16322632457004892062noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2532866890054956354.post-68378733347291004792012-11-15T11:52:00.001-08:002013-08-16T14:40:37.855-07:00Ernie and the Fence<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://www.standardfencing.com/images/wood/Wood12_sm.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="160" rea="true" src="http://www.standardfencing.com/images/wood/Wood12_sm.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
Here is a quick story about my Dad and Ernie (his partner) when Dad was a young police officer.<br />
<br />
Dad and Ernie were trying to catch a bad guy. The young man was really fast, but Dad was young and quick. <br />
<br />
The bad guy ran down an alley and then he started jumping over fences between the back yards. The first fence was a good solid 6 foot tall wooden one. <br />
<br />
He jumped over that first fence quick as a fox. Dad followed going right over the fence too.<br />
<br />
Suddenly from behind them came in explosion. It was so loud that the bad guy stopped in his tracks and turned to look. Dad turned too, and as splinters of wood flew past his head he saw Ernie running through the wreckage of what had been the fence.<br />
<br />
The shocking sight left the young bad guy unable to continue to run.<br />
<br />
After they had him in custody Dad asked Ernie why he didn't just jump the fence.<br />
<br />
Ernie said,"Well, I just got to running so fast I couldn't stop."Inner Prophttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16322632457004892062noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2532866890054956354.post-83980916070969129662012-11-11T09:09:00.001-08:002012-11-11T09:09:59.496-08:00Happy Veterans' Day<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://www.g2mil.com/vetpos87.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="180" rea="true" src="http://www.g2mil.com/vetpos87.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
After Dad enlisted in the USMC he was deployed to Japan in '63 - '64. From his base in Japan he was sent off to a few different places including a training mission to Taiwan.<br />
<br />
I've been through Dad's letters home and that training mission is in there, but there were a couple more stories that he told that I can't find more details or evidence of. I'm not disputing that he did these things, but I don't know how much he confused because he was just a teenage Private and how much he lost to the years.<br />
<br />
He told the story of being deployed to a small island off China. I do know that there was a long running "Warm" fight over the Straights of Formosa. The hotter fight predated '63, but they were still under dispute when Dad would have been there. Artillery was lobbed from the mainland to the islands and vice versa.<br />
<br />
According to the story, they sent Dad's Battalion to the island, but not all of them could land because a big storm blew in. The portion of the Battalion that did land had to secure what they had and just wait.<br />
<br />
They didn't have all their supplies and the only things they had to eat and drink were ice tea and rice. Dad never wanted to consume these things ever again after that.<br />
<br />
On the first day they were there, their platoon held attack drills. On a command everyone had to make their way to the bunkers and hunker down until they got the all clear.<br />
<br />
They all moved very slowly and slugishly, so when they were all in the bunker their Platoon Sergeant reamed them out.<br />
<br />
"When I say move, you move. You never know when the Chinese could start shelling, by God I wish they would shell right now just to teach you maggots a lesson!"<br />
<br />
Lo and behold shelling did start.<br />
<br />
Dad said that he thought, "Oh my God, the Gunny can even call in fire from the Chinese!"<br />
<br />
That certainly lit a fire under their butts, and they were never sluggish again.<br />
<br />
While they were on the island they had equipment to either build or repair an airfield. They didn't have all the pieces and didn't have all the people to put the pieces in place, but they had huge crates.<br />
<br />
After a while they noticed that each day the crates were a little bit closer to the jungle around them. The Marines eventually figured out that the natives on the island were trying to steal them by coming in the night and moving the crates a few inches at a time. They put an end to that.<br />
<br />
The funniest part of this story is that eventually they were releived when the other ships finally made it to the island. They passed out loaves of bread and set up showers. The Marines on the island had spend several weeks without showering.<br />
<br />
There was a camera there (I think it was Dad's) and someone captured the revelry as the Marines delightfully ate their bread and stripped naked to take their open air showers.<br />
<br />
The film of that shower day was actually on the back half of a film my Dad had started of him and his friends in and around the base in Japan.<br />
<br />
Somehow he didn't know the back half of the film was there and he sent it home for his family to see how their Billy G was doing away in the Marines. They gathered the whole family together to watch the movie. Little did they know that it had a shocking surprise ending.<br />
<br />
Happy <a href="http://www.g2mil.com/vetsday.htm" target="_blank"><strong>Veterans' Day</strong></a> and Thank you!Inner Prophttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16322632457004892062noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2532866890054956354.post-87316818009972043382012-10-21T15:58:00.000-07:002012-10-21T15:58:08.448-07:00Night of the Purple FogThis morning was the annual appearance of the <a href="http://earthsky.org/tonight/radiant-point-for-orionid-meteor-shower" target="_blank"><span style="color: purple;"><strong>Orionid Meteor Shower</strong></span></a>. October 21, 1962 was a night of a very young moon and it was the height of the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cuban_missile_crisis" target="_blank"><strong><span style="color: purple;">Cuban Missile Crisis</span></strong></a>. The <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Battle_of_Antietam" target="_blank"><strong><span style="color: purple;">Battle of Antietam</span></strong></a> had occurred in September 1862 and many soldiers probably survived their wounds for at least a month only to die at home.<br />
<br />
Because of that I believe that today is the 50th anniversary of The Night of the Purple Fog. To commemorate that I have decided to finally post what is probably my father's most famous campfire story.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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My Father enlisted in the USMC in August of 1960 with the hopes of following in the family "business" of Firefighting. Initially he was assigned to a Crash Crew and trained to fight aircraft fires and save trapped fighter pilots. Due to a choice of twelve weeks of guard duty over six weeks on Kitchen Patrol (KP), by October, 1962 he was working as an MP at Marine Corps Air Station Beaufort, SC.<br />
<br />
<br />
The Cuban Missile Crisis had the whole country on edge, but no one was more anxious than the military on the south east coast. After the tensions had risen to a particularly fevered pitch, intelligence came down that all bases, and especially their Military Police patrols should be on the lookout for a known saboteur suspected of being somewhere on the east coast with a mission to damage any military facilities possible. Especially high value targets were those bases on which nuclear weapons were housed, like MCAS Beaufort.<br />
<br />
I've searched on Google Earth to find the exact spot of this incident and I believe the Ammo Point is located on the north part of the base. The base is surrounded by low lands, swamps, tidal pools, and rivers.<br />
<br />
My Father always said that the patrols to the back gate of the Ammo Point were the most difficult because you had to drive all the way around the airfield and at the furthest point you were beyond the range of the radios. It was a single lane road with swamp on one side and water on the other. The MPs at that time patrolled alone in pickup trucks. At night it was a long, dark, lonely ride to a poorly lit gate.<br />
<br />
That night Dad drove around to the gate on the edge of his seat, knowing how close they might be to actual Nuclear War. When he reached the end of the road he tried his radio, nothing. He put the handset down on the bench beside where he sat and exited the vehicle to inspect the gate.<br />
<br />
When he stepped out he realized that the ground was covered in a low laying fog. Because of the chemicals in the surrounding swamp gases the fog had taken on a violet tinge as it swirled around at boot top level.<br />
<br />
Despite the fact that the truck was parked so that the headlights were pointed at the gate, Dad had his flashlight out to keep a watch on the surrounding area. He easily found that the gate was secure, and he turned to return to his truck.<br />
<br />
As he turned he could have sworn that he saw a red light blinking in the distance, somewhere off to the right of the truck. He leaned forward and squinted; he held his flashlight out, and he saw it again. Blink, blink.<br />
<br />
He thought it could be a reflector of some kind, but he wasn't waving his light around. None of the lights around him were moving, and yet the light blinked. He knew some Morse code and he walked toward the light, trying to tell what letters were being blinked. With his free hand he unsnapped the loop on the holster of his service .45.<br />
<br />
He stepped cautiously through the fog, feeling the hard road change to swamp. As he approached the light he realized that it was indeed a reflector and it was the Spanish moss hanging from a nearby tree swaying between them that made it blink. But what had made the moss sway? Only then did a slight breeze begin to stir.<br />
<br />
The reflector was a red, reflective ribbon on a brand new wreath of flowers, still fresh, that had been laid on a headstone. My Father had stumbled into a graveyard. The headstone was leaning and overgrown, covered in tree sap and bird droppings. As the gentle puff of wind cleared the fog, he saw the writing on the grave marker.<br />
<br />
He had gone on shift at midnight and this couldn't have been two hours into the patrol, and the day, yet the date on the headstone was one hundred years earlier, to the day. My Father had stumbled into an all but forgotten Civil War cemetery.<br />
<br />
He looked around for other evidence of the recent visitor. He found it in the shape of a right boot print. He leaned down to get a better look and realized that it was a full inch all around bigger than his own sizable 13.<br />
<br />
He looked for the next print and found it; a left boot print at least six feet away from the first one and leading up out of the nearby creek. This creek had no name but it crisscrossed with countless others until it emptied into the Atlantic. He did a quick calculation and estimated that at six feet tall he could take a three foot stride when he was running. A man who took a six foot stride would have to be closer to twelve feet tall.<br />
<br />
Just then his flashlight failed. It died slowly, dimming at first and turning yellow until it was barely a trickle of light. He felt the hair on the back of his head and made his way back to the truck at a range walk.<br />
<br />
The headlights of the truck seemed to flutter or dim for a moment as he approached. He couldn't see in the bed of the truck so he threw his now useless flashlight back there with a clatter. As he did so he drew his pistol and chambered a round.<br />
<br />
He moved around to the driver side and opened the door.<br />
<br />
The cab was empty except for the radio handset sitting on his clipboard. He jumped in and put his pistol down next to the mic.<br />
<br />
He put the clutch in, put the truck in gear and let out the clutch. Nothing happened. The back tires slid but didn't seem to catch.<br />
<br />
It was a dry night and he had stopped solidly on the road. There was no reason for his wheels to spin. He tried again, trying to give it more gas, with the same result. It was like something or someone was holding the back bumper.<br />
<br />
He looked in the rearview mirror and saw only black.<br />
<br />
Heart racing he kicked in the clutch, jammed it into reverse and popped the clutch. The truck jumped back a few feet. He reversed the procedure and popped it into first.<br />
<br />
The wheels squealed but moved him forward. As he peeled around in the sharp turn he needed to get going back down the road, he felt a heavy thump as if someone had jumped into the bed of his truck.<br />
<br />
At the same time in that sharp, hard turn, his clipboard, with the radio hand set and his Colt M1911 .45 caliber pistol slide across the bench seat and dumped into the space between the seat and the passenger side door.<br />
<br />
He slammed on the gas and raced through the gears. He figured that if a twelve foot tall man were in the back of his truck he would have a hell of a time getting around to open his door and if he wanted to jump out of the bed of the truck at 60 mph, then more power to him.<br />
<br />
As he raced around back onto the main part of the base he was too frightened to look in the rearview mirror, even when the lights of the base would have made the bed visible.<br />
<br />
He sped through the front gate, right past the guard without slowing down at all. The horrified look on the guard's face confirmed that he had a tiger by the tail in the back of his truck.<br />
<br />
He needed a plan to get stopped and out of the truck without running into his passenger. He decide to make directly for the guard shack, where there would be other men and many more weapons. He would put drive right up to a space and let the concrete bumper stop the truck. The sudden stop would kill the truck so suddenly that someone without a proper hand hold in the back would be tossed about. My Father would have steadying hands on the wheel. As his passenger tried to regain his balance my Father would be out his door and make a mad dash for the shack door.<br />
<br />
That was exactly what he did. As soon as the truck slammed into the barrier he threw the door open and bolted inside shouting, "Sergeant of the Guard! Sergeant of the Guard!"<br />
<br />
He ran right past the desk and grabbed a shotgun out of the rack. He pumped it and put it up to his shoulder aimed at the still swinging double doors.<br />
<br />
"What's going on?"<br />
<br />
"Giant saboteur, walked out of the water, held my truck, twelve feet tall, flowers, out there!"<br />
<br />
Eventually others joined him and they walked out to find his empty truck. It was exactly as he had left it, and there was no one in it.<br />
<br />
"But the guard saw it, ask him," my Father protested. "He had a look of pure terror."<br />
<br />
The guard had indeed had a terrified look on his face, but he hadn't seen anything except a runaway truck and the look on my Father's face. They were what had scared him so.<br />
<br />
In the end my Father had to admit that there was no evidence that anything untoward had happened at all. There was no evidence that anyone had done anything except careless laid a wreath. Nothing except that when my Dad went to get his dead flashlight out of the truck bed he found that it was all wet and there was an old metal milk bottle back there.<br />
The bed had been clean and empty when he had checked it out earlier that night.Inner Prophttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16322632457004892062noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2532866890054956354.post-19428996192091823982012-09-17T16:28:00.000-07:002012-09-17T16:30:17.278-07:00NCO to Officer<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/f/f6/USMC-E7.svg/180px-USMC-E7.svg.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/f/f6/USMC-E7.svg/180px-USMC-E7.svg.png" width="136" /></a></div>
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My oldest is now in college and she has two medium term
goals, to get her degree and to graduate as a United States Marine Corps
Officer.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
This prompted me to tell her how Papa became a US Army
Officer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This is definitely a story that
may need additional support from others for authenticity.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
After Papa was in the USMC and married for a while, they
determined that the two do not mix (at least for Papa and Boushette).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Papa got out of the Marines and joined the
Marine Corps Reserve.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
A few years and three sons later Papa was an E7 (Gunnery
Sergeant) and competed for NCO of the Year.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>He won in fact and was awarded NCO of the Year for the entire USMC
Reserve.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At about the same time he was
applying to attend OCS (Officer Candidate School) with the Marines.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
This is where the story gets fuzzy for me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Either they forwarded the wrong paperwork and
some numbskull who was also named William La Fleur was rejected (I can't
believe any William La Fleur would be anything less than stellar, but that's
just me) and/or his paperwork was delayed because it was the same paperwork
that got forwarded for the NCO of the Year Award.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
Either way, in the end he was 34 years old before the
package went to the board.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At that time
(I don't know about now) the USMC had a cutoff of 33 to attend OCS.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He was too old.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
He was already a Sergeant in the Chicago Police Department
and some of his friends there suggested that he try the Illinois Army National
Guard because the Army cutoff age was 35.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<br /></div>
<a href="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/f/fa/US_Army_Brigadier_General_Flag.svg/400px-US_Army_Brigadier_General_Flag.svg.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/f/fa/US_Army_Brigadier_General_Flag.svg/400px-US_Army_Brigadier_General_Flag.svg.png" width="200" /></a><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: 11pt;">He transferred to the Army and ultimately
retired as a BG (Brigadier General).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
moral of the story is, keep your goal in sight and keep your legs pumping,
never give up there is always a way.</span>Inner Prophttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16322632457004892062noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2532866890054956354.post-21476265995850428812012-08-04T20:50:00.001-07:002012-08-04T20:50:42.497-07:00Gap Tooth<br>I'm not sure what made me think of this today, but here is a quick story.<br /><br>Dad had always had a gap between his front teeth.  I know we don't remember him that way because he got it fixed so long ago.<br /><br>When he joined the USMC he had to get a physical and a dental checkup.  The Marine dentist took a look at his mouth and asked him, "You want that gap?"<br /><br>Dad said that he could do without it.  The dentist reached behind himself and grabbed a pliers.  He stuck them in Dad's mouth, grabbed one of the back teeth and yanked it out.<br /><br>In a few days Dad's teeth slowly moved and closed the gap.  That back tooth was just one too many teeth and it was crowding the rest until there was just no more room and the front slide sideways just to fit in.<br />Inner Prophttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16322632457004892062noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2532866890054956354.post-68931995821498359202012-06-25T15:39:00.001-07:002012-06-25T15:39:52.437-07:00F - A - T-square<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrq12kG7ckjRUsAkTf_dK1h8dCtYXKAgg42N32c4ox3IrmFJUEZPNlKbQMkAI2-2LS2oGw2gRoiBJO9VwPUPRrIbvIvMlWLu52wC-Sp5vpz3DlJEma_K0q1blLwl8d7Pj5RixRq9lp9Bw/s1600/Report+Card.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="217" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrq12kG7ckjRUsAkTf_dK1h8dCtYXKAgg42N32c4ox3IrmFJUEZPNlKbQMkAI2-2LS2oGw2gRoiBJO9VwPUPRrIbvIvMlWLu52wC-Sp5vpz3DlJEma_K0q1blLwl8d7Pj5RixRq9lp9Bw/s320/Report+Card.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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Dad didn't do well in school, from second grade through high
school he only did well in one class, Drafting.
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit;">
Dad told me that he loved that class and was sure he was
going to get an A finally after so many years of disappointments and summer
school. He was down to his last project
and he was doing it perfectly. While he
was at the drafting table in school working diligently another boy, who never
much liked Dad walked by. Dad's nemesis
took this opportunity to jostle his arm.
It was a stupid, yet simple thing to do.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit;">
It was Dad's right arm and at the jostling his hand holding
the writing instrument drove across the page, marking it indelibly. I don't know if it was a pencil or a pen but
I got the impression that the swath it made across the page would not have been
erasable regardless of the instrument.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit;">
Dad flew into a rage and with the T-square already in hand
he beat the boy with it. It not only
assured him of a failing grade in the class, but I believe a suspension.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: inherit;">
<span style="font-size: 11pt;">It's hard to believe with all the scholastic
accolades he earned in the Military and the Police, and how everyone remembers
Dad as a great teacher; that he ever had such a hard time in school. Maybe it was because he had such a hard time
that he knew how to help others learn.</span></div>Inner Prophttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16322632457004892062noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2532866890054956354.post-66177322675682836732012-06-17T12:02:00.001-07:002012-06-17T12:02:35.509-07:00Happy Father's Day Dad<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFesn9TukMKKiq-q-fGlBqRtQCUO1e_HgdejiuXPPS2R7VmVzjpET9YNz7JuxyFSSo92pot9DuIqpwOrGXjDLncJ0L0kLG748jd-5gOI-H-tGAUOtPc3e8zcN-_wlhyphenhyphen8vR5WwXJUr78dg/s1600/Dad+and+his+boy+1966.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="304" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFesn9TukMKKiq-q-fGlBqRtQCUO1e_HgdejiuXPPS2R7VmVzjpET9YNz7JuxyFSSo92pot9DuIqpwOrGXjDLncJ0L0kLG748jd-5gOI-H-tGAUOtPc3e8zcN-_wlhyphenhyphen8vR5WwXJUr78dg/s320/Dad+and+his+boy+1966.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">1966, First Christmas and first Christmas as a Dad</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Happy Father's Day Dad. I know this story is about me, but in a way it's also a story about you.<br />
<br />
When I was still an infant Mom took me to the neighborhood grocery store. It was on the corner of Kostner and Montrose.<br />
<br />
Some woman stopped my Mom while she was walking around with me asleep in the cart .<br />
<br />
"Well, I can only assume that you are Mrs. La Fleur, because I've never met you, but that baby sure is Bill La Fleur's. There is no doubt about that."Inner Prophttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16322632457004892062noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2532866890054956354.post-20228959859986026232012-06-09T20:42:00.000-07:002012-06-09T20:42:54.745-07:00Pope's Visit<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgE8fqaSwfavY8XU990qY1sP4ixIZw5olGaHhbhoaSbjPty2EQzejEyFTUqC7VOSS2AIp-OzPtA1mrpBnfKPF99uLDXm2vgtJspNuKUXSyOhHEOaOb1Fshou20KYBpONSaSxgCnM5IcnKA/s1600/Pope.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgE8fqaSwfavY8XU990qY1sP4ixIZw5olGaHhbhoaSbjPty2EQzejEyFTUqC7VOSS2AIp-OzPtA1mrpBnfKPF99uLDXm2vgtJspNuKUXSyOhHEOaOb1Fshou20KYBpONSaSxgCnM5IcnKA/s200/Pope.JPG" width="134" /></a></div>
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
I just got back from a trip to Boston.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>While there I spotted a plaque that said the
first mass ever celebrated by a Pope in the New World was on 1 Oct 79 when Pope
John Paul II visited.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That reminded me
of the La Fleur family's involvement with that trip.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The Holy Father arrived at O'Hare on Thursday night and drove
from there downtown to Cardinal Cody's residence.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My grade school band had a space along
Milwaukee Avenue.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One of the music
teachers owned a store there and staked out the space for us.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When the Pope sped by in his limo we played
"Sto Lat."</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
That reminds me of a joke.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The Pope was riding along in his limo and at one stop he approached the
driver.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
"It's been years since I've been allowed to drive, but
in my youth I used to be quite a good driver.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Would you mind if I drove for a while?"</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Of course the diver agreed and he slid into the back while
His Eminence got behind the wheel and adjusted the mirrors.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A few miles down the road a police officer stopped the
vehicle for speeding.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When he pulled
them over and got the driver's identification he was so astonished that he went
back to his patrol car and radioed back to headquarters, "You will never
guess who I just pulled over driving this limo!"</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
"Who, is it somebody important, somebody famous, a rock
star, movie star, the President?"</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
"Well, I don't know how is in the back but he must be
REALLY important; the Pope is his driver."</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Back to Dad's story.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The next morning, 5 October 1979, Dad had been activated by the National
Guard for the <b><a href="http://www.chicagotribune.com/news/politics/chi-chicagodays-pope-story,0,3834966.story" target="_blank">Papal Mass at Grant Park</a></b>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>He was in a hospital unit and they wanted them on site to provide
medical support if needed.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Dad and some other Guardsmen who were also police officers
were sitting around in their tent on Sunday morning discussing what it would
have been like for the police if Jesus Christ came back today and gave the Sermon
on the Mount.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
At some point someone said that the mass was supposed to
have started and they wondered if it was running late.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They had had the flaps of the tent down and
hadn't seen or heard anyone.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
They opened the flaps of the tent and found more than
200,000 people had filed into the park as if it were a church.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They hadn't heard a pin drop.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was the largest mass ever held in Chicago
and the only Papal Mass and Dad was there.</div>Inner Prophttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16322632457004892062noreply@blogger.com1