So, how is your PSA level?

Reader Warning: If you are the least bit squeamish, do not continue! This will be true especially if you are a male member of the species. Females having experienced childbirth simply refer to this as payback.

Yesterday I had my first annual appointment with my new urologist, Doctor Joy (first names only) up at ADC-North—actually my first female urologist as a matter of fact. She replaces Doc Koushik who I saw only once prior to him moving on to greener pastures. Doc Koushik had been my new urologist then only because I had fired my old urologist. I won’t go into that here; if you want to know more on that front you will have to search the archive on my blog site.

I had a consult with Doc Joy the prior week after I finally got around to calling; Patsy had been on me for some time to do so. She was surprised that I got an appointment to see any urologists that quick; but I did. We discussed where I was and what had brought me here; talked about Doc Libensky (last name in this case only), the guy that started all this back in 2002 and his replacement; I saw him (can’t recall his name; oh yah, it was Doc Pradeep) once before he also left for a greener pasture. Doc Joy checked the computer and found all my records to still be intact; even the visits with Doc Steven—the Doc I fired—had been sent over routinely and scanned into the database).

Nothing left to do now but the rectal exam that my primary passes off every year to my urologist visit—it’s easier on both him and me for the urologist to do so but eventually it has to be fingered. Yes it did and so I drop trou and bend over the table. Probing complete, Doc Joy recommended that I set up appointment for cysto and CT scan with Nurse Laura and quickly departs; the visit bringing to mind a short porno loop fro the 70s.

Yesterday, after fighting the MOPAC traffic for over an hour, I still arrived early, maybe ten minutes or so; took my place in the waiting area; opened my current book and started to read. Almost a full chapter later, I was called back and quickly ushered into a restroom for the opportunity to provide a urine sample. “OK, I can do that.” This is not always an easy task with your mind in a far, far away universe thinkin’ of what is yet to come. This time I had planned ahead in order to comply and eventually accomplished the task.

Returning from urine compliance, Nurse Laura showed me to the exam room. Nurse Laura says: “You know the drill?” as she directed me to disrobe completely below my waist, offering me a sheet to cover myself—sheet is the hospital slang for large piece of paper not able to withstand the slightest rip or tear.

“Yep! That’s easy for you to say! This will be the eighteenth time, but that doesn’t make it any easier.”

Both giggle and move on. She says to “lay back to get comfortable.” I move to a reclined position and take advantage of the last peaceful rest I will have for the next twenty-four hours.

Nurse Laura starts ripping at the sheet covering me, places a sterile covering over my nether region, grabs ahold of what she can and starts swabbing.

My mind begins to remind me in stark realism of what is to come and I roll into the world of memory, hoping to forego the entire procedure. My body knows otherwise—the anxiety of what is ahead causes me to break out into a cold sweat and a tenseness of muscles that can only be matched by rigor mortis.

With closed eyes, like that could help, I am transported into an outta-body state and begin to recall the cystos of the past.

I am alone in the exam room with absolutely nothing to occupy my mind but thoughts of the torture to come.

Soon, the nurse is back through the door pushing the dreaded cart with the ultimate device of torture. You can’t see what’s on the cart—it’s covered up to keep it sterile; but I know what’s there—you bet I know.

Nurse says: “Are you allergic to iodine?”

“No.” They ask this every time, sometimes more than once. Those allergic to iodine must have some awful reaction to it as they make a big deal of it.

“I gonna wash you. You might feel a cold sensation.” Then she starts. (The he and she are interchangeable from this point on.)

Cold! Are you kidding me? Iodine is cold. You know how cold alcohol feels when you apply it to your skin. The reason for this sensation is the rate of evaporation as it dissipates into the air. Well, iodine evaporates faster than alcohol and the medical profession is not bashful about the application of iodine. The nurses sorta just poor it all over the intended area and dab away to insure cleanliness. But COLD it is! I always thought this was just to get you ready for the next step.

Nurse says: “OK, now I am going to apply lidocaine down the urethra to make it feel better during the procedure.” She grabs Mr. P, squeezes to open him up and begins to push the lidocaine outta the tube. It feels like she is pushing the tube down Mr. P’s throat and by-the-way, it burns like HELL.

Up to this point we have been both frozen and burned. You might ask what can come next. Well, I’m gonna tell you; patience my reader, patience, I won’t let you down.

Nurse says: “I’m sorry about that.” You might believe her; I don’t.

After all I have previously suffered; the goal turns to keeping the lidocaine inside—don’t you dare let it ooze out. This Nurse does with one of those big black clips that you most likely have used to keep a three inch stack of your tax forms together or notes for your next staff meeting. That’s right, one of those big black clips. Don’t ya dare think they have removed any amount of tension fro that clip? Nope, not a bit; it’s just as strong as it ever was. B-e-l-i-e-e-e-v-e me! Now, there you lay, covered by a big paper sheet, Mr. P adorned with a big black clip sticking up through a whole in the middle of the sterile pad—not at attention or even saluting; Mr. P’s head is hung low.

Over her shoulder Nurse says as she departs: “We’ll be back in a few minutes to do the procedure. Just rest now.”

Rest! Does the medical profession even have a clue to what constitutes rest? I don’t think so.

Again, I am left to cogitate my predicament and what is yet to come. The time seems to stop, anxiety builds, no movement whatsoever. H.G. Wells, where are you?

Weird thoughts run through your mind during this lull in the action; not the least of which is: RUN and RUN fast.

Before you know it, the door bangs open and in strides the Doc and his team in force. My first thought: “Why does it take so many?” Ya know there always seems to be somebody in need of training and I seem to always be chosen for the guinea pig for such activity; my fate I guess. At this juncture there is a great deal of scurrying around and equipment checking that takes place. Another thought pops into mind: “Why haven’t they already checked the equipment?” Directly, they are ready to proceed.

Doc says: “I’m going to insert this device, then I will fill your bladder with the solution from this bag and we’ll look around.”

I always wonder who else he’s gonna allow to gander so I ask. “Whadda you mean we’ll look around Doc?”

“You can see every thing I see on that monitor right there” as Doc points at a TV monitor sitting over my right shoulder. I’m laying back with that big black clip strangling Mr. P and he wants me to crank the top part of my body around so I can see what he sees—no way is this about to happen. You would have to be a contortionist to accomplish this. I am not sure I wanta know what’s going on in there anyway.

Doc removes the clip and I experience a short moment of relief—still burning, but better.

“Now we begin.” Doc starts insertin’ the torture device into me and says: “Take short quick breaths and it will be better”

“Ahh. Ahh. Yes, OK. Ahh ahaah.”

Did I mention that the device was the exact same size as an NFL football—maybe I forgot to tell ya that? Well, as far as I am concerned, it’s the exact same size.

“Ahh. Ahh. Ahh.” That lidocaine doesn’t seem to be doing its part or even coming close.

“There’s the prostrate. It looks enlarged.” OK, it’s enlarged, but this does this stop the onslaught? No way, it continues.

“OK, here’s the bladder. Now we’ll fill it up with sterile water.” There he goes again with the we’ll. As far as I can tell, he is the only one with any control of the football device.

“Ahh. Ahh. Ahh.”

He starts the water flow.

“Ahh. Ahh. Ahh.”

“How are you doing? Are you watching the monitor?”

“Ahh. Ahh. OK so far Doc. Ahh. Ahh.” As far as I can tell, Doc has rammed the football within about an inch and a half of my tonsils or so it seemed. I know for a fact that the lidocaine isn’t doing its part.

The Doc and his crew are talking to you just like it’s an everyday conversation and all you are trying to do is stay alive and breathe; just breathe.

“That’s all the water and the bladder isn’t yet fully extended; too many folds. We need more water.”

Doc says: “You have a large bladder. Possibly the second largest on earth. There’s gotta be a blue whale out there with one larger than this!” Off goes the nurse to get another bag of water. Time keeps ticking by. So much for the thoroughness of the equipment check.

“Ahh. Ahh. Ahh.” I continue to breathe as the dock pats me on the knee and just smiles.

Nurse is back. The new bag is hung and flowing.

Doc says: “Now that’s better.” He begins to look around.

“There’s the operation spot. It still looks goods—no grow back.”

Don’t get me started on the operation. That is another story all to itself.

“Uh oh, what is this? There’s a small protrusion on the upper left quadrant. See it?”

Hell no, I don’t see it. Man, I’m doing nothin’ but breathin’. “Ahh. Ahh. Ahh. Ahh. Ahh.”

Doc turns and asks the nurse for the Bowie Knife device (not the actual name of the device, but you get the idea)—I never caught the name and never hope to . As you might expect, it was not in the exam room either. The nurse high tails it outta there for the Bowie Knife.

Bowie Knife, you might ask. This device slides down inside the football size tube and as far as I can tell, you have to insert it crossways or it won’t work. So crossways he did—as far as I can tell.

“You might feel a little pinch. Are you ready?”

“Ahh. Ahh. Ahh. Ahh. Ahh. OK Doc. Ahh. Ahh. Ahh.”

A little pinch, HELL! There was a whole Latin Quarter knife fight goin’ on down there. I think some of the guys had brought machetes, maybe even fencing foils; I couldn’t be sure.

“There, we got it.”

Again with the we. Why do they do that? Are they trying to make us feel as we are part of the team? I don’t wanta be part of the team; I just want this to be over.

“Ahh. Ahh. Ahh. Ahh. Ahh.”

Now Doc is dragging the Bowie Knife back out. I am positive he used the same procedure to get it back out as he used getting it in: crossways.

Everybody seemed to be proud of the team when they finally got that Bowie Knife back out. They were digging around for a specimen jar to capture the culprit in and send off to some CSI lab for analysis.

Doc says: “Ya wanta see what we took out? Here, look.” he says as he shoves it into my face.

“Ahh. Ahh. Ahh. Ahh. Ahh. OK Doc. Ahh. Ahh. Ahh.”

Doc goes back to looking around again. “The rest looks pretty good. Get ready for me to come out now.”

Removing the football sized device is about as eventful as removing the Bowie Knife; except it wasn’t brought out crossways—it just felt like it was.

“Ahh. Ahh. Ahh. Ahh. Ahh. OK Doc. Ahh. Ahh. Ahh.”

Then it’s over. Talk about an Alka-Seltzer moment, this was it. You have no idea what a relief it is for the procedure to be over.

Doc says: “OK. We’ll leave while you get cleaned up and then we’ll talk.” They depart leaving just me and the new trainee guy.

Training Guy says; “Man, I thought ya were gonna raise up off that table and hit him. They shouldn’t have males in here when they’re doing this—it’s too much.” Without stopping to breathe, he continued: “This is my first day and my last; I can’t do this! As soon as I help you get cleaned up, I’m outta here.” And he was. I found out on my next visit that he had given notice that afternoon and came back only to get his first and final paycheck. As fretful as this was for Training Guy, I had no symphony for him.

Eventually I return to my body and begin to redress myself. Doc Joy soon rejoins me and we discuss what had taken place.

I have now been clear of cancer for ten years and will no longer have to experience this torture every three months or every six months or every year for that matter—never again.

“Ahh. Ahh. Ahh. Ahh. Ahh.” Now I just gotta get over yesterday

Never been touched!

Float like a butterfly, sting like a bee. I know that’s not mine, but that single statement describes the guy I’m gonna tell you ‘bout. I can’t portray him any better no matter how hard I try. How else would you start off a boxing story?

It was just after the Summer Olympics of 1976 and Charles Mooney, a soldier assigned to the 530^th Supply and Service Battalion, had tried out and was talented enough to win a Silver Medal in the bantamweight division. Upon his return to Fort Bragg, the command was alive with boxers and those wanting to be boxers—they were everywhere.[i] The excitement only grew when the entire US Team was invited and attended a rally on post—everybody seemed to be in the boxing mood.

The call went out for those wishing to try out for battalion and command teams competing at the unit level and hoping to advance all the way to the post championships. Charles Mooney was exempted from the hoop-dé-do; he was spending much of his time with the Gunslinger—the XVIII ^th Airborne Corps and Ft Bragg Commander—Charlie was in real demand.

The Battalion Chaplain had some boxing experience and volunteered to coach the team. I tried to assist as much as my time would allow—the rigors of command didn’t leave much in the way of free time.

Every gym rat plus a few wantabes showed up for the initial meeting—all eager to get started. Of course there were those that were only looking to avoid whatever they could manage to get away with. One of those looking for the easy way was a supply specialist named Reese who was assigned to the Assistant Chief of Staff for Materials office within the Support Command. Reese was a GRE (gym rat extraordinaire) and continually sought the way around instead of through—he’d do anything, even to the extent of working harder than required to accomplish his daily routine.

At the time, running was our forté so the training to box started almost immediately. Initially training time came after the normal duty day, but the Chaplain wrangled the boss into allowing the team members to train three days a week after morning formations and details were completed. Of course the Sergeant Majors of each command section complained but the Chaplain got his way and the training routine was set.

Lots of heavy bag and light sparing took up the day. Reese seemed to be doing fairly well for himself and his prospects of making the team looked good. The guy was quick if nothin’ else—real quick. I managed to get by and show some command interest in the guys from the Headquarters Company—GIs like interest, no matter the source.

Early on, the Chaplain set up some sparing bouts with the other commands within the Support Command. These generated more interest in what was transpiring than one might imagine. Having a celebrity in the crowd, our Charlie again, didn’t hurt a bit. Our guy Reese did all right for himself as a novice to the sport. Did I mention that he was quick?

Training continued and before long it was time for the battalion level elimination bouts. These were important, both for team points and individual fighter advancement. With only one field house rigged with a boxing ring on the side of Ft Bragg where our units resided, we would have to make do—old WWII barracks buildings don’t allow for much in the way of reconfiguration. Chairs ran along two opposite sides of the ring and barely only standing room on the other sides made for an awkward set-up—we made it work.

Our first challenge came from the Supply & Service battalion and our fighters held their own; three of the five real bouts went into the record in our column. Reese punched his opponent into oblivion with no trouble whatsoever—he is fast! The Supply & Service battalion won the match overall as they took the two bouts that our unit lost and scored unopposed wins in the weight classes that we had no participants in—there being eleven weight classes overall. This was a disappointment to our guys and consoling them with the win facts didn’t make a difference.

The next day they were back into the training routine. The Chaplain decided that the time had come to start cutting boxers and concentrate on those that had the best chance of moving up and on. He set up a round robin internal tournament to decide just who would remain and who would return to their routine duty assignment—he had knuckled under to the command pressure of the everyday task of mission requirements.

Reese took his weight class just as everybody was beginning to expect—I seem to remember mentioning that Reese was fast—you recall that don’t you? The team was cut to twelve members in an attempt to try and cover as many weight classes as possible, even though some classes had multiple contenders in them. Better to be safe because one can never tell what’s around the next corner in mission needs.

Reese was becoming loud and boisterous about his singular talent in finishing off his opponents in the very first round—his hand quickness was trouble for every one of them, even his own team members in training bouts. None of them wanted to get in the ring with him—even the heavyweights.

Up next was the Support Command Championships and the entire team was high as a kite. They still had very little experience but seemed to be unafraid of what was to come. Reese had become the expo-facto team leader and looked up to by all.

The team came through the ordeal with flying colors, wining all five weight classes we entered and scoring enough points to be declared the Support Command Champions.

Then came the word of our next challenge. Ft Bragg was to entertain a box-off with challengers from Camp Lejeune, our Marine neighbors just to the east of us. The guys’ first questions was: “Are we gonna have to fight the Spinks brothers?” Luckily the answer to that for our guys was no. Just like Charlie, they were spending too much time away from the ring to be able to compete. However they were gonna attend and the morale factor just might be too much to overcome. There being few knowledgeable boxing aficionados, I was volunteered to judge many of the bouts—not much of a conflict here; each fight was fairly one-sided.

The night arrived and the bouts started. When all was said and done each post had scored five wins—a draw; a sister kissing if there ever was. Reese had, again, KO’d his opponent in the first round and obtained a standing ovation from the Spinks brothers. There was no touching him.

Next for the team it was back to training because the post championships were the next weekend. Reese was even more motivated to train instead of accomplishing his regular job than ever before. After the unit’s three mile run every morning, Reese would often retrace the route before heading to the gym. He had become fanatical about taking the post championship—nothing else mattered.

Saturday night arrived right on schedule—you probably already guessed that. The entire team was enthused. I was again tapped to judge and eventually lost track of what was happening with the team. I saw much of what was going on but had to remain on my designated judge’s stool most of the evening.

Close to 9:30 PM, Reese’s bout came up and I was again in line to judge. I ask those in charge if this was gonna be a problem and all seemed to agree that I was on the up-and-up—the course was set: Reese in the ring and me on my stool a’watching and a’judging.

The combatants were announced and sent to their corners. The Chaplain gave Reese his pre-bout instructions. Reese looked like he could take on the world. This, as they say, was for all the marbles and Reese looked ready to roll.

The bell rang and the fight was on. Reese hit the other guy with a couple of jabs and he looked startled from both the speed and the thud. They circled and Reese got in a few more jabs plus hook or two. His opponent was staggered just as each before him had been. As the round continued, Reese hit his opponent as often as he desired; the other not getting a lick in anywhere. Three minutes doesn’t last long when you are doing the damage and soon the first round was over. The challenger had not landed a glove and I scored the round 10 to 1 in Reese’s favor. I can’t tell you why I gave the guy the one point. I guess I just thought that he deserved something for the beating he was taking.

As short as three minutes is; I know you realize that the one minute between rounds is even shorter—much too short for the guy taking the punishment.

The second round bell sounded and both fighters made their way to center ring. As soon as they arrived, the challenger started to back away from the coming onslaught. Reese hit him over and over. First jabs, then hooks, an uppercut thrown in here and there and then more bone chilling jabs followed. It was brutal to watch. The guy again lasted the round and looked to be so grateful for the bell and the temporary end of his punishment. I scored this round like the first, 10 to 1—again feeling sorry for Reese’s opponent.

During the between round, I watched the guy in the other corner. It seemed that he was on his way out and wanted desperately to throw in the towel—just so it all could be over. In Reese’s corner the Chaplain was all over Reese. I could hear just a bit of antagonism in his demeanor. Reese had never let a bout get this far. Every fight to date had ended in the first round. Reese bounced, looked confident and nodded his head to end it as soon as possible.

The bell to open the third and final round sounded. Again to center ring, the tapping of gloves and the bout was back on in haste. Reese landed blow after blow throughout the first minute and continued the same pillaging during the second minute. I had no idea why the other guy was still standing. There was nothing to give him any hope that he could continue, much less come out victorious. Another thirty seconds of pounding took place. I just knew that there was no way that the other two judges could have scored the bout any differently than I had—Reese’s opponent had never landed a glove on him.

I snuck a look at the clock—twenty seconds remained. I looked back up just in time to see a roundabout flailing left hand land directly on Reese’s nose. He had finally been touched and the touch was a good one—misdirected and oddly thrown, but good nonetheless. I don’t think his opponent even knew it landed, but Reese did. Twenty seconds or less; he could avoid Muhammad Ali for that long; just twenty seconds and the Post Championship in his weight class was his. Shuffle here, shuffle there; run around if he had too—the points had to be on his side. Ten per round was the max. The bout was his.

Immediately, Reese looked for his corner and in what amounted to a panic, he began to try to get outta his gloves and the ring at the same time. He had never been touched but Reese had finally been hit and he didn’t like it one bit. He raced to the Chaplain who was trying emphatically to encourage him to stay in the ring and last it out. Reese wanting nothing more to do with the sport of boxing climbed through the ropes and exited the area on his way to anywhere but the ring. It was over and his opponent was soon to be declared Champion.

I conferred with the other two judges and they both had similar scores. Had Reese finished the round inside the ring, he would have won the bout.

In any event, the team from Headquarters and Headquarters Company, 1^st Corps Support Command won the championship and we were presented the trophy you see below. Reese attended the presentation, but …….

SP4 Reese is looking over the shoulder of PFC Anthony who has the trophy in his hands. The trophy is being presented to the Ft Bragg Boxing Championship Team by COL Elmer D. Pendleton (Commander, 1^st Corps Support Command) and being accepted by CPT John Howard Hatfield (Commander of Headquarters and Headquarters Company, 1^st Corps Support Command).

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[i] The USA had done rather well at the Olympic Games: Flyweight – Leo Randolph – Gold; Bantamweight – Charles Mooney – Silver; Lightweight – Howard Davis – Gold; Light Welterweight – Ray Leonard – Gold; Middleweight – Michael Spinks – Gold; Light Heavyweight – Leon Spinks – Gold; and Heavyweight – John Tate – Gold (Tate defeated by Teófilo Stevenson from Cuba—one of only three boxers to win Gold in three Olympics Games).

Do you remember the Texas Prison Rodeo in Huntsville?

I remember it very well. Those Sundays at the Walls Unit in Huntsville in October usually with my Dad were times I will never forget.

I remember going there soon after arriving in Bryan in 1954; this time with my Dad, Mom and brother Kenny. We probably made several trips as a family, but that was to soon give way to the jaunts being just my Dad and me.

I remember a couple of times—maybe about the time I was 12 or 13—that Preston Bishop joined us on a Sunday afternoon. Of course I knew Preston as Cathead more than his given name. Cathead was an old doodle-bugging friend and confident from the 1940s and early 50s. I would never miss the opportunity to sit and listen to the stories these two would tell about their days in the seismographing industry (locating potential oil fields). The stories those two could tell—most hard to believe, but nothing less than the truth.

Well, it seems that they are now tearing down the structure that housed those Sunday memories. There hasn’t bee a rodeo conducted there since 1986 when the structure was deemed to be un-safe. Funds availability to repair//rebuild found it hard going against other budget items determined to be more appropriate. See Associated Press and Austin American-Statesman article: http://www.statesman.com/news/texas/workers-tear-down-famed-home-of-texas-prison-2102847.html?cxtype=rss_ece_frontpage

I remember when halftime would come and they would roll out the afternoon’s professional entertainment. Some big names; usually of the country-western variety would perform. The article mentioned names such as Roy Acuff, Willie Nelson, John Wayne and Steve McQueen—all good Google terms for hit-ability. There were plenty more just as visible that made their stop on a Sunday in October.

I remember one that the article mentioned; I couldn’t wait to see. The infamous Juanita Phillips—more recognizable as Candy Barr, her stage name—was the one I most wanted to see. I don’t know what my young teenage mind expected to see when the Goree Girls made their entrance—to a teenager, a stripper is a stripper no matter what the program says—a performed their short act of two or three songs. The prisoners on the lockup side were just as or maybe even more excited than I was at the time.

I remember the event called “Hard Money” referenced in the newspaper article written by the Associated Press’ Michael Graczyk. I don’t think that Mr. Graczyk ever attended a Sunday performance—maybe a rodeo ever. His description of the Hard Money event made it out to be the most dangerous event in the afternoon’s performance. Forty inmates trying to snatch a tobacco bag from a bull’s horns is exciting—especially when accompanied by the fear of being gored//trampled by the bull; but much more the threat of being knocked over by the hoard of fellow contestants and trampled by them or either them and the bull in the frakus can not be understated. There was also the Wild Horse Race and Mad Cow Milking; both very similar to the Hard Money event. But, in my esteemed estimation these were by far not the most dangerous event of the afternoon. ANYBODY that ever attended a Sunday in October could tell you this.

I remember exactly what the most dangerous event of the afternoon was. Anybody that has seen a rodeo will tell you that the most terrifying one second to maybe twenty or so that takes place is the bull riding. No occupation—with the possible exception of Alaskan crab fishing is more dangerous or so the authorities tell us. Just ask a crab fisherman if he//she will sit the back of a bucking, snorting, wheeling, whirling bull and you will get a resounding NO! Right, bull riding is far more dangerous. Now multiply that danger by a factor of ten. There you have it—real danger. The announcer behind the chutes would warn the audience prior to the start of each and every rodeo. It went sorta like what you might imagine: “If you are squeamish or upset easily, it is suggested that you leave the arena right now. What you are about to see is not for the faint of heart.” Time was then given for the cowardly to exit.

I remember what would happen as soon as the cowardly time was up. The announcer would then describe what was to take place—the Prison Rodeo in Huntsville being the only place one could find an event as dangerous as what was to come. Most of your rodeo arenas had four, six or as many as eight chutes for the bucking//riding events to emerge from, but Not Huntsville—there were ten. All ten were loaded and ready. At the sound of a whistle all ten chutes were pulled open and 10 bulls with their 10 riders would be let loose into the arena, all at the same time. The event was called the Mad Scramble; an appropriate name—yes it was. Mayhem erupted into the arena and mayhem continued until the last astride rider was thrown, recovered and usher out of the arena—all the while the 10 bulls were running loose causing what mayhem they rapt.

I remember going to Huntsville eight, ten or maybe even twelve times and having seen many dangerous events throughout the northern half of the western hemisphere; but I have never seen a more exciting twenty seconds or so anywhere else in that region. Quite possibly there is not another twenty seconds of planed purely voluntary mayhem anywhere in the world.

I remember the one time that sticks out more in my memory than any other. I was probably thirteen at the time and my Dad and I had seats about three rows up behind the chutes on the right side looking into the arena. During the bull riding event, an inmate made a ride that will always stick out in my memory as the best ever. It so impressed my Dad that he actually said the same out loud—a very unusual occurrence I can assure you. The guard positing directly in front of us must have heard my Dad’s comment. He turned and looked back up at us and said: “He might even get better over time. He has ninety-nine years to practice!” His editorial on the ride has always stuck with me. At the time I couldn’t imagine anything lasting ninety-nine years.

I remember the last time I saw the rodeo. I took my wife and kids on the 10^th of October in 1982 during the time I was stationed in Bryan briefly after departing the Army. It had now become my turn to take my son (and daughter) to the best rodeo anywhere. Their only experience up until this time was a two chute event we had attended in New York staged on a race track; the entire arena less than the size of a basketball court.

I remember that my wife tells me I spend too much time in the past: I’m still happy that I can remember these times when others my age are can’t.

I remember it all like it was yesterday; but will be never again. Do you?

Will heating fuel reach Nome, Alaska in time? – 11 Jan 12

You may have seen the news and pictures covering the Russian fuel tanker Renda and the Coast Guard Cutter Healy (icebreaker) trying to provide a path for the tanker to reach Nome, Alaska. Will they get there in time?

Route of Renda & Healy map provided by the New York Times.

The area is a tough go at any time of the year, but especially in the winter months. The Bering Sea and the rate of freeze makes it even tougher—as soon as the Healy cuts a path, it freezes back. Check out the depth of ice in the pic above. (provided by the New York Times).

Russian tanker Renda & Coast Guard Cutter Healy – provided by the AP Photo &US Coast Guard - Petty Officer 1st Class Sara Francis

Nome, Alaska isn’t gonna run outta heating fuel—at least not anytime soon. Re-supply of petroleum products via air and Army personnel was tested as far back as the winter of 1972 – 1973 as far as I can attest.

I know this for a fact. I was there and the officers and soldiers of my platoon did the actual work.

We were re-supplied with product out of Elmendorf Air Force Base by a C-130 “Bladder Bird” a especially equipped cargo plane with fuel tanks which pumped fuel directly into our airlifted petroleum cargo trucks from Fort Richardson (both activities located just outside Anchorage, AK).

The operation above tested the movement and refueling of Army helicopters but the same procedures can be adapted to any fuel and any storage device.

Reprint from Fort Richardson community paper published after the test took place:

“Men responsible for refueling military vehicles and aircraft when the Army is on the move in Alaska tried new techniques last week during Exercise ACE CARD VI at Nome. Speedy fueling of more than 70 Army helicopters was accomplished during a single hour shift.”

“According to 2^nd Lieutenant Larry Wilson, the brigade’s petroleum, oil and lubricant (POL) officer, the refueling of all aircraft while their engines are still operating is routine, but this procedure is a first for the large, twin rotor CH-47 “Chinook” helicopter.”

“The aircraft fuel is dispensed from two 10,000 gallon fabric tanks (bladders). To distribute the fuel the men use three 350gallons-per-minute pumps (with separators to keep the fuel clean of dirt and water), and 2000 feet of hose. In an hour the men refueled a CH-54 “Flying Crane,” 11 CH-47 “Chinooks,” six AH-1G “Cobras,” 23 UH-1D “Hueys” and 30 CH-58 “Kiowas.”

“With wind chill temperatures ranging to 50 degrees below zero, with the primary hazard being frostbite, eleven soldiers alternately work in fifteen minute shifts, and handle the POL equipment. They must be extra careful, for fuel touching the skin will evaporate, causing quick cooling of the tissues and instantaneous frostbite.”

“During Exercise ACE CARD VI, the POL section handled 73 aircraft plus all other vehicles in the Brigade. In only two days the section dispensed 22,000 gallons of gasoline and 4,000 gallons of diesel fuel.”

Two points I would like to clarify here: (1) Larry Wilson was the 2nd POL officer to fill the position during my tenure as the Supply Platoon Leader (LTs: 1-Kring, 2-Wilson, 3-Brown and 4-Kuchta )and (2) the reporter confused the numbers on gallons dispensed. They should have read 22,000 gallons of jet fuel and 4000 gallons of diesel and Mogas. Be that as it may, in those two days they did a great job under some tough conditions.

I have very few pictures of the winter operations we were involved in as my camera (a Pe3tri, fully automatic 35mm) was frozen most of the time—I continually forgot about it and left in my jeep overnight and when time to use it presented itself; it failed to operate correctly.

I will, however, provide you with the two shots that follow:

2LT Larry Wilson at Eielson AFB a couple months prior to the Nome test

SGT Garcia & 2LT Doug Brown atop a 10,000 gallon fabric tank

So, just as the Alaska National Guard digs out the southern coastal city of Cordova, Alaska; the military contingent in Alaska has the where-with-all to insure that Nome does not run short of heating fuel.

By the way, I always ask this question every time I have the opportunity to show the Brown-Garcia shoot; can you guess what my very next action was subsequent to taking the photo that day?

Bigfoot Huntin’ with the Grandkids

A couple of weeks back, while attending the grandkids’ (Alison – 8 and Gavin – 5; 26^th and 22^nd of May respectively) birthday party in McKinney, both of them were so excited about a movie they recently seen. I men real excited! They couldn’t stop talking about it. As best as I could tell the movie centered on a young girl that encountered Bigfoot in some way or another; I never really understood the actual connection. I just couldn’t get to the why-she-tried-to-catch-Bigfoot reasoning.

All the way to the farm where their party was taking place, all they could talk about was how they would go about capturing Bigfoot. Gavin’s imagination completely ran away from him; I mean completely. What stuck out to me most was that the bait just had to be peanut butter—nothing else would do.

Alison ask me on the way back from the party if they could try to catch Bigfoot in the park near my house the next time they came to visit. My response was: “Of course we can. I heard that he has been seen many times right in that area.”

Every phone call from that date forward contained a short discussion about our up-coming expedition.—tactics, provisions, safety equipment and who would perform which task. Still, catching Bigfoot was the entire desire—planning the adventure was supreme. When I talked to them early in the week, I reminded them to be sure to bring hunting clothes; ya know, stuff that would blend in. As you might expect their mother didn’t follow the plan. These kids stuck out like sore thumbs—no camouflage considerations taken into account whatsoever.

I really didn’t put much effort into the plan until they arrived on Wednesday afternoon and I saw just how excited they were about the expectation of capturing Bigfoot. I knew then I was in for some trouble if I didn’t do it up as right as possible. My plan prior to their arrival included only ropes, binoculars, a sturdy wagon (old, extremely loud and squeaky from their uncle’s childhood) and a half used jar of peanut butter. My boast that after capture, we would haul it back to the house, clean it up, lock away in PupLand and charge a nominal price to view just prolonged their excitement.

My other grandson, Dilin (19) called Wednesday afternoon and ask if he could come down Friday for a week’s stay. Of course this just added to my need to make the hunting event all that it could be.

Wednesday afternoon after arriving, I told the kids that Dilin was coming Friday and we should plan to conduct a dry run on Saturday morning with all our tools and equipment. This way we would be well prepared for a full scale daybreak hunt on Sunday morning.

I happened to mention that a hunt was gonna take place on Facebook and soon had responses like: “How fun...good luck on the hunt.” or “Good luck on the hunt—that’s a very important mission you are going on.. Love those grandkids---“ or “Don't forget the little men in white suits w butterfly nets.” I had backed myself into a corner that was gonna be impossible to escape from.

After the kids and I finished our Friday morning constitutional I updated my Facebook page with news of our planning trek in the park area I had selected for our loop snare location. I almost immediately received more responses like: “Creating memories...good for you. Let us know the ‘rest of the story.’” My ability to extract myself from the corner was getting narrower all the time.

Alison and Gavin kept asking what our chances were of catching Bigfoot. Not having any real answers of substance I volunteered that “Bigfoot has been determined to have a fancy for Popeye’s chicken and is seen at the Manchaca Popeye’s several times a week. He is also been known to be sighted walking down the pipeline right-of-way carrying a tub of Popeye’s chicken munching on a wing or a leg while paying absolutely zero attention to the other inhabitants of the park: kids on the play-scape, women and men with dogs on leash and people just there for the morning or afternoon.”

We waited on Dilin’s arrival Friday evening to take supper and resume our discussing and planning for the morn’s adventure.

There’s no way out. I’m in for it and I now realize that fact.

Early Saturday morning, we awoke and eventually gathered for breakfast. Time was getting away from us, but I paid no attention at the time—a mistake I would later pay for. We casually sat and discussed what we were to do and before we realized what was happening, Little Gus and Little Otis were performing their morning routine of it’s-time-to-walk-nothing-else-will-do. The decibel level reaches a rating that one will even take them for a walk just for the peace that it will return.

Patsy, my wife, has been on the sideline for the entire time and has now only begun to show any desire to be part of the troubles. I grant her the position of photo journalist. For this she is grateful and prepares for her participation. I give her, once again, a short tutorage on taking pictures with my camera—a device we have had now going on four years. Oh, she has used it many times but each requires the same tutelage for the required operation. She probably wanted to join us all along.

Off we went. Trooping down the road to the park. The pups out front followed by Alison; the disinterested teenager (DIT), Dilin, on the opposite sidewalk; our photo journalist working her way around the entire procession taking pictures here and then there and all of us trailed by Gavin pulling the loud and squeaky wagon with our provisions—including the all important peanut butter.

Soon we arrive at the designated huntin’ grounds and eventually Gavin and the provisions make their way into our midst. I direct Gavin where I want him to stage the wagon and eventually we are ready to deploy our equipment.

To satisfy matters as best as possible, I deploy Gavin to his post in the tree and have him practice his alert call” “Ca – Caw-w-w, Ca – Caw-w-w.” He has it down; he must have practiced all night. Before walking away, Gavin ask me what he should do if Bigfoot comes after him. I responded with his question turned back on him: “What do you think you should do?”

Gavin, without loosing a breath came right back with: “I’ll smack him in the face.” his answer accented with a swift right cross. I nearly fell over as I stumbled over to the hide and tug area where Alison and I would position ourselves for the loop reduction phase of the capture. There I retrieved the mountain rope I had dug outta my duffle bag in the garage. I hadn’t had this out since I had last used it on Mount McKinley sometime back, maybe late 1972. As I strung it out, I had forgotten that it was 250 feet long and had to have Alison run off up the hill with one end so we could make sure it was kink-less; ya know there’s nothing worse than a kinky rope. Waiting on Ali to reach the top of the hill with her end, I noticed the danger associated with Gavin straddling the tree limb he was perched on and ask Dilin (the DIT) to position himself up there with Gavin to insure his safety. This he did immediately.

I tied a knot in my end of the really long rope and ask Ali to start back with her end. Upon her arrival we slid her end of the rope through my loop and started stretching out our BIG loop for our manual snare. I figured about twenty-five feet in diameter would do the trick—we didn’t want to take much of a chance with the stride of Bigfoot figuring he might be able to retrieve the peanut butter without being very near the jar. The rope being so far from the center of the capture area the need for camouflaging it was negated; this saved a lot of set-up time.

Now with the lookout in place and the loop deployed, it was time for Alison and I to discuss our loop retrieval and closure tactics (known throughout the Bigfoot hunting and capture world as the LRCT). We figured out the best positioning of the two of us in our hiding area and the exact method we would use in insuring the swift and efficient retrieval of the capture rope. With most everything worked out our final decision was to have my capture partner: (1) on my signal, (2) leap to their feet, (3) turn north, and (4) run as fast as they can while taking up as much slack as possible—get the picture?

Our biggest fear at this point was that Bigfoot would gain his feet and escape his bindings. We decided that the best recourse was for the DIT to leap from the tree at this juncture and swiftly begin wrapping tight loops of the capture rope around Bigfoot’s feet—holding him tight and immobile. DIT voted against this step but was solidly out voted by the other members of the capture team—outvoted as he was, he acquiesced to the plan.

Every thing was now in place and we then opened the jar of peanut butter and sat back to wait out our dry run simulation. Soon I realized that I was loosing attention with those of the shorter span—this could not be allowed to happen. It would mean total disaster.

Gavin seemed to be loosing attention despite our best efforts; even after being reminded that there was no whining (or crying) in baseball. Alison, having the best knowledge of what makes Gavin tick (or un-tick) suggested that she and he trade places. We move from behind our defilade spot and switch the two out at the lookout tree. Before you can say Bigfoot stinks, Gavin and I were back behind our log with both hands on the rope.

Realizing that we might drag on a little too long if we continue without action, I ask the photo journalist member of the team if she could possibly act as a stand-in for our prey. She reluctantly accepted and took position next to the peanut butter jar at ground zero.

Gavin and I started retrieving rope as fast as we could. Arriving at the point where I knew we need speed now more than stealth, I signaled Gavin to get up and run. He responded and off he went; north and then east (east not in the plan but his improvisation worked just the same). Before you can say: “We got fake-Bigfoot.” The loop was tight around the stand-ins ankles. While it went against our dry run rules, we decided that the DIT need not practice his leap and loop (L&L) technique. This quiet possibly could come back and haunt us tomorrow morning when we attempt a real capture but this is what we did.

While we retrieved and recoiled the capture rope we lost concentration on our tracking pups. Finally realizing what we were doing, I noticed the pups had found the jar of peanut butter and had consumed over half of it. This also just might put us in a bind for the Sunday morning capture attempt—we’ll have to just wait and see.

Some time later I downloaded the photo journalist pictures and posted a group of them on-line thereby soliciting comments like: “Looks like Bigfoot is in for it” and “ any sightings?”

Alison checked back on Facebook and read the comments and decided that we needed to respond to the question: “ any sightings?” to which we posted: “He's been spotted at the Popeye's several time in the past few weeks and the word is that he travels down the pipeline right-a-way that we intend to trap him on tomorrow morning. It has been so hot that we don't know how long we will be able to wait him out.”

That brought additional comments such as: “love it !! :)” and “You have officially lost it!” and “What a hoot!! I know your grandkids love being with you.” Later added to the fray was: “And just what would it be like to be the grandchild of HH? Exciting to say the least. Cute kids and Pups too-their old man isn't bad either.”

Coincidentally as I peck this out, the Animal Planet just happens to be broadcasting “Finding Bigfoot” with footage highlighting some of Bigfoot’s close realities like the Skunk Ape in the Florida panhandle. All things taken into account; ya might think the Animal Planet would have taken my needs into consideration just a bit more than they have and televised these segments prior to our expeditions. One of these days the powers that be are gonna hire me to be part of these type telecasts. They really, really need somebody that stands there when those guys say something like: “Did you hear that?” or “Did you see that?” when they experience typical Bigfoot behavior. I could be the guy that responds: “No-o-o-o-o. I didn’t hear anything! There was nothing out there. You guys are crazy; c-r-a-z-y!” But No, they haven’t called—at least not yet.

Sunday morning Patsy woke me about 0630 and asks if I was still going to follow through with the hunt. “Of course,” I responded. “The kids are expecting to hunt Bigfoot this morning and I’m not agonna be the one to disappoint them.” We hurried up with the upstairs prep. I went into the kid’s room and awakened Alison who was bright eyed almost immediately. Now Gavin took just a bit longer—some thirty-seven seconds. I went back to wash my face and turned around and the kids were standing there fully dressed with shoes and socks on—an unusual situation to say the least. With kids attached to one hand and pups attached to the other I made my way down stairs to wake the DIT.

All gathered in the kitchen I told them straight off: “If we’re going huntin’, we need to be off right now—we’re burning daylight.” Everybody responded in the affirmative and as I gathered some provisions: treats for the pups and three baggies of Honey Nut Cheerios for whomever; the assemblage headed for the front door—having to wait just a bit for the DIT who wasn’t quiet as fast as the remaining others. I cut through the garage to insure we had the loud and squeaky wagon, the jar of peanut butter bait, the capture rope and the capture team laying-on towels—after all, we aren’t roughing it all that bad—those towels are important.

Looking over the troops as we moved toward the huntin’ grounds, I complimented the entire group on their stick-to-itiveness and courage for their undertaking—a real fine lookin’ group. We made it through two or three courses of “A-hunting we will go” on the way to the grounds of skill and treachery. Practiced as they were, it took hardly any time at all for the team to set up the capture loop and make the remainder of the camp ready. Before ya can say “We gotcha Bigfoot” we were in place and hunkered down ready for what came our way—large, small, hairy, stinky, whatever and the clock still having reached only 0630 hrs.

An hour later and still no Bigfoot, I decided to ask the DIT if he would kindly stand in for the capture ape. He responded in the affirmative and moved from the tree to ground zero and took up a submissive position awaiting the tightening loop. While this was taking place, I remembered to get the half full jar of peanut butter just in case we need it for future endeavors—like a skunk ape, a chupacabra, an abominable snowman, a yeti, or anything big, hairy and stinky.

Ali and I started retrieving rope and when I gave the signal, she took off like a dear—man can that kid run? The DIT was bound in the loop faster than you can say “gotcha Bigfoot.” Alison started back with the rope and all started braking camp for the return trip home. The DIT even volunteered to coil the 250 foot rope, a task I was not looking forward to at all.

We gathered at ground zero and discussed whether or not our efforts were worthwhile and ask and answered the question: Did we have a good time? Yes. I agreed and told the team that the best part of huntin’ and coming away without a trophy was that we didn’t have to clean it—whe-e-e-w, I am glad we didn’t have to clean a Bigfoot.

After reaching home, downloading the new pictures, posting them on-line and recounting our adventure the comments started to roll in:

- “I love how you are teaching your treasures....to not need Toys-R-Us or Best-Buy to have fun!!”

- “Most is out of that crazy Hatfield Brain. No kidding aside, I agree you don't have to spend a fortune at the toy store for kids to have fun and to learn valuable life lessons.”

- “I think you caught lots of memories, and they last a lifetime...”

- “What fun! You are truly creative to have thought up such engaging entertainment for your grands!”

Isn’t that what it’s all about?

Quality BBQ – 2 - 11 Jul 11

Back on the trail of Quality BBQ this past weekend, we found ourselves, wife, son and I, in Llano at Cooper’s Old Time Bar-B-Que. You can find Cooper’s on Hy 29 West, crossing Hy 71. easy to get there, only about an hour out of Austin.

This is different from the Lockhart BBQ I reported on a few weeks ago—real different. Oh, you still pay by the pound all right, but their method is not the smoking method utilized down in Lockhart or over in Taylor. These guy cook BBQ like my Dad taught me some fifty-five years or so ago.

The first difference you will notice prior to ever getting inside the establishment—you don’t. The pit is outside and that’s where the line forms also. There is some sixty feet of covered area for the line to snake around on days when it’s real busy. We were lucky and hit there mid-afternoon and didn’t have to wait long at all. Like Smitty’s in Lockhart, you order from the guy currently cooking—that’s the last similarity to Lockhart.

There was the usual selection: beef ribs, pork loin, sausage and chicken. The main difference here was the thickest and biggest pork chop I have ever seen—affectionately known as the Big Chop. If you go for pork, who wouldn’t in their right mind, and believe you brought at least enough family members to cove a baseball field—a basketball team will not do the trick—the pork chop is the way to go. Upon making your selection, the cook will ask if you want it sauce dipped—I recommend fully that you take this option.

While I am a stickler for sauce and I far prefer my own, Cooper’s was better than most commercial I have had at these establishments. On a scale of 1 to 5 with 5 being the best: Cooper’s comes in at a sound 4 while Smitty’s places at a high 2 and maybe a low 3 at best. I take my recipe from my Dad and it still remains the only solid 5 I have ever tasted.

BBQ sauce should be stick-to-your-ribs thick. That’s right. It should drip off like water when you dip a rib, a piece of brisket, or even, if you happen to lean toward the yard bird fancy, a piece of chicken in it. I was brought up in a Southern family and gravy was always part of the meal. BBQ sauce should be like thickening gravy. It has to have the viscosity of 60 weight motor oil and old 60 weight motor oil at that.

My Dad taught my Mom to make his recipe not long, I am told, after they were married. He had picked it up in the late 1920s while working at a pig stand in south east Oklahoma. I stole it from watching her make it. I had to steal it as I wasn’t allowed in the house much at all when the pit was fired. It actually took me several years of passing through and stealing glances while she was putting it together before I ever decided I could make it on my own. But I got it after a while.

If its not a gravy, don’t call it BBQ sauce. I don’t know what it should be called, but it’s not BBQ sauce. If you have a name for it, leave me a comment.

The desert selection was better than Smitty’s also. That bowl of blackberry cobbler was outta this world—just like my Mom used to make.

Before I forget it; the pickles, bread and beans were free—that’s right, free. And beside that, they were good and you could go back for as many seconds as you could consume.

Our choices consisted of: two inch section of pork loin, 8 beef ribs, 4 sausage rounds, ½ chicken (somebody snuck it in, I didn’t notice it) and some slices of brisket (I don’t remember how many).

Because the meat is cooked over mesquite and the rubs they use are different than those in smoking BBQ, I enjoyed the flavors better at Cooper’s than the Lockhart versions. This is the way BBQ is supposed to be done—over a wood fire.

As a side note: that guy that didn’t like the plastic used in Lockhart will be glad to know that there were real silverware although the silver content was about as low as I have ever seen—but silverware nonetheless.

The Lockhart BBQs take their place near the top rung of Texas BBQ as much for the quantity of establishments located there as for the quality of their product and longevity. I have sampled two of the top three in Lockhart and do plan to finish off my third in the near future.

If I remember right, I gave Smitty’s a rating of 8.9 on a scale of 10. I would have to say that Cooper’s comes in just above that, somewhere around a 9.3 maybe.

All the way home, my son just kept saying: "That was good stuff." Over and over he repeated' "Good stuff."

There you have it. If you have a suggestion for an establishment you would like to see rated, please leave me a comment. If you don’t agree with the ratings recorded her; please provide your feedback. I would love to discuss them with you.