It’s been a bad week for Sports Heroes or has it?

It’s been a bad week for Sports Heroes or has it? It all depends on who you describe as a hero.

First, ya got your Lance Armstrong, or as I refer to him—Lance Madolph. We realize he has been falling for some time now, but those still riding his band wagon weren’t really sure until he told Oprah the dirty little news. The guy seems to be nothing more than a thug and a cheat—definitely not your everyday-run-of-the-mill hero.

Then we find out that Manti Te’o’s imaginary girlfriend most likely never existed even though he kept us up to date on the minute-by-minute developments of his hurt for more than a month after discovering that she didn’t die on the same day as his grand mother and never even existed at all. String-along-fiction at it’s best!

This morning I woke up to more bad news about still yet another sports hero. Stanley Frank Musial (Stan the Man) passed away Saturday at his home in St. Louis. This is a far better candidate for bad sports news than either of the two accounts above.

 

For more than 60 years I have maintained Stan the Man as my primary idol in the world of sports and a true hero—a far piece from the Johnny-come-latelies above—neither of which can reach the coat tales of the Cardinal Legend.

I first became a follower of Stan Musial listening to the Cardinal games over the radio as my family moved around the South, the Midwest, later the West and finally in Texas—the Cardinal games were always available on the radio; they being the most western existing team playing Major League Baseball at the time.

Then I got the chance of a lifetime for a kid born in the forties and growing up in the early fifties. While living in Taylorville, IL, my family chose to drive to St. Louis one sweltering August weekend to see the Brooklyn Dodgers play the St. Louis Cardinals in ole Sportsman Stadium. I thought I had been elected with a ticket to heaven.

We made the trip and I still have the program, the Cardinal yearbook and the Stan the Man bat I managed to talk my dad into buying for me—I don’t recall it being that hard of a task; he was a Cardinal man himself.

I know it’s one of those kid-bats, but it’s my Stan the Man Bat

Stan Musial was part of that Greatest Generation and even took a year off in 1945 to serve in the Navy during World War II—you wouldn’t catch either of the above serving anywhere that wasn’t in their money grubbing future.

Musial, while playing 22 years with the Cardinals, won the batting title seven times, hitting .300 or better for 16 straight seasons, played on three World Champion Teams, won the Most Valuable Player (MVP) award three times, played in 24 All-star games (tying a record) and held the National League record for hits.

One of my fondest memories came in the late 70s during a trip to Cooperstown when I had the opportunity to stand beside the locker of Stan the Man and introduce my son to the record plaques hanging on the wall of the top ten record holders in all the primary statistical holders in baseball up to that time. At the top of most and mixed somewhere in the top ten of all was the name Stan Musial. He was simply the best at what he did and held that level for a long, long time.

Oh, that game in August of 1951, the Cardinals won by-the-way. There were some very memorable names on the field that day— Enos Slaughter (9) and Red Schoendienst (2) for the Cardinals and Roy Campanella (39), Pee Wee Reese (1), Jackie Robinson (42), Duke Snider (4) and Dick Williams (38) for the Brooklyn Dodgers (for the sake of space; I’ll just name the eventual Hall of Fame members on the field that day). But I came to see  Stan Musial (6).

“A large bronze statute erected outside Busch Stadium II and then moved to the newest Busch Stadium carries the words uttered by then commissioner Ford C. Frick the day Musial retired, on Sept. 29, 1963. Frick said: “Here stands baseball’s perfect warrior. Here stands baseball’s perfect knight.”” (“Cardinal’s Hall of Famer Stan Musial dies at age 92” R.B. Fallstrom, The Associated Press, Jan. 20, 2013)

That's me in front of the Musial statue referenced above on a pilgrimage to the Stadium.

Will we ever see another the likes of Stan the Man?

Fenway @ 100

On the 20^th of April in 1912, Fenway Park opened its doors for the first time to Major League Baseball. Today marks the one hundredth anniversary of that occasion—that is 100 years for you that are numerically challenged. Fittingly enough, the Red Sox’s opponents on that day were the New York Yankees. Again, today’s Red Sox opponent will be the New York Yankees—100 years later. In 1912 the Red Sox won and the rest is history, right up to today.

I have never been to a game at Fenway—have always wanted to but so far the stars have not aligned—far too many armadillos in the back yard is my best guess. So, I’m guessing this desire calls for the formulation of that great American nostalgic undertaking—a Road Trip. Maybe I can talk my son into a short jaunt to the New England area in the near future. I would really like to take in a game at Fenway. I think my son may have already been there; he’ll probably let me know just as soon as he sees this peace. I was in town (Boston for those MLB challenged out there) one weekend when the Red Sox were in town, but was accompanied by a bunch of fuddy-duddies that were not baseball fans and the opportunity escaped my reach—I have been told that there are six or eight Red Blooded Americans that aren’t MLB fans out there some where.

How often do you get to be connected with history? The chance to watch and feel the tingle of a game (any game for that matter) being played in a stadium that reaches back into history one hundred years should not be looked on with the slightest bit of trepidation. If ya got the chance, take it,

I have encountered the opportunity to do so several times over the span of years I have been walking this Earth and have never regretted taking the chance any of those thrilling times. Sometimes it has to become a memory that comes back to you later when you realize that the chance of it ever happening again is now gone forever. Twice while stationed in the New York area in the early 80s my wife Patsy and the kids, Joe and Stephanie, had a like opportunity. A visit from my parents, Dutch and Anne from Texas, found us at the top of the Empire State Building and the Statue of Liberty on the same day. Both of my parents are no longer with us, but Man, what a memory? The other opportunity that I will never forget was the trip the wife, kids and I took into Manhattan one weekend and rode the elevators to the top of World Trade Center #1. Walking out on that observation deck and realizing you were a quarter mile closer to Heaven was amazing—but never again!

Watching the news on CBS this morning, they had a segment on Fenway @ 100 and Erica Hill ( a self professed “life long Yankee fan”) said that she had attended school in Boston and her dad had reminded her not to root for the Red Sox, but her impression of exiting the tunnel to gaze upon the grounds at Fenway took her breath away. This also got me to remembering back.

I have written here in the past about my early trip to see the Cardinals play the Dodgers in 1951 and the thrill that was to me—eight future Hall of Famers on the field that day. On equal stance within my memory vault is another trip in April of 1979 that three of us from my Army days (Dick Ellis, Mike Longwell and I) stopping off on our way back to West Point at Yankee Stadium to buy a scalper’s ticket to see a Yankee game that evening.

Upon arriving on the scene of Old Yankee Stadium—not the New Yankee Stadium on today, the Old Yankee Stadium, the House that Ruth built—we happened upon a group of cops who just so happened to be members of the same National Guard unit we had visited just that same day. They parked our van on the street right in front of the stadium and promised us it would be safe and there when the game was over—they watched it and it was there when we exited for our trip home.

But—I need to get to the memory—the best and most amazing part of the entire night was not the game, who was on the field or any specific play that night. No, the thrill was exiting the tunnel and first casting my eyes on the playing field of Yankee Stadium for the first time. Your breath departs your body or you forget to breathe; whatever it is, you are stopped dead in your tracks. I’m not sure you heart beats for a moment or two. It is a feeling you have to experience; one can not adequately describe. It has to be lived.

If you have the chance some time today, take a moment and dig into your vault of memories and dredge up a connection with history. See how it makes you feel. I recommend the trip. Leave me a comment describing your discovery. Your day will be the better for doing so. Take my word for it.

Meeting of the Executive Committee of SFA graduates in the Austin Area

Well, I am finally home from the meeting of the Executive Committee of SFA graduates in the Austin area. The employees of the Red Lobster off 183 ran us out just a few minutes ago. It seems that they had to close the restaurant so they could open it for the next days activities—weird rule but they seemed to know what they were talking about.

Neither Bobby nor I had seen hide nor hair of Jimmy Phipps since graduation from Texas A&M back in 1970. Forty plus years had gone by just like an overnight.

We managed to induct Jimmy onto the Executive Committee prior to starting any discussion on world peace, the state of the union or the solving of hunger throughout the globe—a hard task, but we managed.

Taking seats in the booth we started in on the questioning of Mr. Phipps: where he had been over the last forty years; what he had accomplished; and what his plans were for the future.

Due to the fact that there were two old military types the conversation naturally revolved around the telling of experienced “war stories”—all of which were true I am sure. Have you ever heard a war story that you even had the slightest bit of doubt as to its authenticity?

We allowed Jimmy to tell several prior to the gauntlet being thrown down. During the telling of an adventure he detailed about an event while stationed at Fort Riley, Kansas, Jimmy mentioned that there was nothing between the North Pole and Fort Riley—obviously trying to one-up the cold factor on the entire assemblage. His account of the cold was most likely true to anybody having not ventured north of the Lower 48 but I couldn’t let the challenge pass.

At this time in the tales of the past Jimmy did not yet know of my traveling. I took the opportunity to interject that I was between the North Pole and Fort Riley for the four years I spent on my first tour of duty in the Army and had better first hand knowledge of just what the effects of the Hawk could be. In fact, the Hawk checked in with us prior to heading south. Cold? Man, let me tell ya ‘bout Cold..

After this confrontation we moved on to each of us attempting to one-up one another time and again with our best stories concerning: Fort Hood adventures, flights on C-141s, flights on C-130s, mountain adventures, Fort Drum adventures……..

At the end of each inning, Bobby would add his editorial comments and we would move right back to the confrontation.

The process took an hour to get through our salads and two waiters//waitresses before we ordered lunch.

Once in a while, the conversation would move toward the politics of the state, the nation and the world. Each appropriately adding their own two cents (never more) about the current subject prior to moving on to the next somewhat related (not a requirement) war story and extra innings.

Eventually the waiters forced us to order a meal which was pretty much engulfed without the interruption of the current conflict being described by who’s ever turn it was.

Boy! What a time we had.

I want to publicly thank Big Bucks Bobby for picking up the check. By the way, he promised to do so again whenever we meet north of the Colorado River—this is an option I will not soon forget.

By the time they asked us to leave, the restaurant had ran out of both coffee and iced tea—both sweetened and unsweetened. As I was sitting on the inside and both Bobby and Jimmy had outside seats, the lack of non-alcoholic libations was probably a good thing at this time; I know I was beginning to feel the urge.

We resolved to meet again as soon as we all recovered from “war story overload.”

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?

Heroes are subjective entities!

Did you have heroes as a kid? I did. There were many of them. I considered myself fortunate to have heroes. Sometimes, hero worship could be the best part of the day. Strap that six-gun on your hip, grab a brother or a neighbor and go outside and take up where you left off the day before with Roy Rogers or Gene Autry—could there be anything better? Having the chance to meet your heroes was even better. I actually had that opportunity early in life. The custom in the days of my youth was for the cowboy stars of TV and movies to perform at rodeos. At the end of their act, they would ride around the arena apron and shake hands with the throng lined up for the chance.

In the early winter of 1954 at the Cow Palace in Denver, CO, I shook the hand of Gene Autry—I didn’t think it could get any better than that. Then some three or four years later, I again had a similar chance and managed to shake the hands of Roy Rogers and Dale Evens at the Houston Fat Stock Show Rodeo—my life could have ended that day and it would have been complete; at least I thought so at the time. I guess that my one failure in this area is that I never had the chance to shake the hand of Matt Dilon from Gunsmoke fame. Matt was not initially a hero but his impact wore on me as time moved on and finally won me over.

Heroes are very subjective beings. They often come and go throughout our lives. Our desires and interests change or we move on to the next phase of our lives. It was after the second summer that I spent roomin’ with Dutch that I finally got around to figuring out just who were my real heroes. I remembered back: that guy that took me to work with him in the fields of Colorado, Montana and later Texas; that guy that managed to have Santa leave my first bicycle in Colorado the Christmas of 1953 and spent time helping me learn to ride over the next several weeks it in the ice, slush and snow; that guy who played pitch and catch in the yard in front of our trailer house when it came time to join me up for Little League (he also spent every game in the stands watching me play when he was in town); that guy that would knock off work early some afternoons when I tagged along with the crew just so we all could try our luck in a farmer’s pond or stock tank; and that guy that bought me my first shotgun and insured that I knew the rules and found me a place or two to see that I did. That’s the guy that later turned out to be my real hero—I had figured out that the TV and movies were just play-like as he used to remind me.

Howard H. "Dutch" Hatfield (1911 - 1993)

I bet you had heroes also. Who were yours?

Yesterday was Election Day - Fond memories of Jesse James & more - 09 Nov 11

Did you get out and vote yesterday?

Sitting here in the kitchen this morning, I got to remembering elections of the past. Nostalgic, you might say? I’m OK with that? It was just me and my pups so the feeling wasn’t rampant and actually took us exactly nowhere.

In my early adulthood days and primarily during the 1970s I was in the military serving in such foreign lands as Alaska, Virginia, North Carolina and New York—foreign to a Texan, at least. Because of this fact, I was left to cast my ballot via absentee.

Every year I would send to the State of Texas for my ballot and finally receive it in the mail with plenty of time to study it and return it via the same, U. S. Mail—regardless of the foreign land I was currently stationed.

I always took the opportunity to take that same ballot to work with me and brag a little bit about my activity—a pure Texan activity you understand?

Pursuing the names on the ballot always brought a bit of laughter from my associates. The reason will become obvious the further I relate the specific circumstances.

For most of the 1970s, one name always appeared on the Texas ballot at the State level regardless of who else was running. This name brought the questions of the validity of the document that I would proudly show around the area. Most thought that I had somehow made the entire document up and was just doing it to get a laugh—not so, not by a long shot. It was as real as it could be.

Right there about the 3^rd or 4^th office down was the name: Jesse James, a Democrat running for State treasurer. Most of the office holders at that time in our state’s history were Democrats—not nearly the case today. But there it was, one of the most famous names in American History and obviously not a name anyone would associate wit the position of State treasurer.

For those that don’t remember, Jesse James (Oct 1904 – Sep 1977) was the longest serving Texas State Treasurer; having held the post from 1941 until his death in office in 1977—appointed to the position by Governor Coke Stevenson when Charley Lockhart became ill and could no longer serve. Then duly elected and reelected over and over, year in and year out from that time on.

The second point of contention associated with my absentee ballot was the device furnished by the Secretary of State to be used in the recording my votes onto//into the actual ballot. The instructions included a statement (I wish I could locate the copy I have retained all these years; I think maybe my wife might have thrown it out.) advising (more like a warning than a piece of advise) me that I was “to use the provided device to punch the holes in the ballot and only the provided device to punch the holes.” This was odd for reasons I will clear up in a moment.

I would show the warning and the device around the office and have my associates read the instructions. They all would look at me with this dear-in-the-headlights grin and ask: “How they gonna know?” My only response was: “Oh, they’ll know. We’re dealing with the State of Texas here!”

The ballot itself was sort of the consistency of one of those manila envelopes and had a Styrofoam backing—those hanging shads had to go somewhere. I was always amazed that the State allowed me to keep the poking device—after being so specific about it’s use, one might have assumed that they would want it back to reuse next election day. Not so, they never requested it back.

The all-important device came taped across the bottom of the ballot itself. Right there for all to see was one of those large paper clips—not just one of those used to lip three or four pages together, but that big kind—suitable for heavy duty work. Now, it wasn’t just your everyday paper clip. No, not by a long shot. This clip had one of the legs bent straight so you could get a real hold on it prior to tackling and punching that ballot—a task not up to just your ordinary man without the aide of such a device which could be supplied ONLY by the State of Texas.

Needless to say; I followed the instructions to the letter. I didn’t want a all expenses paid trip to Huntsville the next time I showed my rosy red cheeks in the State.

I welcome your comments and remembrances of election days past. Please leave a comment.

Ever hear a song that conks ya on your head full of memories?

Driving to the grocery store just now I heard an old tune on my Sirius XM satellite radio that made me almost pull over to the side of the road and think for just the slightest bit of time.

“Primrose lane, life’s a holiday on Primrose Lane, just a holiday on Primrose Lane with yo-u-u-u!

Can’t explain, when were walking down the Primrose lane, even roses bloomin’ in the rain, with yo-u-u-u!”

Go to You Tube and give a listen while you read the rest: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9Hj-UcZOowU&feature=related

I sat there and thought back to the time that this song had significant meaning to me. Did you ever do that?

At the time I was a 6^th grader and on top of the world—at least at Crockett Elementary. That may not be the case anymore—a lot of 6^th grades are now in middle schools. I guess that makes the 6^th graders just little fish in big ponds—a shame don’t you think (unless you are the 5^th grader and king//queen of all you survey.

Mr. Peter Newman's 6th grade classroom

At any rate, there I was on my way to dance class. I had no idea what was waiting on me. I couldn’t dance. My mom hadn’t taught me. I didn’t know my left foot from my right—al right, that my be an exaggeration and a complete stretch of the truth. I wasn’t dumb; but in a lot of ways I was as dumb as a rock.

We unloaded and were ushered inside. Then the meanest man on the face of the earth took over, Manning Smith. He was about to push the limit of my courage, my mind and my existence or so I thought at the time. You remember Manning Smith. He was the center of all our worlds for a year or two at that time in our lives.

Somehow once we were inside all the boys seemed to congregate on the west side of the room and the girls were stationed on the east side. Remember that huge dance floor at the KC Hall? I guess we just naturally gravitated to our positions in life.

We all knew each other but somehow this was a different situation; sorta like a battlefield, don’t ya think? Well, there we stood fearin’ the worst.

I do not recall the exact words, but soon they were uttered and the time had come: “Gentlemen, cross the hall and ask one of the girls to dance, taking her hand and leading her to the center of the floor.”

Now what? Fear struck at my very heart. What would I do? Could I do it? What if I trip? Who would I pick? Who could I pick? What if I ask one and she says NO?

There was a cute redhead that I sorta had a crush on, but I couldn’t ask her; could I? The lump in my throat got to be about the size of a football, maybe worse.

I had to go; all the other guys were headed that direction. Was any of them as afraid as I was? I looked around and couldn’t tell. Every male in the room was shuffling there feet in the same direction as I was; some faster than the others but all headed that direction.

I remember scanning the entire bevy of beauties across the hall and still had not a clue where I should end up. I bet I started six or eight directions, probably all at the same time—how I stayed on my feet I will never know.

Somewhere about 13 and a ¼ inches from the edge of the earth I finally made my decision. I didn’t pick the girl I had the crush on. I instead chose a friend that I had know for the entire time I had been at the knowledgeable institution that we both attended. She also was a redhead; but this one I could talk to and not be afraid. She was just about the easiest person in the world to be with at that point in time in our lives (I know you will agree). She was almost six inches taller than me at the time and I know that must have looked a little odd on the dance floor, but all the girls were taller than me at the time—it was the 6^th grade after all. It wasn’t that she was the safe choice. It was all because I knew it was just the right thing to do at the time; even as a 6^th grader. I bet I felt like I was Chuck Taylor and had just broke the sound barrier for the first time—I had asked a girl to dance.

I’m not positive that Mr. Smith played “Primrose Lane” as the first song that we would start our two semester trek of learning to dance so as to not embarrass ourselves at our 6^th grade graduation dance. But to the best of my memory that song has stuck with me all these years as the one I remember best that was perfect for the exact place and time—we were all walking down a primrose lane. Eventually I would dance with many members of that 6^th grade class. After awhile, it wasn’t that hard a task.

I do know that I couldn’t have made a better choice in my 1^st partner that warm September evening; thanks Jane Nabors. I never would have made it without you.

“Primrose lane, life’s a holiday on Primrose Lane, just a holiday on Primrose Lane with yo-u-u-u!

Can’t explain, when were walking down the Primrose lane, even roses bloomin’ in the rain, with yo-u-u-u!”

What do you do when you hear a song like this that brings back memories like a 2X4?

D. B. Cooper - The Myth and My Folly – a small world

Is there anything that every time it rears its ugly (or not so ugly) head that it gets you excited beyond the norm?

A blurb in the newspaper and a TV news teaser I heard just the last several words of this past Monday evening did it to me again. Why am I so tied to this one weird event that I dig for every little tidbit I can find and watch every TV documentary on it that I can find? You tell me. I just can’t get enough of it.

It seems that the FBI is now investigating a “suspect” that died over ten years ago as the possible 1971 hijacker D. B. Cooper. Ole DB, can you believe it? He’s back in the news again. He became infamous some forty years ago come the 24th November of this year. Forty years is a long time to be a reoccurring infamous celebrity.

I remember the day well—24 Nov 71. Again, I ask you to tell me why? I had been in Alaska (US Army) a little over a year when we were alerted that we may be involved in a possible search and rescue mission due to a airline hijacking that had taken place in the Lower 48 with a possibility of heading our direction. It didn’t; but we were ready in any event. According to those flying the aircraft departing SEATAC, they headed to Mexico instead.

The hijacker, originally identified as “Dan Cooper” allegedly jumped out the back door ramp somewhere over western Oregon. A later goof-up or typo misidentified Dan as D. B. and that is what has stuck for ever more.

Original FBI sketch of hijacker

Any logical thinking individual might think a first lieutenant in the United States Army would never again become involved with the myth of D. B. Cooper. I went home to the family that night thinking that exact same thing—I would never hear another word or ever again be involved with D. B. Cooper, ever again. Well, maybe most of you reading this just might not fit that category. I’ll tell you why if you stick with me for a moment.

FBI wanted poster

I eventually finished my tour in Alaska (4 years) and rotated back stateside to Ft Lee, Virginia (4 months) and eventually landing up in the Corps Support Command at Fort Bragg, North Carolina—December 1974.

Some two years later while serving as the Commander of Headquarters and Headquarters Company of that same Corps Support Command my First Sergeant came into my office and alerted me to the fact that there was a FBI agent in his office that wanted to talk with me. 1SG Juntiff ask: “Have you been up to something?”

I responded: “No Top. I have no idea what he could want. Maybe it has something to do with Denny.” Denny (name changed to protect me from a long standing murder threat) was a soldier I was currently court-martialing primarily for lying to me. There’s more to that small world story I will have to tell another time, not right now.

“Show him in Top and let’s see what this is all about.” Juntiff went back to get the agent. Presently they came in; the agent sitting in the chair in front of my desk and Juntiff took a seat to my right. Immediately the agent asks Juntiff to leave stating that our conversation was to be confidential. Juntiff didn’t like this but complied.

Over the next thirty minutes or so this FBI agent relates the particulars of his investigation and the task he wants my help carrying out. It just so happens he’s the lead investigator on the D. B. Cooper investigation. Right! If I recall correctly when he told me this might open mouth, jaw dropping response was an extremely intelligent: “What?” I just sat there dumb founded for a minute, maybe more then I related my previous involvement to him. It was his turn to utter an intelligent response. He didn’t. He just lept moving forward with his plan, his thoughts and his request. He was an old hat at this. He had probably ran across smart guys like me before—maybe not many, but a few.

He explained the FBI’s current line of thought: (1) D. B. Cooper may have been in the military at some time or was still currently serving; (2) D. B. Cooper may have been jump qualified; (3) D. B. Cooper may have been active military at the time of the incident, but on leave from his current assignment; and (4) D. B. Cooper had a fairly rigid physical description—the aircraft crew had spent quiet a bit of time with him during the two flights involved in the hijacking. His task was to get a close-up look at a particular master sergeant (E8) within my company to determine his match to the situation or cross him off the list.

The subterfuge for getting close to the suspect required my assistance. Right, the FBI needed me to help find D. B. Cooper. Can you believe it? The FBI wanted me to lead them to D. B. Cooper.

The agent then told me who we were gonna go look over. I again donned my dropped jaw and open mouth attitude. I couldn’t believe it. I knew the guy well. I had worked with him previously several times in both garrison and on field exercises. He was probably the best thought of NCO in the Deputy Chief of Staff for Security, Operations, Training and Intelligence (SOTI) department. He wasn’t just well thought of; he was a great guy to work with.

It seems that MSG L*******, jump qualified and serving with an airborne unit in Germany was home on leave in the Pacific Northwest and the actual time of the hijacking. The FBI had made an extensive search of all military personnel records of those soldiers serving at that same period of time. MSG L****** fit the profile perfectly.

OK, so we’re gonna go scope him put. I could get us easily into the section where he worked, then what? We mutually agreed to work our way through the entire building (an old World War II style operations building) acting as though we were inspecting the air conditioning duct work along the room ceilings while taking notes on conditions and specifics as we moved through the areas.

We left my office and walked the ¾ miles down to the SOTI building and started our ruse. As you might imagine, not one sole questioned our presence or actions. We quickly went from room to room acting out our plan eventually ending up in the operations area where MSG L****** worked. As we worked our way around the office, we eventually wound up next to L******’s desk. I surprised my comrade by introducing him directly to MSG L******. He never flinched and actually asked several questions about the ductwork.

Soon we were back on our way to my headquarters and Juntiff. I asked the agent what his thoughts were at the time and he never gave any indication one way or the other as to what he might be thinking—he might have been mad at me for stretching the encounter out; he never said. As soon as we got to the HQ building, he broke off, went to his car and left; first giving me the warning that I was to talk with no one about the encounter we had just conducted.

Going inside, Juntiff followed me straight into my office and grilled me about what had taken place. I responded to his questions by commenting that the information was confidential, close hold and I was not at liberty to divulge. He understood—a NCO with 27+ years in the service knew when to let go.

Some four years later while I was serving as an adviser and consultant to the Army National Guard and Reserve units in New York City, on Long Island and eastern New York state and stationed at the United States Military Academy (West Point), I heard that an eight year old boy had found something like $20,000 (in $20 denominations) while hiking along a river bed of the Columbia River near Portland, Oregon.

Money recovered in 1980

Then for a long time I heard nothing, except maybe on every 5^th or 10^th anniversary of the hijacking. The national news broadcasts would run a short blurb and everybody’s brother would tip off the authorities on their dis-favorite brother-in-law.

That was the last I heard of D. B. Cooper until March 2008, the man who had found the cash as an eight year old decided to sell some of it and again in April of 2008 a decaying parachute was recovered in the presumed landing area.

Updated sketch with age added

Over the years D. B. Cooper has become an American Hero; even as a criminal he has a following. There are websites all over the net dedicating space to him. Here are a couple that I found interesting; not for their content but for the way they present the information: http://wn.com/D_B_Cooper (The greatest unsolved mystery.) and http://www.pakistan-karachi.info/D._B._Cooper (It connects all the dots). Check them out.

Composite of all sketches with color added

D. B. Cooper portrayed as an American Hero

Now we are being told that ole D. B. might have past away of natural causes some ten years ago. Can it be? I just know that it can be a small world when far flung events keep coming back right at you over and over.

I bet you a dollar to a doughnut that there’ not a man, woman or child out there that hopes that this claim is not true.

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.