In my life, I have seen a lot of really cool things. Anytime I want, I can close my eyes and see each one of them as they happened...they were that memorable.
Take the day I was sitting on the edge of a cliff near Thule AB, Greenland with several friends. The view of the ice over Baffin Bay with Saunders Island in the distance was nice enough. But then someone pointed out a small, dark, moving dot on the ice to the south. All of us sat there, keeping an eye on the dot as it got larger and larger. It wasn't long before we realized we were watching an Inuit Eskimo on his dog sled heading home after a hunt. We watched him pass by in total silence. When he then became a small, dark, moving dot on the ice to the north, we left. No one said a word. It was an amazing sight.
Months later, I was down near the docks at Thule when a sound from North Star Bay (the small bay Thule was near) drew my attention. I looked up and at that moment, watched an iceberg roll over in the water. I continued to watch as waves of water moved out from around the berg and washed onto a nearby shore. Between the sound the rolling iceberg, it was an amazing sight.
A couple of years earlier, I was at Fairchild AFB, Washington. It was the day of the annual air show at the base, May 18, 1980. But I never saw the air show. No one did. That morning, Mt. St. Helens, a volcano 300 miles west of where I was, erupted. By the time I got to the show, there was a massive, black cloud of ash on the western horizon growing larger and larger. By 2 pm that formerly beautiful Saturday, it was pitch black outside. I watched it get darker and darker and watched as the sun turned blue in color. I watched as lightning in the colors of pink, green, orange, red and other colors, streaked through the dark sky. And I watched as gray flakes of ash fell around me. In the end, five inches of ash lay on the ground. It was an amazing sight.
Two years before that, I was stationed at Aviano AB, Italy. The base was located at the foot of the Dolomite Mountains, part of the Italian Alps. It was a great place to be stationed. One evening, after I had finished working on the base newspaper (my job was editor of the paper), I was returning from Pordenone, where the paper was printed, when I noticed a thunderstorm forming about midway up the mountains. After I had arrived at a bar I frequented, I went in and found my friends sitting in a booth near the door. I took a seat with them which had a good view out the window of the storm in the mountains. Now, if you know anything about me, you know I love a good storm. So I sat there and watched as lightning strikes flashed, and listened as the thunder echoed through the area. Then I saw something I had never seen before. I saw ball lightning. It wasn't little eight inch balls of glowing plasma or anything like that. It was lightning rolled into a ball. And it wasn't just one...it was three balls. They slowly fell from the sky looking like glowing spaghetti rolled into a loose ball. When the three objects landed, they bounced once or twice then sat on the ground. Because they landed almost on top of a nearby car, I could estimate their sizes. Two were maybe four feet in diameter, possibly three, and the third was twice their size. I was frozen to what I was seeing out the window. For maybe 10 seconds, the three balls sat on the ground, sparkling. I don't know any other way to describe it, but they crackled and sparkled, and suddenly, they exploded. The lights in the bar dimmed, the sound of massive thunder echoed through the land and the balls of lightning were gone. It was an amazing sight.
In October 1973, I was nearing the end of my first term of service in the US Air Force and was stationed at Kincheloe AFB, in the upper peninsula of Michigan. The base was situated in the middle of the northern woods not far from Interstate 75. On a particularly, windy day, I was outside with some friends. We were trying to toss a football around, when a sound was heard in the trees. At first, no one knew what the sound was. But our confusion was short-lived as suddenly, millions of brown, dry leaves, being pushed by the wind, came out of the trees and covered the open area we were standing in. The leaves were 12-18 inches deep and moving as fast as the wind, maybe 25 mph. The leaves flowed all around us and continued for a good 10 minutes. When I would look down at my feet, I would get dizzy looking at the movement of the leaves. I squatted down and put my hands in the path of the oncoming leaves and they would flow up my arms and over my shoulders and continue their journey to the other side of the open area. One of my friends said it looked like I was a lump of leaves in the middle of an ocean of leaves. And as quickly as the leaves arrived, they were gone, back into the trees on the other side. A look around the area we were in showed not a leaf to be seen. It was one of the most amazing sights I had ever experienced.
These are but a few of the wonders I have seen. I have been through earthquakes which did strange things, I was less than 10 miles away from one of the most powerful volcanic eruptions of the 20th Century, I have watched some of the most amazing meteor showers ever seen and I have seen animals do some of the strangest things.
Most of what I have seen is hard to believe. But they happened and they happened to me.
I am just soooo glad I was in the right place, at the right time, to see all the amazing things I have seen.
Sunday, November 25, 2007
Monday, November 12, 2007
Where is the thrill?
If you have read my previous posts, you know I am a Cubs fan. I do like the Chicago Cubs. I went to my first ballgame in Wrigley Field so long ago, I don't remember when it was. But I remember seeing a lot of games there after that first one.
I remember going to Stan Musial's last away game before he retired. I remember seeing Maury Wills steal two bases in one at bat. I remember seeing Lou Brock play in his first game before he was traded. I remember watching Kenny Holtzman take a no-hitter into the ninth and watched as Maury Wills spoiled it with a single. I remember a lot of games Wrigley Field.
It's been a long time since I watched a game live at Wrigley. Twelve years ago, I spent six weeks in a brownstone only three blocks away from Wrigley. It was during the hottest summer Chicago ever had. Temperatures rose to 105 or more and with the humidity, felt like 125 or more. Coming from a desert climate, I could take the heat, but that humidity I couldn't. More than 500 people passed away during the heat spell.
One day when the Cubs were in town, I decided I would walk up to Wrigley, buy myself a ticket and watch a game. I never made it. I got halfway there and the heat and humidity had drained me. I stopped in at a bar I passed by and since they were showing the game, I ordered myself a Fosters, leaned back in booth I was sitting in and enjoyed not only the game, but the beautiful waitress taking care of the area I was sitting. The Cubs lost the game, but I didn't care. Cubs fans get over losses quickly. It's simple...there's always tomorrow in their mind.
Earlier this evening, I watched a movie called Fever Pitch. The male lead in the movie was an out-of-the-envelope Boston Red Sox fan. His apartment was wall-to-wall Red Sox. I've seen that before in other sports fans. They let anyone and everyone know who they root for. Walk into my place, and you'd wonder if I was a sports fan of anything. Hanging on my wall is a laminated poster a friend gave me back around 1988. It's an outrageous depiction of a Cubs game in Wrigley Field. Look closely and you'll see Dorothy and Toto...the Tinman and Scarecrow...Waldo...and many other characters. I'm sure the Cowardly Lion is in the crowd somewhere, but I haven't found him yet.
And on top of my desk you'll see a Jimmie Johnson pad of paper.
That's it. Two of the three sports I really enjoy...baseball and NASCAR racing. The third sport is air racing, especially the Red Bull World Series of Air Racing. I don't have a particular favorite pilot, but if I did, I think it would be Peter "The Hungarian" Besenyei.
What about other sports, you ask? There aren't any other sports in my mind. Everything else is a timed competition...football - 60 minutes; basketball - 48 minutes; ice hockey - 60 minutes...and other so-called sporting events. Baseball and racing...those are sports.
A baseball game can theoretically last forever. As long as the home team ties the game in the bottom of the inning, it goes on. It's a team sport where nine players do their best to overcome the capabilities of nine other players. There is no clock for the teams to watch, and use...just a scoreboard. And to top it all off, the offense is one person facing nine others with a wooden stick...so to speak. There could be as many as three more offensive players involved, but the main thrust is the one man in the box waiting for the pitch. The team will live or die by his actions. Now that's a sporting competition. The goal, of course, is to win the game.
Racing, though not really "timed," does have specific goal. That goal is to be the first person across the finish line at the end of a set amount of laps around the track. For the most part, the only time a clock comes in to play is when a driver goes to his (or her) pit for fueling or fixing bad parts. A clock is also used to check how fast a driver is going, but that information has very little to do with the actual race. Auto racing is another sport where one team does their best to overcome the capabilities of another team. A pit crew can win or lose for a driver just as easily as a driver can win or lose the race himself. It's the driver's skill in negotiating his vehicle around the track, combined with the pit crew's ability to quickly refuel, change tires and in some cases, make minor adjustments to the vehicle, that make a winner. And if either one is not at the top of their game, someone else will cross the finish line first.
Red Bull Air Racing also uses a clock. But it pits each pilot against each other using the clock as a means to determine the best. In previous years, eight pilots would qualify to fly the final day and each one would be put up against the seven other pilots. When all qualifying pilots have flown their final time around the course, the one with the best would be the winner. This year is a bit different. The pilots with the eight best qualifying times are in the final day of racing. Based on their times in their final qualifying run, they are seeded against each other. The fastest pilot is seeded against the eighth fastest, the second fastest against the seventh and so on. As each seeded race in finished, the pilot with the fastest time goes on to the next level. In the final race, it's the two pilots with the best times in their previous races against each other for the top spot on the podium. It's skill versus skill in the end.
I haven't been to the Reno Air Races, but I have seen the race on television. It's the pilot's ability for the most part which wins the race, but the people behind the scene who fix the aircraft, tune the engine, wax the surfaces and generally make sure the bird is ready to fly at it's peak performance have a lot to do with it also. There, heat races are held with a number of aircraft flying a circuit with the first to cross the finish line advancing and in the end, winning.
Those are real sports in my eyes. They get my blood pumping and my heart pounding. Not football or any of the other timed competitions. If one team gets ahead and the clock is close to the end, there is very little chance for the other team to win. Not like in baseball where the home team could go to their final inning on offense 12 runs behind the other team and still win the game.
Look at it this way...there are nine innings in each baseball game. Divide that into the 60 minutes of a football game and you get just over six and a half minutes. Take those minutes and divide it in half again and you get just under three and a half. This represents the time in football equal to one team's offensive action in baseball...or a half inning. In those roughly three and a half minutes, might be able to score a game tying or game winning touchdown...they might even be able to score two touchdowns to win the game. But it would be very difficult for them to score 12 times in those three or so minutes if they have to give the other team a chance after they score. The team which is ahead will always have the advantage in a timed event when the clock is close to the finish line.
Not so in baseball and not so in racing. It is skill and ability from beginning to end.
I know some will argue that those limitations were fixed with play clocks and the like, but those only make sure an offensive play is run quickly. Get to 23 seconds on the clock in a football and basically the game is over. The team ahead and with the ball only need "spike" the ball and everyone is walking on the field congratulating each other while the clock is clicking down the final seconds. Basketball games, some will argue, have been won "at the buzzer," but that only happens when the "winning" team works the clock in their favor to place them in the position to win the game if the buzzer beating shot goes through the hoop.
Don't get me wrong here...football players, basketball players, hockey players and all the other timed competition team members are great athletes. They have to be, to do what they do. But what they do just doesn't thrill me as much as the home team coming from 12 runs down in the bottom of the ninth to win the game, or a home team batter hitting a walk-off homerun in the bottom of the 22nd inning to win game. Nor does it thrill me as much as watching two drivers side-by-side heading towards the finish line and one of them winning by two thousandth of a second, or watching one pilot fly three hundredths of a second faster than another pilot over a closed course. Those are exciting.
Payton Manning tossing a "Hail Mary" pass in the final seconds of a football game in the hopes his team will win, just doesn't thrill me at all.
I remember going to Stan Musial's last away game before he retired. I remember seeing Maury Wills steal two bases in one at bat. I remember seeing Lou Brock play in his first game before he was traded. I remember watching Kenny Holtzman take a no-hitter into the ninth and watched as Maury Wills spoiled it with a single. I remember a lot of games Wrigley Field.
It's been a long time since I watched a game live at Wrigley. Twelve years ago, I spent six weeks in a brownstone only three blocks away from Wrigley. It was during the hottest summer Chicago ever had. Temperatures rose to 105 or more and with the humidity, felt like 125 or more. Coming from a desert climate, I could take the heat, but that humidity I couldn't. More than 500 people passed away during the heat spell.
One day when the Cubs were in town, I decided I would walk up to Wrigley, buy myself a ticket and watch a game. I never made it. I got halfway there and the heat and humidity had drained me. I stopped in at a bar I passed by and since they were showing the game, I ordered myself a Fosters, leaned back in booth I was sitting in and enjoyed not only the game, but the beautiful waitress taking care of the area I was sitting. The Cubs lost the game, but I didn't care. Cubs fans get over losses quickly. It's simple...there's always tomorrow in their mind.
Earlier this evening, I watched a movie called Fever Pitch. The male lead in the movie was an out-of-the-envelope Boston Red Sox fan. His apartment was wall-to-wall Red Sox. I've seen that before in other sports fans. They let anyone and everyone know who they root for. Walk into my place, and you'd wonder if I was a sports fan of anything. Hanging on my wall is a laminated poster a friend gave me back around 1988. It's an outrageous depiction of a Cubs game in Wrigley Field. Look closely and you'll see Dorothy and Toto...the Tinman and Scarecrow...Waldo...and many other characters. I'm sure the Cowardly Lion is in the crowd somewhere, but I haven't found him yet.
And on top of my desk you'll see a Jimmie Johnson pad of paper.
That's it. Two of the three sports I really enjoy...baseball and NASCAR racing. The third sport is air racing, especially the Red Bull World Series of Air Racing. I don't have a particular favorite pilot, but if I did, I think it would be Peter "The Hungarian" Besenyei.
What about other sports, you ask? There aren't any other sports in my mind. Everything else is a timed competition...football - 60 minutes; basketball - 48 minutes; ice hockey - 60 minutes...and other so-called sporting events. Baseball and racing...those are sports.
A baseball game can theoretically last forever. As long as the home team ties the game in the bottom of the inning, it goes on. It's a team sport where nine players do their best to overcome the capabilities of nine other players. There is no clock for the teams to watch, and use...just a scoreboard. And to top it all off, the offense is one person facing nine others with a wooden stick...so to speak. There could be as many as three more offensive players involved, but the main thrust is the one man in the box waiting for the pitch. The team will live or die by his actions. Now that's a sporting competition. The goal, of course, is to win the game.
Racing, though not really "timed," does have specific goal. That goal is to be the first person across the finish line at the end of a set amount of laps around the track. For the most part, the only time a clock comes in to play is when a driver goes to his (or her) pit for fueling or fixing bad parts. A clock is also used to check how fast a driver is going, but that information has very little to do with the actual race. Auto racing is another sport where one team does their best to overcome the capabilities of another team. A pit crew can win or lose for a driver just as easily as a driver can win or lose the race himself. It's the driver's skill in negotiating his vehicle around the track, combined with the pit crew's ability to quickly refuel, change tires and in some cases, make minor adjustments to the vehicle, that make a winner. And if either one is not at the top of their game, someone else will cross the finish line first.
Red Bull Air Racing also uses a clock. But it pits each pilot against each other using the clock as a means to determine the best. In previous years, eight pilots would qualify to fly the final day and each one would be put up against the seven other pilots. When all qualifying pilots have flown their final time around the course, the one with the best would be the winner. This year is a bit different. The pilots with the eight best qualifying times are in the final day of racing. Based on their times in their final qualifying run, they are seeded against each other. The fastest pilot is seeded against the eighth fastest, the second fastest against the seventh and so on. As each seeded race in finished, the pilot with the fastest time goes on to the next level. In the final race, it's the two pilots with the best times in their previous races against each other for the top spot on the podium. It's skill versus skill in the end.
I haven't been to the Reno Air Races, but I have seen the race on television. It's the pilot's ability for the most part which wins the race, but the people behind the scene who fix the aircraft, tune the engine, wax the surfaces and generally make sure the bird is ready to fly at it's peak performance have a lot to do with it also. There, heat races are held with a number of aircraft flying a circuit with the first to cross the finish line advancing and in the end, winning.
Those are real sports in my eyes. They get my blood pumping and my heart pounding. Not football or any of the other timed competitions. If one team gets ahead and the clock is close to the end, there is very little chance for the other team to win. Not like in baseball where the home team could go to their final inning on offense 12 runs behind the other team and still win the game.
Look at it this way...there are nine innings in each baseball game. Divide that into the 60 minutes of a football game and you get just over six and a half minutes. Take those minutes and divide it in half again and you get just under three and a half. This represents the time in football equal to one team's offensive action in baseball...or a half inning. In those roughly three and a half minutes, might be able to score a game tying or game winning touchdown...they might even be able to score two touchdowns to win the game. But it would be very difficult for them to score 12 times in those three or so minutes if they have to give the other team a chance after they score. The team which is ahead will always have the advantage in a timed event when the clock is close to the finish line.
Not so in baseball and not so in racing. It is skill and ability from beginning to end.
I know some will argue that those limitations were fixed with play clocks and the like, but those only make sure an offensive play is run quickly. Get to 23 seconds on the clock in a football and basically the game is over. The team ahead and with the ball only need "spike" the ball and everyone is walking on the field congratulating each other while the clock is clicking down the final seconds. Basketball games, some will argue, have been won "at the buzzer," but that only happens when the "winning" team works the clock in their favor to place them in the position to win the game if the buzzer beating shot goes through the hoop.
Don't get me wrong here...football players, basketball players, hockey players and all the other timed competition team members are great athletes. They have to be, to do what they do. But what they do just doesn't thrill me as much as the home team coming from 12 runs down in the bottom of the ninth to win the game, or a home team batter hitting a walk-off homerun in the bottom of the 22nd inning to win game. Nor does it thrill me as much as watching two drivers side-by-side heading towards the finish line and one of them winning by two thousandth of a second, or watching one pilot fly three hundredths of a second faster than another pilot over a closed course. Those are exciting.
Payton Manning tossing a "Hail Mary" pass in the final seconds of a football game in the hopes his team will win, just doesn't thrill me at all.
Friday, October 19, 2007
And Who Is That?
It has been a long time since I last added to this blog. For those wondering, it had nothing to do with the defeat of the Chicago Cubs by the Arizona Diamondbacks. Really...it didn't.
I spent most of the time between the Cubs defeat and now taking care of my sister's place and animals while they were in Europe. I don't like their keyboard, so I didn't do much typing there. But something came up in a conversation last night and I thought I would expand on it here.
I mentioned to an online friend that I had met a number of famous people during my military career. Most of the people I met were down-to-earth folk who just happened to make a lot more money than me, doing something I couldn't do. And some of them were arrogant idiots watching the clock, waiting for the moment they could leave and get on with their lives.
I may have met 12-15 people who would be easily recognized by the world. There may have been more, but this blog is about three particular people.
The first one who stands out in my mind is Bob Hope.
I met him in 1985 at Elmendorf AFB just outside of Anchorage, Alaska. Bob loved the play golf and he really liked the course at Elmendorf. During a stopover in the Anchorage area, he came to the base to play a round of golf. My boss at the time, tagged me with being his escort while on the base. I had no problem with the tasking and met Hope's party at the clubhouse for the course. As we walked out to the first tee box, a group of admiring fans had already gathered and were waiting for Bob to appear. There was a round of applause, which Mr. Hope acknowledged as he approached the tee.
I was leading the way through the crowd for him and when we got the tee, he and other three people in his group teed up and sent their first shots down the fairway. Bob had told them what to expect on the first hole, which I believe was a dog-leg to the right. When it was Bob's turn, he setup, went into his swing and let loose with a nice drive down the center of the fairway, placing the ball in perfect position for an approach to the green. He then turned to fans, did his "Ho-hum" routine, winked at me with a smile and headed towards his second shot, swinging his club in his hand as he walked the course.
His game was cut short after the third hole due to weather, but he seemed to enjoy the short game he had.
Prior to Bob Hope teeing off at the first hole, my boss pulled out his camera and took a shot of me and Mr. Hope. It's one of the few photos of me I really like, and having the late Bob Hope standing next to me makes it somewhat special to me.
See the photo of Bob Hope and me here.
The second person who comes to mind is Dean Paul Martin. He was the son of Dean Martin (if you don't know who he is, google him) and had joined the Air Force Reserves to become a pilot. After he received his commission, he was assigned to Undergraduate Pilot Training at Columbus AFB, Mississippi. I happened to have been stationed there in the Public Affairs Office at the time.
When he arrived for training, myself, my boss, the base commander and deputy wing commander got together with him to discuss how we would handle his time on base. Lt. Martin said he didn't want any preferential treatment (and he got none, graduating somewhere around the 70 percent group). I then asked him how he wanted to handle any publicity. His response was, "Do what you would normally do." Well, we wanted to publicize his training and he and I agreed that I would arrange photo sessions and interviews of him during milestone events of his training and that I would be the releasing authority for anything regarding him and the Air Force. His publicity people agreed, as long as they were provided with copies of all photos (released and non-released images) and news releases for each event.
So, as time progressed for Lt. Martin's training, I would get a phone call about an upcoming event, and when it happened, I would be there with notebook and photographer. One of the things which was previously agreed on, was no outside media coverage other than what I released, would happen with him. At the time, I was in good favor with the local media and had asked them to not ask for time with Lt. Martin unless I offered the time. They agreed and left him alone to concentrate on training.
On the day of his first solo flight in a jet aircraft, his girl friend at the time, arrived to watch. She was Dorothy Hamill, the gold medal winning figure skater from the 1976 Olympics. I had gone to the compulsory events in Innsbruck, Austria when I was stationed at Aviano AB, Italy and had seen Dorothy skate in those events. It was really cool to be able to meet her.
I arrived about 30 minutes before Lt. Martin was scheduled to take-off and he introduced me to Dorothy and I was able to chat with her for several minutes. The one thing I remember from that meeting was her legs. They were the most powerful looking appendages I had ever seen! Talking to her was great and she made me feel like a friend whom she had known for a long time. I was able to get some good shots and good quotes for a news release and things went back to normal for me until just before Lt. Martin's graduation.
He asked to meet with me prior to graduation regarding his family and friends who would be attending the ceremony. We also discussed holding a press conference before the ceremony, so the news media could have some live time with him. During that discussion, Lt. Martin mentioned to me that he had asked Dorothy to marry him and she had said yes. He wanted to know if he should say something about it during the press conference. I told him it was up to him and then he told me I was one of the first people outside of family and friends he had told. Well, the local media all showed up for the conference, they got answers to their questions and a couple of days later, it was graduation time.
On that day, our office was inundated with requests for photographers and video crews from all over to attend the ceremonies. After a request from Lt. Martin, no media were being invited to the ceremony and I was passing that on to each requester. It wasn't until the National Enquirer called and wanted to send out a photographer to get a photo, that things got weird. I told the editor (whose name I won't mention here) that I would be releasing photos of the graduation the following day and he said it wasn't good enough. He threatened to send a photographer anyway, because there was nothing I could do to stop him. At that point, I informed him if I caught anyone representing his paper on the base, I would have them arrested and detained. I also told him the base was a close area to civilians and any unauthorized people coming on base would be violation of federal laws. He didn't like that, and threatened to ruin my career and other strange things. When he finished with his rant, he hung up.
About 20 minutes later, I got a phone call from one of the photographers of a local newspaper asking if he could come on base to photograph Dean Paul Martin's graduation. I told him it was a close ceremony and he said, "Well, there goes $2,000." I asked him if he had been contacted by the National Inquirer and he said he had. I felt bad about telling him no and him loosing out on $2,000, but I also felt good about the fact that this person had an open pass to the base (several of the local media had passes which allowed them access to the base without me being required to escort them) and still asked me and honored my request not to photograph the ceremony.
Several years later, I was saddened by the news that Lt. Martin and another person had died in an aircraft accident.
Then there was Billy Joel.
The entertainer's arrival at Clark AB was a surprise to my office. It was probably a surprise to a lot of people, but the office I worked in was one of the few offices which needed to know things like famous people coming to the base. One reason for that was, the Public Affairs Office (PA) was the only office authorized to setup tours of the base and a few other things.
Well, all the offices on Clark knew that. And the fact that the PA shop was assigned under a higher headquarters on base than any other wing office (we were assigned to a numbered Air Force...13th Air Force to be exact) made some of the other offices a little jealous, I think. But that morning at the wing staff meeting, the Morale, Welfare and Recreation officer stood up and announced that Billy Joel would be arriving on base within the hour. He also announced that Joel would give a USO sponsored concert for all the base people that evening and in the meantime, he would be provided a tour of the base. This was news to my boss and a heated exchange ensued between my boss and the MWR representatives.
When the wing staff meeting completed, my boss came back and headed directly to my office. "Bear...Billy Joel is arriving on base in 35 minutes. Meet up with the party at the MAC terminal and represent PA during the tour Wing has setup. If they have any problems, fix 'em." And he was gone. I grabbed my gear, took a taxi to the terminal and told the waiting party I was the PA rep for the tour. I got a few sneers from some of the base officials waiting for the arrival. But my job was, my job, and I was going to do it.
When Billy Joel arrived, I did what I normally do, I stood in the background and made sure nothing out of the ordinary was going to happen, and waiting for the fire to put out (which never came). The group went to a variety of workshops around the flightline and then headed to the local AFRTS station (the on-base Armed Forces Radio and Television Service station). While the group toured the station and Billy Joel was interviewed by one of the television reporters, I had gone into the wire service room to check what was going on in the world. You see, the date was January 16, 1991, the day before the start of Gulf War I. As I looked over the wire reports, one caught my eye. It talked about the assassination of body guards of Yassir Arafat. I quickly read it, then stuffed it in my pocket to give to my boss later.
When Billy Joel finished his interview, it was off to the dining hall for lunch. After giving him time to talk to some of the folks working in the dining hall, food was served and I sat down with members of the Joel party (Billy was with the brass of course, along with his manager and some of the band members). We talked about what was going on in Kuwait and all during the meal and at one point, I mentioned what I read in the news release. As soon as he heard what I said, a Joel party member called to Billy and motioned for him to come to our table. When he arrived, the guy told me to show Billy the news report. I did, and he quietly read it, then looked at me and asked, "What do you think this means?" For the next 15 minutes we discussed the report and then it was time to go elsewhere.
Since the group had to have time to setup their gear for the concert, the final place to visit was set for right after lunch. The wing operations people had arranged for two of the base aircraft to be available for Billy Joel and his group to get a close look at. They were F-4E and F-4G Phantom II fighters. Earlier, I had contacted my boss and asked him if he could rush through an orientation flight request. He tried, but was unsuccessful due to the time differences and red tape we had to go through to arrange one. When Joel climbed into the cockpit of the E model F-4, I climbed the ladder on the other side and the first thing he asked me was, "Can I get a ride?" I apologized to him that I was unable to arrange it in such short notice, and stared at the man who kept Billy Joel's arrival a secret to my office while I said it. That captain got my point.
The party then went to the departure end of the runway to watch aircraft take off. Clark AB at the time, was hosting a Cope Thunder exercise. The exercise was designed to give pilots a realistic training environment for an armed conflict. We had a bombing range with "smokey SAM" which imitated surface-to-air missiles, and an area where mock dogfights using hi-tech gear to determine the victor was used. The exercise participants were broken into Red and Blue forces with missions for each force.
When the two vans carrying the Joel party stopped, the only person to get out of the lead van was Billy Joel himself. I was in the other van and decided I would get out and answer any questions he had. There we were, the two of us standing 30 feet away from F-16s (exercise participants from other bases) taking off for their missions. Each aircraft taking off was part of a ground strike package as evident by the 25 and 50 pound practice bombs on the wings. As each pilot pulled up to take-off position, they would each turn, look our way, and salute. Billy Joel returned each salute, though I am not sure the pilots were saluting him (which is most likely) or saluting the staff vehicle we were standing next to. Either way, Billy Joel watched a half dozen or so aircraft depart. Then, during a quiet moment (quieter than they had been), he turned to me and over the noise of the active runway pointed to an aircraft taxiing up and said, "Sarge...this is why we are going to kick Saddam's ASS!" He emphasized the last word. We looked each other straight in the eye and we both smiled. And then, with a short beep of the horn of the lead vehicle, he got in his van and I got in mine.
Back at the stadium where the group was let out to finalize setup, Billy Joel walked over to me, shook my hand and thanked me. He then asked if I was going to the concert. I told him I wouldn't miss it for anything.
That evening, I listened to Billy Joel's Storm Front concert, courtesy of the USO, knowing war was around the corner.
The next morning, Joel and his group departed for Subic Bay Naval Station about 50 miles from Clark. He was giving his concert there when the first aircraft took off in Saudi Arabia for targets in Iraq.
Those are my most memorable meetings with the famous folks. Most of those meetings were in an official capacity due to my job in the Air Force. Good or bad, they were all something to remember.
I spent most of the time between the Cubs defeat and now taking care of my sister's place and animals while they were in Europe. I don't like their keyboard, so I didn't do much typing there. But something came up in a conversation last night and I thought I would expand on it here.
I mentioned to an online friend that I had met a number of famous people during my military career. Most of the people I met were down-to-earth folk who just happened to make a lot more money than me, doing something I couldn't do. And some of them were arrogant idiots watching the clock, waiting for the moment they could leave and get on with their lives.
I may have met 12-15 people who would be easily recognized by the world. There may have been more, but this blog is about three particular people.
The first one who stands out in my mind is Bob Hope.
I met him in 1985 at Elmendorf AFB just outside of Anchorage, Alaska. Bob loved the play golf and he really liked the course at Elmendorf. During a stopover in the Anchorage area, he came to the base to play a round of golf. My boss at the time, tagged me with being his escort while on the base. I had no problem with the tasking and met Hope's party at the clubhouse for the course. As we walked out to the first tee box, a group of admiring fans had already gathered and were waiting for Bob to appear. There was a round of applause, which Mr. Hope acknowledged as he approached the tee.
I was leading the way through the crowd for him and when we got the tee, he and other three people in his group teed up and sent their first shots down the fairway. Bob had told them what to expect on the first hole, which I believe was a dog-leg to the right. When it was Bob's turn, he setup, went into his swing and let loose with a nice drive down the center of the fairway, placing the ball in perfect position for an approach to the green. He then turned to fans, did his "Ho-hum" routine, winked at me with a smile and headed towards his second shot, swinging his club in his hand as he walked the course.
His game was cut short after the third hole due to weather, but he seemed to enjoy the short game he had.
Prior to Bob Hope teeing off at the first hole, my boss pulled out his camera and took a shot of me and Mr. Hope. It's one of the few photos of me I really like, and having the late Bob Hope standing next to me makes it somewhat special to me.
See the photo of Bob Hope and me here.
The second person who comes to mind is Dean Paul Martin. He was the son of Dean Martin (if you don't know who he is, google him) and had joined the Air Force Reserves to become a pilot. After he received his commission, he was assigned to Undergraduate Pilot Training at Columbus AFB, Mississippi. I happened to have been stationed there in the Public Affairs Office at the time.
When he arrived for training, myself, my boss, the base commander and deputy wing commander got together with him to discuss how we would handle his time on base. Lt. Martin said he didn't want any preferential treatment (and he got none, graduating somewhere around the 70 percent group). I then asked him how he wanted to handle any publicity. His response was, "Do what you would normally do." Well, we wanted to publicize his training and he and I agreed that I would arrange photo sessions and interviews of him during milestone events of his training and that I would be the releasing authority for anything regarding him and the Air Force. His publicity people agreed, as long as they were provided with copies of all photos (released and non-released images) and news releases for each event.
So, as time progressed for Lt. Martin's training, I would get a phone call about an upcoming event, and when it happened, I would be there with notebook and photographer. One of the things which was previously agreed on, was no outside media coverage other than what I released, would happen with him. At the time, I was in good favor with the local media and had asked them to not ask for time with Lt. Martin unless I offered the time. They agreed and left him alone to concentrate on training.
On the day of his first solo flight in a jet aircraft, his girl friend at the time, arrived to watch. She was Dorothy Hamill, the gold medal winning figure skater from the 1976 Olympics. I had gone to the compulsory events in Innsbruck, Austria when I was stationed at Aviano AB, Italy and had seen Dorothy skate in those events. It was really cool to be able to meet her.
I arrived about 30 minutes before Lt. Martin was scheduled to take-off and he introduced me to Dorothy and I was able to chat with her for several minutes. The one thing I remember from that meeting was her legs. They were the most powerful looking appendages I had ever seen! Talking to her was great and she made me feel like a friend whom she had known for a long time. I was able to get some good shots and good quotes for a news release and things went back to normal for me until just before Lt. Martin's graduation.
He asked to meet with me prior to graduation regarding his family and friends who would be attending the ceremony. We also discussed holding a press conference before the ceremony, so the news media could have some live time with him. During that discussion, Lt. Martin mentioned to me that he had asked Dorothy to marry him and she had said yes. He wanted to know if he should say something about it during the press conference. I told him it was up to him and then he told me I was one of the first people outside of family and friends he had told. Well, the local media all showed up for the conference, they got answers to their questions and a couple of days later, it was graduation time.
On that day, our office was inundated with requests for photographers and video crews from all over to attend the ceremonies. After a request from Lt. Martin, no media were being invited to the ceremony and I was passing that on to each requester. It wasn't until the National Enquirer called and wanted to send out a photographer to get a photo, that things got weird. I told the editor (whose name I won't mention here) that I would be releasing photos of the graduation the following day and he said it wasn't good enough. He threatened to send a photographer anyway, because there was nothing I could do to stop him. At that point, I informed him if I caught anyone representing his paper on the base, I would have them arrested and detained. I also told him the base was a close area to civilians and any unauthorized people coming on base would be violation of federal laws. He didn't like that, and threatened to ruin my career and other strange things. When he finished with his rant, he hung up.
About 20 minutes later, I got a phone call from one of the photographers of a local newspaper asking if he could come on base to photograph Dean Paul Martin's graduation. I told him it was a close ceremony and he said, "Well, there goes $2,000." I asked him if he had been contacted by the National Inquirer and he said he had. I felt bad about telling him no and him loosing out on $2,000, but I also felt good about the fact that this person had an open pass to the base (several of the local media had passes which allowed them access to the base without me being required to escort them) and still asked me and honored my request not to photograph the ceremony.
Several years later, I was saddened by the news that Lt. Martin and another person had died in an aircraft accident.
Then there was Billy Joel.
The entertainer's arrival at Clark AB was a surprise to my office. It was probably a surprise to a lot of people, but the office I worked in was one of the few offices which needed to know things like famous people coming to the base. One reason for that was, the Public Affairs Office (PA) was the only office authorized to setup tours of the base and a few other things.
Well, all the offices on Clark knew that. And the fact that the PA shop was assigned under a higher headquarters on base than any other wing office (we were assigned to a numbered Air Force...13th Air Force to be exact) made some of the other offices a little jealous, I think. But that morning at the wing staff meeting, the Morale, Welfare and Recreation officer stood up and announced that Billy Joel would be arriving on base within the hour. He also announced that Joel would give a USO sponsored concert for all the base people that evening and in the meantime, he would be provided a tour of the base. This was news to my boss and a heated exchange ensued between my boss and the MWR representatives.
When the wing staff meeting completed, my boss came back and headed directly to my office. "Bear...Billy Joel is arriving on base in 35 minutes. Meet up with the party at the MAC terminal and represent PA during the tour Wing has setup. If they have any problems, fix 'em." And he was gone. I grabbed my gear, took a taxi to the terminal and told the waiting party I was the PA rep for the tour. I got a few sneers from some of the base officials waiting for the arrival. But my job was, my job, and I was going to do it.
When Billy Joel arrived, I did what I normally do, I stood in the background and made sure nothing out of the ordinary was going to happen, and waiting for the fire to put out (which never came). The group went to a variety of workshops around the flightline and then headed to the local AFRTS station (the on-base Armed Forces Radio and Television Service station). While the group toured the station and Billy Joel was interviewed by one of the television reporters, I had gone into the wire service room to check what was going on in the world. You see, the date was January 16, 1991, the day before the start of Gulf War I. As I looked over the wire reports, one caught my eye. It talked about the assassination of body guards of Yassir Arafat. I quickly read it, then stuffed it in my pocket to give to my boss later.
When Billy Joel finished his interview, it was off to the dining hall for lunch. After giving him time to talk to some of the folks working in the dining hall, food was served and I sat down with members of the Joel party (Billy was with the brass of course, along with his manager and some of the band members). We talked about what was going on in Kuwait and all during the meal and at one point, I mentioned what I read in the news release. As soon as he heard what I said, a Joel party member called to Billy and motioned for him to come to our table. When he arrived, the guy told me to show Billy the news report. I did, and he quietly read it, then looked at me and asked, "What do you think this means?" For the next 15 minutes we discussed the report and then it was time to go elsewhere.
Since the group had to have time to setup their gear for the concert, the final place to visit was set for right after lunch. The wing operations people had arranged for two of the base aircraft to be available for Billy Joel and his group to get a close look at. They were F-4E and F-4G Phantom II fighters. Earlier, I had contacted my boss and asked him if he could rush through an orientation flight request. He tried, but was unsuccessful due to the time differences and red tape we had to go through to arrange one. When Joel climbed into the cockpit of the E model F-4, I climbed the ladder on the other side and the first thing he asked me was, "Can I get a ride?" I apologized to him that I was unable to arrange it in such short notice, and stared at the man who kept Billy Joel's arrival a secret to my office while I said it. That captain got my point.
The party then went to the departure end of the runway to watch aircraft take off. Clark AB at the time, was hosting a Cope Thunder exercise. The exercise was designed to give pilots a realistic training environment for an armed conflict. We had a bombing range with "smokey SAM" which imitated surface-to-air missiles, and an area where mock dogfights using hi-tech gear to determine the victor was used. The exercise participants were broken into Red and Blue forces with missions for each force.
When the two vans carrying the Joel party stopped, the only person to get out of the lead van was Billy Joel himself. I was in the other van and decided I would get out and answer any questions he had. There we were, the two of us standing 30 feet away from F-16s (exercise participants from other bases) taking off for their missions. Each aircraft taking off was part of a ground strike package as evident by the 25 and 50 pound practice bombs on the wings. As each pilot pulled up to take-off position, they would each turn, look our way, and salute. Billy Joel returned each salute, though I am not sure the pilots were saluting him (which is most likely) or saluting the staff vehicle we were standing next to. Either way, Billy Joel watched a half dozen or so aircraft depart. Then, during a quiet moment (quieter than they had been), he turned to me and over the noise of the active runway pointed to an aircraft taxiing up and said, "Sarge...this is why we are going to kick Saddam's ASS!" He emphasized the last word. We looked each other straight in the eye and we both smiled. And then, with a short beep of the horn of the lead vehicle, he got in his van and I got in mine.
Back at the stadium where the group was let out to finalize setup, Billy Joel walked over to me, shook my hand and thanked me. He then asked if I was going to the concert. I told him I wouldn't miss it for anything.
That evening, I listened to Billy Joel's Storm Front concert, courtesy of the USO, knowing war was around the corner.
The next morning, Joel and his group departed for Subic Bay Naval Station about 50 miles from Clark. He was giving his concert there when the first aircraft took off in Saudi Arabia for targets in Iraq.
Those are my most memorable meetings with the famous folks. Most of those meetings were in an official capacity due to my job in the Air Force. Good or bad, they were all something to remember.
Thursday, October 4, 2007
Red Moon Risen?
Fifty years ago, the world woke to something they hadn't seen before.
It was the first artificial satellite orbiting the globe.
Yes, it was a Soviet achievement, and yes, it struck fear in a lot of people, but it was in reality, the beginning of a lot of Soviet space firsts in what would later become known as the Space Race. But that isn't what I want to talk about.
I remember going out in my backyard in a then, unincorporated area just south of Chicago, and watching Sputnik 1 pass overhead. To this day, I recall the look of that lighted object as it grew bright, then fade a bit, only to grow bright again, as it passed by. But I was too young to understand the effect it had on everyone.
I didn't understand it at all. But it did light a fire in me regarding space. I remember wanting to get a ride in that Sputnik. But I didn't know the object wasn't even two feet in diameter (23 inches to be exact). All I knew is that it was way, way up there.
Months later, I remember watching the US attempt to put a satellite in space. It blew up and I knew I would never get a ride in that satellite. But it still instilled in me, a desire to learn about space, about the stars, the planets, the sun, the moon and everything else "up there." That desire soon developed into a passion for astronomy. I even had an astronomer I considered my hero...Clyde Tombaugh. He discovered Pluto, and I don't care what that idiot at the Hayden Planetarium in New York thinks, Pluto is STILL a planet to me. Tombaugh must be rolling over in his grave knowing what his peers of today have done to his discovery.
After that failed US attempt to put a satellite in orbit, I thought of nothing else but space. My desire to learn other things, such as the basic subjects folks learn in school, suffered. But if you had a question about space, I had an answer...right or wrong, I had an answer.
Today, I still have a passion for space...I still want to ride one of those orbiting objects, and I still enjoy watching the night sky for moving objects, be they meteors, satellite, space stations or the occasional unidentified object. Sputnik instilled this passion in me.
Yesterday, I watched an interview with an author of a book called "Red Moon Rising." I haven't read the book, but the author didn't do a good job of selling his book to me and making me want to read it. According to him in this interview, Sputnik was directly responsible for our space program, directly responsible for cable, directly responsible for the internet, directly responsible for a lot of things. All I have to say about that is this: BULL HOCKEY PUCK!
We were working on our own satellite at the time Sputnik reached the heavens. All Sputnik did, was make us realize we weren't going to be first. It was almost four months later when Explorer 1 entered orbit. It was the United States' first artificial satellite. It was something we had been working on for years. Sputnik 1 was not directly responsible for it. The US didn't wake up the morning of Oct. 4, 1957 and look up at Sputnik and collectively say, "Wait a minute! The Soviets put an object in orbit? We need to get an object in orbit also! Pete...you design a satellite, Tom...you figure out something to put inside it. Dave, you and Dan design a rocket to send it up there. Arthur...you and I will look for somewhere to launch it from. Okay people...let's DO THIS THING!!"
No...the people in the US working on their free world's version of an artificial moon, probably looked at each other with saddened eyes, waited for the butterflies in stomach to stop fluttering around, and said, "We can still do this thing, people." And back to work they went, knowing they were to place second.
Everything which has been accomplished since Sputnik 1 was launched into orbit, was something which came about because of man's desire to explore. Sputnik might have lit a fire under some people to finish things they were working on, or inspire a young person to get into the aerospace industry. But had the US been the first to launch a satellite into orbit, I believe today's world would still be what it is today.
To say everything which has been invented, which has made life easier, or better, for everyone, which helps folks relax after a long, hard day, is directly linked to Sputnik, is in my opinion, doing an absolute disservice to the men and women who had an idea, worked on it, and watched it develop into what it is today.
Our lifestyle today is a direct result of what those people did...not some hunk of Soviet metal that orbited the Earth, sending out a beep-beep signal for 22 days, only to disintegrate while reentering the atmosphere three months after launch.
I don't want to take anything away from the Soviet scientists and engineers of the time. It was a great accomplishment and one they can be proud of. And although it put the fear of nuclear annihilation from space into the minds of a lot of people in the Western world, it didn't give the world something to replace their telephones, nor something to allow a person to carry a calculator in his pocket, nor something to make postage stamps obsolete. It gave back absolutely nothing.
Sputnik 1 was first out of the gate for the Space Race...that is all.
It was the first artificial satellite orbiting the globe.
Yes, it was a Soviet achievement, and yes, it struck fear in a lot of people, but it was in reality, the beginning of a lot of Soviet space firsts in what would later become known as the Space Race. But that isn't what I want to talk about.
I remember going out in my backyard in a then, unincorporated area just south of Chicago, and watching Sputnik 1 pass overhead. To this day, I recall the look of that lighted object as it grew bright, then fade a bit, only to grow bright again, as it passed by. But I was too young to understand the effect it had on everyone.
I didn't understand it at all. But it did light a fire in me regarding space. I remember wanting to get a ride in that Sputnik. But I didn't know the object wasn't even two feet in diameter (23 inches to be exact). All I knew is that it was way, way up there.
Months later, I remember watching the US attempt to put a satellite in space. It blew up and I knew I would never get a ride in that satellite. But it still instilled in me, a desire to learn about space, about the stars, the planets, the sun, the moon and everything else "up there." That desire soon developed into a passion for astronomy. I even had an astronomer I considered my hero...Clyde Tombaugh. He discovered Pluto, and I don't care what that idiot at the Hayden Planetarium in New York thinks, Pluto is STILL a planet to me. Tombaugh must be rolling over in his grave knowing what his peers of today have done to his discovery.
After that failed US attempt to put a satellite in orbit, I thought of nothing else but space. My desire to learn other things, such as the basic subjects folks learn in school, suffered. But if you had a question about space, I had an answer...right or wrong, I had an answer.
Today, I still have a passion for space...I still want to ride one of those orbiting objects, and I still enjoy watching the night sky for moving objects, be they meteors, satellite, space stations or the occasional unidentified object. Sputnik instilled this passion in me.
Yesterday, I watched an interview with an author of a book called "Red Moon Rising." I haven't read the book, but the author didn't do a good job of selling his book to me and making me want to read it. According to him in this interview, Sputnik was directly responsible for our space program, directly responsible for cable, directly responsible for the internet, directly responsible for a lot of things. All I have to say about that is this: BULL HOCKEY PUCK!
We were working on our own satellite at the time Sputnik reached the heavens. All Sputnik did, was make us realize we weren't going to be first. It was almost four months later when Explorer 1 entered orbit. It was the United States' first artificial satellite. It was something we had been working on for years. Sputnik 1 was not directly responsible for it. The US didn't wake up the morning of Oct. 4, 1957 and look up at Sputnik and collectively say, "Wait a minute! The Soviets put an object in orbit? We need to get an object in orbit also! Pete...you design a satellite, Tom...you figure out something to put inside it. Dave, you and Dan design a rocket to send it up there. Arthur...you and I will look for somewhere to launch it from. Okay people...let's DO THIS THING!!"
No...the people in the US working on their free world's version of an artificial moon, probably looked at each other with saddened eyes, waited for the butterflies in stomach to stop fluttering around, and said, "We can still do this thing, people." And back to work they went, knowing they were to place second.
Everything which has been accomplished since Sputnik 1 was launched into orbit, was something which came about because of man's desire to explore. Sputnik might have lit a fire under some people to finish things they were working on, or inspire a young person to get into the aerospace industry. But had the US been the first to launch a satellite into orbit, I believe today's world would still be what it is today.
To say everything which has been invented, which has made life easier, or better, for everyone, which helps folks relax after a long, hard day, is directly linked to Sputnik, is in my opinion, doing an absolute disservice to the men and women who had an idea, worked on it, and watched it develop into what it is today.
Our lifestyle today is a direct result of what those people did...not some hunk of Soviet metal that orbited the Earth, sending out a beep-beep signal for 22 days, only to disintegrate while reentering the atmosphere three months after launch.
I don't want to take anything away from the Soviet scientists and engineers of the time. It was a great accomplishment and one they can be proud of. And although it put the fear of nuclear annihilation from space into the minds of a lot of people in the Western world, it didn't give the world something to replace their telephones, nor something to allow a person to carry a calculator in his pocket, nor something to make postage stamps obsolete. It gave back absolutely nothing.
Sputnik 1 was first out of the gate for the Space Race...that is all.
Wednesday, October 3, 2007
Life's a Handful...
I am typing this blog with an injured hand. You see, I did a very dumb thing early this morning...well, actually a couple of really dumb things.
First, I put my spare batteries on the charger so they would have a full charge when I went out on a photo safari today. Second, I let the dog out (which I have always done in the morning), but did so before he had a chance to eat (which is inside the house). It wasn't intentional, it just happened. I fed the horses and the cat and the dog, but Rosco (the dog) was so glad to see me this morning, he followed me on every step I took and when I went out to feed the horses, he naturally followed me outside.
Well, when I finished the outside chores, I came back in to gather my things and got ready to go on my safari. And even though Rosco wanted to follow me into the house, I told him to stay outside. When I was ready, I climbed into the rig, backed out of the garage and headed off.
I went eastward at first, to see if any Rough-legged Hawks were around to photograph. And although I saw a couple they were too far away to get any good shots. Since I was close to Prineville (somewhere I used to live), I thought I would stop and say hi to folks there I hadn't seen in a while. At one of the stops, I was told I should go see a friend's daughter, and that she would love to see me. So after getting directions, I headed that way. But I never got to the daughter's place....well, maybe I did, but the directions I got were so bad, I had no idea which building or which place (or even if I was in the right place) her daughter lived, so I turned around and headed to one of my main areas of interest for some photography.
When I arrived at the Ochoco Reservoir, I gathered my camera and headed towards the waterline to check on the shore birds. There were a number of birds there, most of which I have yet to photograph. So I started to move toward a good group and a Great Blue Heron caught my eye. I turned, fired off five shots and my camera froze on me. Actually, it just stopped working. This had happened before and I knew the problem...the batteries were dead.
I headed back to the rig, reached for the fanny pack I keep my spare stuff in and suddenly realized that the spare batteries I was about to get weren't where they were suppose to be. They were still on the charger here at the house. DUH!!!!! So, after kicking myself several times, I got back in the rig and headed out of town. At this point, I was so angry with myself, I blew off going back to another friend's place, didn't stop to clarify directions to the daughter's place, and didn't notice the poorly marked change in traffic flow at a construction site.
Lucky for me, when I did notice my error, I was able to swing back to where I was suppose to be before anyone came from the opposite direction, but the folks behind me must have wondered what kind of yahoo was driving that Jeep Cherokee. By the time I got back here to the house, I was really angry at myself. So I decide I would grab my fully charged batteries and head back out to shoot some photos somewhere. However, I remembered Rosco and figured I would keep up his spirits a little and play a game of catch, or fetch, with him.
For those who don't know, Rosco is like a 120 pound baby. Actually, he's a BIG Pit Bull and one of the best dogs I have ever been around. He isn't mine (he belongs to my sister's family), but I know he'd take a bullet for me. I'm one of his favorite people...or so I thought.
When I walked into the backyard to see Rosco, he was on the far side of the yard. The moment he saw me, he headed straight for me at full speed. I figured out a moment to late what he was going to do. He leaped off the porch and hit me square in the chest, knocked me flat on my ass and had his tongue covering my face before I could react. After catching my breath, I rolled over, got to my feet and reached for the hard rubber toy I had been tossing around for Rosco to run, get and bring back to me and as I went to toss it, Rosco figured he would get a jump on the fetch part and leaped again. This time, he headed straight for the object in my hand.
He grabbed it before I could release it. Unfortunately, he grabbed something else...my hand. He realized what he had done as soon as he did it, but the damage was already done. His powerful jaws had come down on my hand just inside the area of the right thumb. He let go as soon as he could, and slinked away knowing he was a bad dog. I naturally, jerked my hand away from the pain, and luckily did so just a split second after Rosco had released his jaws, which saved me from pulling my hand out through his teeth.
I grabbed my aching hand, winced in pain and looked for Rosco. He was laying down near the back door of the house, ears back and tail still tucked between his legs. I walked over to him and he naturally went into a submissive mood and when I scratched him behind his ear and said he was a good dog, he jumped up and once again, began inhaling my face with his tongue.
That happened two hours ago, and the hand still hurts. Typing this isn't helping it, but at least I can move (more or less) all my appendages. There is swelling and a very sore spot about an inch above the wrist. But overall, I was lucky.
Rosco didn't mean to get my hand...all he wanted to do was play and he got a little over anxious. And, it wasn't the first time a dog my sister's family owned missed something and got me.
Years ago, I came home on leave and found my mom visiting my sister when I arrived. Since I had been gone several years, they were making me a dinner in the house. I had gone out to the backyard to see Brutus, my sister's beautiful Staffordshire Terrier (Pit Bull in other words). After he welcomed me back (in the typical fashion Pit Bulls welcome me), he brought over a rope he liked to play tug-of-war with. I think he played that because he knew he could win every time...well, almost every time.
We both started pulling and I was yanking and pulling as hard as I could, when Brutus decide he wanted to better grip on the rope. So he loosened his grip at the same time I gave the rope a yank. His end of the rope went flying out of his mouth and directly towards my crotch. Again, I realized what was going to happen a moment to late. Brutus lunged for the rope, mouth opened wide, headed straight for my family jewels.
And he got them...and the rope.
I was suddenly in so much pain, I fell backwards with my hands covering the source of the pain and rocked back and forth. And then I saw my mom looking out the kitchen window. She had seen the entire incident and was laughing. I got up, slightly bent over, and headed into the house. When I got to the kitchen, my mom said, "I sure wish I had had a video camera. We could split $10,000!" At that time, America's Funniest Home Videos was not in reruns, and I am sure my fun in the sun with the dog would have made the show, if not taken the prize for that episode.
But there was no way I was going to play tug-of-war with Brutus for a long time.
Well, the incident with Brutus is long over, but it was the first thing that flashed through my mind when I saw Rosco leaping for the hard rubber toy.
I don't think anything is broken, but my hand does hurt. I'll keep an eye on it for now, and keep it away from Rosco.
The worst part of it is the hand Rosco clipped, is the hand I hold I my camera with.
I just wonder if it wasn't revenge for leaving him alone in the backyard for long...without food.
Oh...he gobbled down his food and I even gave him a new chew toy. Hopefully he won't want to go leaping at me for a while.
First, I put my spare batteries on the charger so they would have a full charge when I went out on a photo safari today. Second, I let the dog out (which I have always done in the morning), but did so before he had a chance to eat (which is inside the house). It wasn't intentional, it just happened. I fed the horses and the cat and the dog, but Rosco (the dog) was so glad to see me this morning, he followed me on every step I took and when I went out to feed the horses, he naturally followed me outside.
Well, when I finished the outside chores, I came back in to gather my things and got ready to go on my safari. And even though Rosco wanted to follow me into the house, I told him to stay outside. When I was ready, I climbed into the rig, backed out of the garage and headed off.
I went eastward at first, to see if any Rough-legged Hawks were around to photograph. And although I saw a couple they were too far away to get any good shots. Since I was close to Prineville (somewhere I used to live), I thought I would stop and say hi to folks there I hadn't seen in a while. At one of the stops, I was told I should go see a friend's daughter, and that she would love to see me. So after getting directions, I headed that way. But I never got to the daughter's place....well, maybe I did, but the directions I got were so bad, I had no idea which building or which place (or even if I was in the right place) her daughter lived, so I turned around and headed to one of my main areas of interest for some photography.
When I arrived at the Ochoco Reservoir, I gathered my camera and headed towards the waterline to check on the shore birds. There were a number of birds there, most of which I have yet to photograph. So I started to move toward a good group and a Great Blue Heron caught my eye. I turned, fired off five shots and my camera froze on me. Actually, it just stopped working. This had happened before and I knew the problem...the batteries were dead.
I headed back to the rig, reached for the fanny pack I keep my spare stuff in and suddenly realized that the spare batteries I was about to get weren't where they were suppose to be. They were still on the charger here at the house. DUH!!!!! So, after kicking myself several times, I got back in the rig and headed out of town. At this point, I was so angry with myself, I blew off going back to another friend's place, didn't stop to clarify directions to the daughter's place, and didn't notice the poorly marked change in traffic flow at a construction site.
Lucky for me, when I did notice my error, I was able to swing back to where I was suppose to be before anyone came from the opposite direction, but the folks behind me must have wondered what kind of yahoo was driving that Jeep Cherokee. By the time I got back here to the house, I was really angry at myself. So I decide I would grab my fully charged batteries and head back out to shoot some photos somewhere. However, I remembered Rosco and figured I would keep up his spirits a little and play a game of catch, or fetch, with him.
For those who don't know, Rosco is like a 120 pound baby. Actually, he's a BIG Pit Bull and one of the best dogs I have ever been around. He isn't mine (he belongs to my sister's family), but I know he'd take a bullet for me. I'm one of his favorite people...or so I thought.
When I walked into the backyard to see Rosco, he was on the far side of the yard. The moment he saw me, he headed straight for me at full speed. I figured out a moment to late what he was going to do. He leaped off the porch and hit me square in the chest, knocked me flat on my ass and had his tongue covering my face before I could react. After catching my breath, I rolled over, got to my feet and reached for the hard rubber toy I had been tossing around for Rosco to run, get and bring back to me and as I went to toss it, Rosco figured he would get a jump on the fetch part and leaped again. This time, he headed straight for the object in my hand.
He grabbed it before I could release it. Unfortunately, he grabbed something else...my hand. He realized what he had done as soon as he did it, but the damage was already done. His powerful jaws had come down on my hand just inside the area of the right thumb. He let go as soon as he could, and slinked away knowing he was a bad dog. I naturally, jerked my hand away from the pain, and luckily did so just a split second after Rosco had released his jaws, which saved me from pulling my hand out through his teeth.
I grabbed my aching hand, winced in pain and looked for Rosco. He was laying down near the back door of the house, ears back and tail still tucked between his legs. I walked over to him and he naturally went into a submissive mood and when I scratched him behind his ear and said he was a good dog, he jumped up and once again, began inhaling my face with his tongue.
That happened two hours ago, and the hand still hurts. Typing this isn't helping it, but at least I can move (more or less) all my appendages. There is swelling and a very sore spot about an inch above the wrist. But overall, I was lucky.
Rosco didn't mean to get my hand...all he wanted to do was play and he got a little over anxious. And, it wasn't the first time a dog my sister's family owned missed something and got me.
Years ago, I came home on leave and found my mom visiting my sister when I arrived. Since I had been gone several years, they were making me a dinner in the house. I had gone out to the backyard to see Brutus, my sister's beautiful Staffordshire Terrier (Pit Bull in other words). After he welcomed me back (in the typical fashion Pit Bulls welcome me), he brought over a rope he liked to play tug-of-war with. I think he played that because he knew he could win every time...well, almost every time.
We both started pulling and I was yanking and pulling as hard as I could, when Brutus decide he wanted to better grip on the rope. So he loosened his grip at the same time I gave the rope a yank. His end of the rope went flying out of his mouth and directly towards my crotch. Again, I realized what was going to happen a moment to late. Brutus lunged for the rope, mouth opened wide, headed straight for my family jewels.
And he got them...and the rope.
I was suddenly in so much pain, I fell backwards with my hands covering the source of the pain and rocked back and forth. And then I saw my mom looking out the kitchen window. She had seen the entire incident and was laughing. I got up, slightly bent over, and headed into the house. When I got to the kitchen, my mom said, "I sure wish I had had a video camera. We could split $10,000!" At that time, America's Funniest Home Videos was not in reruns, and I am sure my fun in the sun with the dog would have made the show, if not taken the prize for that episode.
But there was no way I was going to play tug-of-war with Brutus for a long time.
Well, the incident with Brutus is long over, but it was the first thing that flashed through my mind when I saw Rosco leaping for the hard rubber toy.
I don't think anything is broken, but my hand does hurt. I'll keep an eye on it for now, and keep it away from Rosco.
The worst part of it is the hand Rosco clipped, is the hand I hold I my camera with.
I just wonder if it wasn't revenge for leaving him alone in the backyard for long...without food.
Oh...he gobbled down his food and I even gave him a new chew toy. Hopefully he won't want to go leaping at me for a while.
Friday, September 28, 2007
Cubs Win! Cubs Win!
The Chicago Cubs are in the playoffs. They beat the Reds today while the Padres beat the Brewers...and that was all it took.
Dummy me, however, was under the impression the Cubs magic number was three and not two and that Saturday's televised game between the Cubs and Reds would be the party event of the baseball season for me. But it won't be. Instead, while the Cubs were winning their way to the Central Division title of the National League, I was watering horses and watching the snow fall on nearby hills. By the time I came in and went to the computer to check the score, the Cubs had won and saw that they had clinched. I then looked at the Brewers score already knowing they lost. It was still a good moment in time.
Cubs Win! Cubs Win!
Now to see them in the World Series along with the Cleveland Indians. That will be a series worth watching.
Saturday's ballgame will still be good to watch. I rarely see any of the Cubs games where I live. After all, how many people in central Oregon care what a Chicago ball team is doing? That is quit evident when the on the news around here, the sports announcer gives the final score to every game except that of the Cubs. I even met one in Texas in April and let him have it. He knows there is at least one Cubs fan in central Oregon. But they still don't give the Cubs scores.
Maybe now they will.
And to celebrate the title, tomorrow I will treat myself to some Spicy Roll Shrimp Sushi and a beer.
But the weekend games still mean something to the Cubs. They don't know who the first team they will face in the playoffs will be. That should be decided this weekend.
Oh...and the pitcher who beat the Padres: well it was Greg Maddux. Maddux started his career with the Cubs in 1985, was traded to Atlanta years later, went back to the Cubs a couple of years ago and ended up with Padres.
It's fitting then, that Maddux helped the Cubs to title.
Dummy me, however, was under the impression the Cubs magic number was three and not two and that Saturday's televised game between the Cubs and Reds would be the party event of the baseball season for me. But it won't be. Instead, while the Cubs were winning their way to the Central Division title of the National League, I was watering horses and watching the snow fall on nearby hills. By the time I came in and went to the computer to check the score, the Cubs had won and saw that they had clinched. I then looked at the Brewers score already knowing they lost. It was still a good moment in time.
Cubs Win! Cubs Win!
Now to see them in the World Series along with the Cleveland Indians. That will be a series worth watching.
Saturday's ballgame will still be good to watch. I rarely see any of the Cubs games where I live. After all, how many people in central Oregon care what a Chicago ball team is doing? That is quit evident when the on the news around here, the sports announcer gives the final score to every game except that of the Cubs. I even met one in Texas in April and let him have it. He knows there is at least one Cubs fan in central Oregon. But they still don't give the Cubs scores.
Maybe now they will.
And to celebrate the title, tomorrow I will treat myself to some Spicy Roll Shrimp Sushi and a beer.
But the weekend games still mean something to the Cubs. They don't know who the first team they will face in the playoffs will be. That should be decided this weekend.
Oh...and the pitcher who beat the Padres: well it was Greg Maddux. Maddux started his career with the Cubs in 1985, was traded to Atlanta years later, went back to the Cubs a couple of years ago and ended up with Padres.
It's fitting then, that Maddux helped the Cubs to title.
Monday, September 24, 2007
When is Autumn?
Winter is coming to the high desert.
I say that not because summer is over, but because the winter critters of the high desert are starting to move to their wintering grounds in town.
Today while out on safari, I saw and heard a number Townsend's Solitaires on the tops of trees. These birds come to town in the winter. During the summer, they spend a lot of their time in badland areas (areas of scrub, sage and juniper found anywhere outside of towns in the area of where I live).
Something else I noticed was only one butterfly, one dragonfly and few bees. There were a lot of Honey Bees around, but when I say bees, I mean those big, gorgeous Bumble Bee type bees. The last time I passed through the area I went to today, I noticed several large, and I do mean large, Bumble Bees I wanted to photograph. But I didn't have my camera with me that day. Today I did, and of course, I didn't see the bugs. But I didn't see many bugs and I like shooting bugs.
I can only assume the week or so of below freezing temps we have had here lately has taken a toll on the wildlife...mostly the small stuff that flies around. I did notice a Common Raven nest I hadn't seen before and was about to take a photo of it with a couple of birds nearby, when I saw a Steller's Jay. I have only one photo of a Steller's Jay and figured I could go back to the raven nest. I probably would have had I not spaced it entirely.
But I chased after the jay hoping to get a shot of it and it led me to the northern end of the Dry Canyon...and I still couldn't get a shot of it. The bird constantly stayed far enough ahead of me and in the trees making a good shot almost impossible. But after wandering around trying to get close, I gave up and headed back to my bicycle. Just as I mounted my "Specialized" beast, I saw a lizard moving.
It was a young Western Fence Lizard and it wasn't more than six feet away from me. So I brought out the camera and began shooting. I have seen (and photographed) a lot of lizards lately. But I don't care. All the shots are cool (in my opinion). Besides, lately they have been almost all I have found to shoot.
But back to what's coming. One thing I haven't seen yet, is snow in the mountains. That's a sure fire indication of winter here...and probably anywhere mountains and snows meet. I remember when I was stationed in Alaska at Elmendorf AFB outside of Anchorage, you could literally watch winter come down on you.
Elmendorf had mountains to the east...the Chugach Mountains, the northern part of a series of coastal ranges in the northwest. When the first snows would come, it normally blanketed the top portions of the mountains. Days later, another snowfall would drop the snow line lower. As more snowfall came, the line lowered and lowered until it met the ground and snow was everywhere. Then, everyone knew winter had come to Anchorage, Alaska.
It's not that easy here. Snow falls in the mountains, but normally when it does, it blankets the slopes. And it continues to blanket the slopes. Sometimes it will spread to the 3,000 foot level where I live and blanket the ground, but not often (knock on wood). Last winter I think we got less than two inches the entire season. However, four or five years ago, we got something like 60 inches, with several storms dumping 18 inches each.
Generally when the first snows fall in the mountains, the birds which live high in the ranges, move down to the valleys and towns of central Oregon. The most prominent of these birds is the Dark-eyed Junco. They come down after the first flakes fall so regularly, that they are called Snow Birds by the locals. But I haven't seen one of them yet.
But the lack of insects to photograph is a sure sign change that seasonal change is coming. And when that happens, I am going to miss summer. You see, I love the heat of the high desert. The hotter the better.
And believe me, I'll be waiting for the summer of 2008.
I say that not because summer is over, but because the winter critters of the high desert are starting to move to their wintering grounds in town.
Today while out on safari, I saw and heard a number Townsend's Solitaires on the tops of trees. These birds come to town in the winter. During the summer, they spend a lot of their time in badland areas (areas of scrub, sage and juniper found anywhere outside of towns in the area of where I live).
Something else I noticed was only one butterfly, one dragonfly and few bees. There were a lot of Honey Bees around, but when I say bees, I mean those big, gorgeous Bumble Bee type bees. The last time I passed through the area I went to today, I noticed several large, and I do mean large, Bumble Bees I wanted to photograph. But I didn't have my camera with me that day. Today I did, and of course, I didn't see the bugs. But I didn't see many bugs and I like shooting bugs.
I can only assume the week or so of below freezing temps we have had here lately has taken a toll on the wildlife...mostly the small stuff that flies around. I did notice a Common Raven nest I hadn't seen before and was about to take a photo of it with a couple of birds nearby, when I saw a Steller's Jay. I have only one photo of a Steller's Jay and figured I could go back to the raven nest. I probably would have had I not spaced it entirely.
But I chased after the jay hoping to get a shot of it and it led me to the northern end of the Dry Canyon...and I still couldn't get a shot of it. The bird constantly stayed far enough ahead of me and in the trees making a good shot almost impossible. But after wandering around trying to get close, I gave up and headed back to my bicycle. Just as I mounted my "Specialized" beast, I saw a lizard moving.
It was a young Western Fence Lizard and it wasn't more than six feet away from me. So I brought out the camera and began shooting. I have seen (and photographed) a lot of lizards lately. But I don't care. All the shots are cool (in my opinion). Besides, lately they have been almost all I have found to shoot.
But back to what's coming. One thing I haven't seen yet, is snow in the mountains. That's a sure fire indication of winter here...and probably anywhere mountains and snows meet. I remember when I was stationed in Alaska at Elmendorf AFB outside of Anchorage, you could literally watch winter come down on you.
Elmendorf had mountains to the east...the Chugach Mountains, the northern part of a series of coastal ranges in the northwest. When the first snows would come, it normally blanketed the top portions of the mountains. Days later, another snowfall would drop the snow line lower. As more snowfall came, the line lowered and lowered until it met the ground and snow was everywhere. Then, everyone knew winter had come to Anchorage, Alaska.
It's not that easy here. Snow falls in the mountains, but normally when it does, it blankets the slopes. And it continues to blanket the slopes. Sometimes it will spread to the 3,000 foot level where I live and blanket the ground, but not often (knock on wood). Last winter I think we got less than two inches the entire season. However, four or five years ago, we got something like 60 inches, with several storms dumping 18 inches each.
Generally when the first snows fall in the mountains, the birds which live high in the ranges, move down to the valleys and towns of central Oregon. The most prominent of these birds is the Dark-eyed Junco. They come down after the first flakes fall so regularly, that they are called Snow Birds by the locals. But I haven't seen one of them yet.
But the lack of insects to photograph is a sure sign change that seasonal change is coming. And when that happens, I am going to miss summer. You see, I love the heat of the high desert. The hotter the better.
And believe me, I'll be waiting for the summer of 2008.
Good Days Coming...I Hope
This weekend, a friend of mine was very happy. Her Cleveland Indians clinched the American League Central Division. It's been since 2001 that the Indians have gone on past the end of regular season play.
My team is still contesting their berth in the playoffs. The lovable Chicago Cubs are sitting with a magic number of 4 right now. They were on fire over the weekend, sweeping the Pittsburgh Pirates at home and belting a crap-load of home runs.
Not long ago, I mentioned to my friend that it would be nice to see the Cubs and Indians in the World Series. It will really test our friendship...hehehe. Lucky for us, we are a couple of thousands of miles apart, so tossing things at each other will not be possible.
Funny thing about the Cubs, they have fans across the country. Fair weather fans for the most part. Me? I'm a die-hard Cubs fan, having been a fan since either the late 50s or early 60s...can't exactly remember when the Cubs bug hit me.
I was rooting for the Cubs when they were perennial cellar dwellers. I rooted for the Cubs when everyone around me (south side of Chicago) were die-hard White Sox fans. I have been a Cubs fan for so long, I remember when the Chicago Cardinals football team played in Wrigley Field before they move to St. Louis.
I can recall the '69 season. A couple of times during that year, I skipped school and took the CTA to Wrigley, got me a $1 bleacher ticket and joined the Right Field Bleacher Bums. I wasn't a regular bleacher bum, but I did have my share of moments there. When in September of that year, the New York Mets came to town to face the first place Cubs, I was at the second game. Little did I know at the time that the series with the Mets would be a turning point that would send the Cubs spiraling out of first, and vaulting the Mets to the top spot. But it happened and at the end of the season, I was still a Cubs fan.
It was 15 years before the Cubs were to see light at the playoffs at the end of the regular season. I was in Alaska then. On Wednesday afternoons, I would wait at the golf course clubhouse on base for 1 pm to chime, at which time I would head out to a bus full of people wanting a tour of Elmendorf AFB. While I waited, I would watch the Cubs play if the game was still on. Sometimes, when I got on the bus, I would ask if any were Cubs fans and then relay the score at the time I departed.
Then came a game in Pittsburgh which, if the Cubs won, they would go on to the playoffs. I sat in my boss' office, while he and I watched the game. Near the end of the game, several co-workers came in and asked if I could give them a ride to the barracks. I knew the game would be on in the dayroom there, so I left with them. When I got to the dayroom, it was the bottom of the ninth, the Pirates had one out and the Cubs were ahead. I sat down in one of the chairs, and watched. Then with two out and a 2-2 count on the batter, I watched as he swung and missed the next pitch. The Cubs were in the playoffs!
They went on to win the first two games in Wrigley Field against the San Diego Padres and needed one more win to go to the World Series. They ended up losing three straight in San Diego and the Padres went to the series. They lost in five games to the Detroit Tigers.
Then came 1989. Then Cubs were again in the playoffs. They didn't make the world series that year. It was the Oakland Athletics and the San Fransisco Giants in the earthquake extended Bay Area World Series. Then again in 1998, the Cubs were in the playoffs. But they were defeated by the Atlanta Braves in the first round.
However, 2003 was the year...the year the Cubs were to go to the World Series. But, they didn't. They were playing the Florida Marlins for the National League title and the right to go to the World Series. They were playing at home and the catch which wasn't made, was made. Every Cubs fan remembers that play. A pop-up to the foul side of left field, the fielder going over to make the grab and end the inning and then...a fan reaches up, catches the ball and instead of an out, it was nothing more than a foul ball. The Marlins went on to take the title and beat the New York Yankees in the World Series.
The worst part of that foul ball was the fan who caught the ball wasn't a Marlins fan...he was a Cubs fan...and he will never live that catch down...not as long as he's in Chicago at least.
It's four years later and the Cubs are looking like a contender for the crown. They have a long road to travel still, but they can do it. The team has a good leader who has led a number of teams to the victory.
But win or lose, you can bet on one thing...this die-hard Cubs fan will be looking forward to next season...and will still be cussing out Fox Saturday baseball or ESPN when they don't show a Cubs game here when everyone else is seeing it.
Go Cubbies!!!!!!!!
My team is still contesting their berth in the playoffs. The lovable Chicago Cubs are sitting with a magic number of 4 right now. They were on fire over the weekend, sweeping the Pittsburgh Pirates at home and belting a crap-load of home runs.
Not long ago, I mentioned to my friend that it would be nice to see the Cubs and Indians in the World Series. It will really test our friendship...hehehe. Lucky for us, we are a couple of thousands of miles apart, so tossing things at each other will not be possible.
Funny thing about the Cubs, they have fans across the country. Fair weather fans for the most part. Me? I'm a die-hard Cubs fan, having been a fan since either the late 50s or early 60s...can't exactly remember when the Cubs bug hit me.
I was rooting for the Cubs when they were perennial cellar dwellers. I rooted for the Cubs when everyone around me (south side of Chicago) were die-hard White Sox fans. I have been a Cubs fan for so long, I remember when the Chicago Cardinals football team played in Wrigley Field before they move to St. Louis.
I can recall the '69 season. A couple of times during that year, I skipped school and took the CTA to Wrigley, got me a $1 bleacher ticket and joined the Right Field Bleacher Bums. I wasn't a regular bleacher bum, but I did have my share of moments there. When in September of that year, the New York Mets came to town to face the first place Cubs, I was at the second game. Little did I know at the time that the series with the Mets would be a turning point that would send the Cubs spiraling out of first, and vaulting the Mets to the top spot. But it happened and at the end of the season, I was still a Cubs fan.
It was 15 years before the Cubs were to see light at the playoffs at the end of the regular season. I was in Alaska then. On Wednesday afternoons, I would wait at the golf course clubhouse on base for 1 pm to chime, at which time I would head out to a bus full of people wanting a tour of Elmendorf AFB. While I waited, I would watch the Cubs play if the game was still on. Sometimes, when I got on the bus, I would ask if any were Cubs fans and then relay the score at the time I departed.
Then came a game in Pittsburgh which, if the Cubs won, they would go on to the playoffs. I sat in my boss' office, while he and I watched the game. Near the end of the game, several co-workers came in and asked if I could give them a ride to the barracks. I knew the game would be on in the dayroom there, so I left with them. When I got to the dayroom, it was the bottom of the ninth, the Pirates had one out and the Cubs were ahead. I sat down in one of the chairs, and watched. Then with two out and a 2-2 count on the batter, I watched as he swung and missed the next pitch. The Cubs were in the playoffs!
They went on to win the first two games in Wrigley Field against the San Diego Padres and needed one more win to go to the World Series. They ended up losing three straight in San Diego and the Padres went to the series. They lost in five games to the Detroit Tigers.
Then came 1989. Then Cubs were again in the playoffs. They didn't make the world series that year. It was the Oakland Athletics and the San Fransisco Giants in the earthquake extended Bay Area World Series. Then again in 1998, the Cubs were in the playoffs. But they were defeated by the Atlanta Braves in the first round.
However, 2003 was the year...the year the Cubs were to go to the World Series. But, they didn't. They were playing the Florida Marlins for the National League title and the right to go to the World Series. They were playing at home and the catch which wasn't made, was made. Every Cubs fan remembers that play. A pop-up to the foul side of left field, the fielder going over to make the grab and end the inning and then...a fan reaches up, catches the ball and instead of an out, it was nothing more than a foul ball. The Marlins went on to take the title and beat the New York Yankees in the World Series.
The worst part of that foul ball was the fan who caught the ball wasn't a Marlins fan...he was a Cubs fan...and he will never live that catch down...not as long as he's in Chicago at least.
It's four years later and the Cubs are looking like a contender for the crown. They have a long road to travel still, but they can do it. The team has a good leader who has led a number of teams to the victory.
But win or lose, you can bet on one thing...this die-hard Cubs fan will be looking forward to next season...and will still be cussing out Fox Saturday baseball or ESPN when they don't show a Cubs game here when everyone else is seeing it.
Go Cubbies!!!!!!!!
Friday, September 21, 2007
To Live and Let Live
I love where I live.
And believe me, that's an accurate statement.
I spent 22 years, two months and two days in the U.S. Air Force, lived or visited throughout the world and nothing, and I do mean nothing, beats central Oregon.
It has everything I enjoy.
The summers days are hot. There are normally numerous days in triple digits...but with the heat comes low humidity. Several years ago, I went out for a bicycle ride. It was 104 degrees that afternoon and I rode for about 12 miles. When I got home, I was tired, but my T-shirt was dry as an old bone. A look at the local humidity told the story...it was at six percent.
The summer nights are cool. Temperature swings from day to night can be more than 60 degrees. Though I love sleeping on cool a night, I also enjoy laying out at night, watching meteor showers. To do that, I need to bundle up somewhat on the nights of my favorite show in mid-August. And the fact that the night skies are still dark enough for me to setup in my backyard to enjoy the spectacle, makes it even better.
Autumns here are nice. The days are warm for the most part and nights cool. Towards the end of the season, the weather appears more like winter than autumn, but even then, it's not all that bad.
Winters can be full of snow and cold, or snowless and warm. Twelve years or so ago, my nephew visited me in January. His birthday is at the end of the month and he made the comment to me on that day, that it was the first birthday he has had which didn't have snow on the ground. We had an El Nino winter that year and the days were 60 degrees or so and the nights 30 or thereabout. A very comfortable winter it was.
The spring time in central Oregon is really where things get fun. We can have snow, sleet, freezing rain, sunshine and 70 degree temps all on the same day. It's fun and very enjoyable. However, we don't have many storms in my area. I sit in a sort of protected spot. It's not that we never get storms, it is simply storms have several tracks they can take in this area which two out of three times takes them away from me...and I love storms.
But there is also a lot more this area offers. To the west of me are national forest areas and mountains. During the summer, these areas are great for those who enjoy the outdoors. To the south of me are the volcanic lands, dominated by Newberry National Volcanic Monument, one of my favorite areas on Earth. There are lava flows throughout the area, small cinder cones, large cinder cones and further south of some of these areas, the northern reaches of the great basin.
To my north are the high plateau lands with carved canyons showing signs of countless volcanic eruptions. There is also irrigated farm lands which go on forever it seems. Eastward are more forests, more volcanic terrains and more of the northern reaches of the high desert and great basin.
And in all these areas are lakes, reservoirs, rivers, streams, ponds, grasslands, badlands, hills, canyons, gullies and everything else which makes the great outdoors great for everyone.
And there lies the reason I love where I live. I love going out and photographing the natural world I enjoy so much. The photos on my Flickr photostream from Oregon are primarily from the Redmond area where I live. But there are some photos from areas north and south of me. But for the most part, Redmond is where I live and Redmond is what I photograph.
I'd like to expand my area of operations for photography, and someday I might, but for now, I can still get great shots along the Dry Canyon Trail, or Smith Rock area, or the badlands around the airport, or at Fireman's Pond.
However, there are things about this area which aren't all that great. First of all, the infrastructure was never designed to handle a rapidly growing population. It's slowly improving, but no sooner than one fix is finished, the population growth forces another fix. So road work and construction will be a continuously on-going project.
And then there are the wildfires. Every years brings large wildfires nearby, and a large fire means smoke. Smoke in the air makes breathing difficult, makes eyes burn and itch, gives everything a smoky smell and limits visibility. And in areas near the fires, fears of evacuation and loss of everything is constant threat.
Even with all these problems, for me the good things of the area by far makes central Oregon "God's Country."
And that, my friends, is the reason I love where I live.
And believe me, that's an accurate statement.
I spent 22 years, two months and two days in the U.S. Air Force, lived or visited throughout the world and nothing, and I do mean nothing, beats central Oregon.
It has everything I enjoy.
The summers days are hot. There are normally numerous days in triple digits...but with the heat comes low humidity. Several years ago, I went out for a bicycle ride. It was 104 degrees that afternoon and I rode for about 12 miles. When I got home, I was tired, but my T-shirt was dry as an old bone. A look at the local humidity told the story...it was at six percent.
The summer nights are cool. Temperature swings from day to night can be more than 60 degrees. Though I love sleeping on cool a night, I also enjoy laying out at night, watching meteor showers. To do that, I need to bundle up somewhat on the nights of my favorite show in mid-August. And the fact that the night skies are still dark enough for me to setup in my backyard to enjoy the spectacle, makes it even better.
Autumns here are nice. The days are warm for the most part and nights cool. Towards the end of the season, the weather appears more like winter than autumn, but even then, it's not all that bad.
Winters can be full of snow and cold, or snowless and warm. Twelve years or so ago, my nephew visited me in January. His birthday is at the end of the month and he made the comment to me on that day, that it was the first birthday he has had which didn't have snow on the ground. We had an El Nino winter that year and the days were 60 degrees or so and the nights 30 or thereabout. A very comfortable winter it was.
The spring time in central Oregon is really where things get fun. We can have snow, sleet, freezing rain, sunshine and 70 degree temps all on the same day. It's fun and very enjoyable. However, we don't have many storms in my area. I sit in a sort of protected spot. It's not that we never get storms, it is simply storms have several tracks they can take in this area which two out of three times takes them away from me...and I love storms.
But there is also a lot more this area offers. To the west of me are national forest areas and mountains. During the summer, these areas are great for those who enjoy the outdoors. To the south of me are the volcanic lands, dominated by Newberry National Volcanic Monument, one of my favorite areas on Earth. There are lava flows throughout the area, small cinder cones, large cinder cones and further south of some of these areas, the northern reaches of the great basin.
To my north are the high plateau lands with carved canyons showing signs of countless volcanic eruptions. There is also irrigated farm lands which go on forever it seems. Eastward are more forests, more volcanic terrains and more of the northern reaches of the high desert and great basin.
And in all these areas are lakes, reservoirs, rivers, streams, ponds, grasslands, badlands, hills, canyons, gullies and everything else which makes the great outdoors great for everyone.
And there lies the reason I love where I live. I love going out and photographing the natural world I enjoy so much. The photos on my Flickr photostream from Oregon are primarily from the Redmond area where I live. But there are some photos from areas north and south of me. But for the most part, Redmond is where I live and Redmond is what I photograph.
I'd like to expand my area of operations for photography, and someday I might, but for now, I can still get great shots along the Dry Canyon Trail, or Smith Rock area, or the badlands around the airport, or at Fireman's Pond.
However, there are things about this area which aren't all that great. First of all, the infrastructure was never designed to handle a rapidly growing population. It's slowly improving, but no sooner than one fix is finished, the population growth forces another fix. So road work and construction will be a continuously on-going project.
And then there are the wildfires. Every years brings large wildfires nearby, and a large fire means smoke. Smoke in the air makes breathing difficult, makes eyes burn and itch, gives everything a smoky smell and limits visibility. And in areas near the fires, fears of evacuation and loss of everything is constant threat.
Even with all these problems, for me the good things of the area by far makes central Oregon "God's Country."
And that, my friends, is the reason I love where I live.
Thursday, September 20, 2007
I was reading a blog post of a friend of mine and laughter came over me. Not that I was laughing at the post (it was funny), but I was laughing at what I had done a couple of days earlier.
I had laid back in my Lazyboy and tuned the TV to Fox News Channel to catch up on the news of the day when out of the corner of my eye, I noticed something crawling on my wall. Normally when I see something on my wall, it is a spider. I don't mind spiders, and am not afraid of them, but I refuse to share my living space with them. I figure the great outdoors is big enough for them to find a nice a place to live.
Anyway, I looked at the critter on the wall and realized it was a centipede. My first thought was, where did this creature come from. My second thought was "get a photo" (after all, I love nature photography). Well, I don't like unnatural images, so I figured I would capture the bug, take him outside, release him in an apple tree in the back and take its picture there.
So I got a paper towel, and after a bit of an adventure, I finally got the critter on the towel, folded it in such a way to keep the centipede inside and grabbed my camera. As I moved past my bed (I live in a small studio style apartment) with camera in hand, I felt something on my hand which held the paper towel containing the bug.
A bit of background here is needed. When I was stationed in The Philippines, I found a large centipede on the keyboard of my office computer. I picked it up thinking to toss it outside and when I did, it bit me...and the bite hurt. Then the bite swelled and remained slightly puffy for several days before things got back to normal.
Back to the present and the paper towel.
As soon as I felt whatever it was on my hand, I flashed to the biting centipede in The Philippines and flicked my hand up and away, thinking the centipede had gotten out. I then looked around the area where whatever was on my hand would have landed and saw nothing. Confused about what was on my hand, I tucked my camera under my left arm (my right hand held the towel) and slowly unfolded the paper towel to see if the centipede was still there.
After undoing the third fold, something dark and long came flying out of the towel. It was a blur as it traveled up my left forearm towards my shoulder and parts elsewhere on my body. And I knew what it was...it was the centipede! I again flashed back to the biting centipede in The Philippines and flicked my arm to get the bug off it. Unfortunately, I forgot about my camera.
As soon as my arm moved, I remembered the camera and lifted my left leg, which caught the camera...momentarily...then swung my leg in such a way as to get the camera to fall on the bed. But I wasn't quite nimble enough. I did catch the camera, and I did deflect fall, but it hit the side of the bed and fell heavily onto my right foot. When I am in the house, I wear moccasin style slippers exclusively. They are comfortable to me for wearing but provide very little protection from falling objects, which includes a Canon Digital Rebel with vertical grip and 70-300mm image stabilized telephoto lens.
Seeing the camera now sliding off the corner of the mattress on the bed, headed towards the floor and my exposed foot, I quickly reached down and grabbed the strap, but was a little too late. There was enough slack in the strap for the camera to land squarely on the ridge of the foot, just as I was able to lift it out of the way. And it hurt.
Fearing I would do more damage to either my camera or myself or both, I froze and watched the camera come up and land squarely on the bed and stop there. With the camera safe on the bed, I looked down at my foot, lifted it and rubbed the ridge of it against the calf of my left leg. Pissed at what had just too place, I began to sit down when I remember the centipede.
Bolting back to a standing position while at the same time release my hold on my camera strap, I looked down on my arm and saw nothing. You see, what I described above took about two or three seconds to happen and the centipede should have still been on my arm. Again, I scanned the area the creature would have, or should have landed had the flick of my arm worked to dislodge him, but it wasn't there.
I then began to look elsewhere for the centipede...behind books, under the chest of drawers, behind the TV, on the Lazyboy, on the walls...all to no avail. The centipede was nowhere to be found.
It's been almost two days since all this took place. I have yet to see the centipede again. But I figure being caged inside a paper towel and flicked off a human arm to parts unknown, it decided that life in the world of humans isn't worth the exposure and has gone underground...hopefully there to remain.
But I still don't know what it was on my hand to cause me to flick the first time bringing about the chain of events described above...and probably never will.
As for the camera, it's none the worse for wear, or dropping in this case.
I had laid back in my Lazyboy and tuned the TV to Fox News Channel to catch up on the news of the day when out of the corner of my eye, I noticed something crawling on my wall. Normally when I see something on my wall, it is a spider. I don't mind spiders, and am not afraid of them, but I refuse to share my living space with them. I figure the great outdoors is big enough for them to find a nice a place to live.
Anyway, I looked at the critter on the wall and realized it was a centipede. My first thought was, where did this creature come from. My second thought was "get a photo" (after all, I love nature photography). Well, I don't like unnatural images, so I figured I would capture the bug, take him outside, release him in an apple tree in the back and take its picture there.
So I got a paper towel, and after a bit of an adventure, I finally got the critter on the towel, folded it in such a way to keep the centipede inside and grabbed my camera. As I moved past my bed (I live in a small studio style apartment) with camera in hand, I felt something on my hand which held the paper towel containing the bug.
A bit of background here is needed. When I was stationed in The Philippines, I found a large centipede on the keyboard of my office computer. I picked it up thinking to toss it outside and when I did, it bit me...and the bite hurt. Then the bite swelled and remained slightly puffy for several days before things got back to normal.
Back to the present and the paper towel.
As soon as I felt whatever it was on my hand, I flashed to the biting centipede in The Philippines and flicked my hand up and away, thinking the centipede had gotten out. I then looked around the area where whatever was on my hand would have landed and saw nothing. Confused about what was on my hand, I tucked my camera under my left arm (my right hand held the towel) and slowly unfolded the paper towel to see if the centipede was still there.
After undoing the third fold, something dark and long came flying out of the towel. It was a blur as it traveled up my left forearm towards my shoulder and parts elsewhere on my body. And I knew what it was...it was the centipede! I again flashed back to the biting centipede in The Philippines and flicked my arm to get the bug off it. Unfortunately, I forgot about my camera.
As soon as my arm moved, I remembered the camera and lifted my left leg, which caught the camera...momentarily...then swung my leg in such a way as to get the camera to fall on the bed. But I wasn't quite nimble enough. I did catch the camera, and I did deflect fall, but it hit the side of the bed and fell heavily onto my right foot. When I am in the house, I wear moccasin style slippers exclusively. They are comfortable to me for wearing but provide very little protection from falling objects, which includes a Canon Digital Rebel with vertical grip and 70-300mm image stabilized telephoto lens.
Seeing the camera now sliding off the corner of the mattress on the bed, headed towards the floor and my exposed foot, I quickly reached down and grabbed the strap, but was a little too late. There was enough slack in the strap for the camera to land squarely on the ridge of the foot, just as I was able to lift it out of the way. And it hurt.
Fearing I would do more damage to either my camera or myself or both, I froze and watched the camera come up and land squarely on the bed and stop there. With the camera safe on the bed, I looked down at my foot, lifted it and rubbed the ridge of it against the calf of my left leg. Pissed at what had just too place, I began to sit down when I remember the centipede.
Bolting back to a standing position while at the same time release my hold on my camera strap, I looked down on my arm and saw nothing. You see, what I described above took about two or three seconds to happen and the centipede should have still been on my arm. Again, I scanned the area the creature would have, or should have landed had the flick of my arm worked to dislodge him, but it wasn't there.
I then began to look elsewhere for the centipede...behind books, under the chest of drawers, behind the TV, on the Lazyboy, on the walls...all to no avail. The centipede was nowhere to be found.
It's been almost two days since all this took place. I have yet to see the centipede again. But I figure being caged inside a paper towel and flicked off a human arm to parts unknown, it decided that life in the world of humans isn't worth the exposure and has gone underground...hopefully there to remain.
But I still don't know what it was on my hand to cause me to flick the first time bringing about the chain of events described above...and probably never will.
As for the camera, it's none the worse for wear, or dropping in this case.
The Comical Life of a Blogger
I was reading a blog post of a friend of mine and laughter came over me. Not that I was laughing at the post (it was funny), but I was laughing at what I had done a couple of days earlier.
I had laid back in my Lazyboy and tuned the TV to Fox News Channel to catch up on the news of the day when out of the corner of my eye, I noticed something crawling on my wall. Normally when I see something on my wall, it is a spider. I don't mind spiders, and am not afraid of them, but I refuse to share my living space with them. I figure the great outdoors is big enough for them to find a nice a place to live.
Anyway, I looked at the critter on the wall and realized it was a centipede. My first thought was, where did this creature come from. My second thought was "get a photo" (after all, I love nature photography). Well, I don't like unnatural images, so I figured I would capture the bug, take him outside, release him in an apple tree in the back and take its picture there.
So I got paper towel, and after a bit of an adventure, I finally got the critter on the towel, folded it in such a way to keep the centipede inside and grabbed my camera. As I moved past my bed (I live in a small studio style apartment) with camera in hand, I felt something on my hand which held the paper towel containing the bug.
A bit of background here is needed. When I was stationed in The Philippines, I found a large centipede on the keyboard of my office computer. I picked it up thinking to toss it outside and when I did, it bit me...and the bite hurt. Then the bite swelled and remained slightly puffy for several days before things got back to normal.
Back to the present and the paper towel.
As soon as I felt whatever it was on my hand, I flashed to the biting centipede in The Philippines and flicked my hand up and away, thinking the centipede had gotten out. I then looked around the area where whatever was on my hand would have landed and saw nothing. Confused about what was on my hand, I tucked my camera under my left arm (my right hand held the towel) and slowly unfolded the paper towel to see if the centipede was still there.
After undoing the third fold, something dark and long came flying out of the towel. It was a blur as it traveled up my left forearm towards my shoulder and parts elsewhere on my body. And I knew what it was...it was the centipede! I again flashed back to the biting centipede in The Philippines and flicked my arm to get the bug off it. Unfortunately, I forgot about my camera.
As soon as my arm moved, I remembered the camera, lifted my left leg, which caught the camera...momentarily...and swung my leg in such a way as to get the camera to fall on the bed. But I wasn't quite nimble enough. I did catch the camera, and I did deflect fall, but it hit the side of the bed and fell heavily onto my right foot. When I am in the house, I wear moccasin style slippers exclusively. They are comfortable to me for wearing but provide very little protection from falling objects, which includes a Canon Digital Rebel with vertical grip and 70-300mm image stabilized telephoto lens.
Seeing the camera now sliding off the corner of the mattress on the bed, headed towards the floor and my exposed foot, I quickly reached down and grabbed the strap, but was a little too late. There was enough slack in the strap for the camera to land squarely on the ridge of the foot, just as I was able to lift it out of the way. And it hurt.
Fearing I would do more damage to either my camera or myself or both, I froze and watched the camera come up and land squarely on the bed and stop there. With the camera safely on the bed, I looked down at my foot, lifted it and rubbed the ridge of it against the calf of my left leg. Pissed at what had just too place, I began to sit down when I remember the centipede.
Bolting back to a standing position while at the same time release my hold on my camera strap, I looked down on my arm and saw nothing. You see, what I described above took about two or three seconds to happen and the centipede should have still been on my arm. Again, I scanned the area the creature would have, or should have landed had the flick of my arm worked to dislodge him, but it wasn't there.
I then began to look elsewhere for the centipede...behind books, under the chest of drawers, behind the TV, on the Lazyboy, on the walls...all to no avail. The centipede was nowhere to be found.
It's been almost two days since all this took place. I have yet to see the centipede again. But I figure being caged inside a paper towel and flicked off a human arm to parts unknown, it decided that life in the world of humans isn't worth the exposure and has gone underground...hopefully there to remain.
But I still don't know what it was on my hand to cause me to flick the first time bringing about the chain of events described above...and probably never will.
As for the camera, it's none the worse for wear, or dropping in this case.
I had laid back in my Lazyboy and tuned the TV to Fox News Channel to catch up on the news of the day when out of the corner of my eye, I noticed something crawling on my wall. Normally when I see something on my wall, it is a spider. I don't mind spiders, and am not afraid of them, but I refuse to share my living space with them. I figure the great outdoors is big enough for them to find a nice a place to live.
Anyway, I looked at the critter on the wall and realized it was a centipede. My first thought was, where did this creature come from. My second thought was "get a photo" (after all, I love nature photography). Well, I don't like unnatural images, so I figured I would capture the bug, take him outside, release him in an apple tree in the back and take its picture there.
So I got paper towel, and after a bit of an adventure, I finally got the critter on the towel, folded it in such a way to keep the centipede inside and grabbed my camera. As I moved past my bed (I live in a small studio style apartment) with camera in hand, I felt something on my hand which held the paper towel containing the bug.
A bit of background here is needed. When I was stationed in The Philippines, I found a large centipede on the keyboard of my office computer. I picked it up thinking to toss it outside and when I did, it bit me...and the bite hurt. Then the bite swelled and remained slightly puffy for several days before things got back to normal.
Back to the present and the paper towel.
As soon as I felt whatever it was on my hand, I flashed to the biting centipede in The Philippines and flicked my hand up and away, thinking the centipede had gotten out. I then looked around the area where whatever was on my hand would have landed and saw nothing. Confused about what was on my hand, I tucked my camera under my left arm (my right hand held the towel) and slowly unfolded the paper towel to see if the centipede was still there.
After undoing the third fold, something dark and long came flying out of the towel. It was a blur as it traveled up my left forearm towards my shoulder and parts elsewhere on my body. And I knew what it was...it was the centipede! I again flashed back to the biting centipede in The Philippines and flicked my arm to get the bug off it. Unfortunately, I forgot about my camera.
As soon as my arm moved, I remembered the camera, lifted my left leg, which caught the camera...momentarily...and swung my leg in such a way as to get the camera to fall on the bed. But I wasn't quite nimble enough. I did catch the camera, and I did deflect fall, but it hit the side of the bed and fell heavily onto my right foot. When I am in the house, I wear moccasin style slippers exclusively. They are comfortable to me for wearing but provide very little protection from falling objects, which includes a Canon Digital Rebel with vertical grip and 70-300mm image stabilized telephoto lens.
Seeing the camera now sliding off the corner of the mattress on the bed, headed towards the floor and my exposed foot, I quickly reached down and grabbed the strap, but was a little too late. There was enough slack in the strap for the camera to land squarely on the ridge of the foot, just as I was able to lift it out of the way. And it hurt.
Fearing I would do more damage to either my camera or myself or both, I froze and watched the camera come up and land squarely on the bed and stop there. With the camera safely on the bed, I looked down at my foot, lifted it and rubbed the ridge of it against the calf of my left leg. Pissed at what had just too place, I began to sit down when I remember the centipede.
Bolting back to a standing position while at the same time release my hold on my camera strap, I looked down on my arm and saw nothing. You see, what I described above took about two or three seconds to happen and the centipede should have still been on my arm. Again, I scanned the area the creature would have, or should have landed had the flick of my arm worked to dislodge him, but it wasn't there.
I then began to look elsewhere for the centipede...behind books, under the chest of drawers, behind the TV, on the Lazyboy, on the walls...all to no avail. The centipede was nowhere to be found.
It's been almost two days since all this took place. I have yet to see the centipede again. But I figure being caged inside a paper towel and flicked off a human arm to parts unknown, it decided that life in the world of humans isn't worth the exposure and has gone underground...hopefully there to remain.
But I still don't know what it was on my hand to cause me to flick the first time bringing about the chain of events described above...and probably never will.
As for the camera, it's none the worse for wear, or dropping in this case.
Tuesday, September 18, 2007
A little more than six years ago, the world changed. Terrorists saw to that.
I'm sure everyone knows where they were and what they were doing when they heard the news. I was asleep at the time. On the west coast, it was a little past 8 am and my phone rang. I woke, but as I was pulling myself out of bed, the ringing stopped, so back to the pillow I went. But a moment later, the phone rang again. Still half asleep, I went into the living room and picked up the phone.
"Hello."
"They took out the twin towers."
"Who? Bin Laden?"
"Turn on your TV."
That was extent of the conversation with a friend of mine. After the 1993 bombings, I had expected that group of scumbags to go after the towers again. Bin Laden was logical mastermind for me...even half asleep. I was called moments before the first tower collapsed...and watched the panic which ensued after it and the second tower went down. I spent the rest of the morning like everyone else...watching the news.
As I watched, I thought back to my days in the US Air Force...to the days terrorists went after me. Yes...I was a terrorist target.
The first time it happ ened was in Italy in 1977. The Brigate Rosse, or Red Brigade was terrorizing the people of northern Italy. I was then stationed at Aviano AB, in the northeast portion of Italy, near the Red Brigade area of operations. They worked out of Milan, Italy. Their tactics were not to kill, but to maim. They would shoot their targets in the knee, known as "knee-capping," which would in effect cripple the person. Their targets initially, were journalists who wrote negative articles about them. Later on, they changed their modus operandi and got into kidnapping and murder. But that isn't what this story is about.
One day, I was called to the office of the Carabinieri, the Italian State Police. When I arrived, our Security Police commander, base commander and few other people who I don't recall were present. I was told the Red Brigade had issued a threat to "knee-cap" an American journalist. Since my job at the time was that of editor of The Vigileer, the base newspaper for Aviano AB, there was the possibility I could be targeted. There were more American military journalists at an Army post near Vicenza, Italy and I am sure they were told the same thing I was.
I was told since Aviano was an open base, it would be a lot easier for the Red Brigade to get to me. The Carabinieri informed me what to watch for, and what to do if I saw anything suspicious. Then they told me to limit my trips off base. Well, that was almost impossible for me, since my newspaper was put together and printed in Pordenone, Italy, about 10 miles away and I had to be at the printing plant the two days prior to publishing the paper. I told them that, and told them I would keep an close eye on my surroundings and then asked if there was anything else because I had work to do. They mentioned things to watch for again and I went back to my office.
For the next three weeks, whenever I saw a car with plates from Milan, Italy in my rear view mirror, or parked near where I was going, I changed my plans. I would perform a scouting mission before I parked my car looking for Milan plated vehicles. Sometimes I would see a nearby Carabinieri vehicle parked near where I was, sometimes I wouldn't. I would think that they were watching me and they probably were. I didn't mind...I liked my knees.
Then, on a bright, sunny Saturday morning, a rail car on a supply train heading towards Aviano AB from the station in Pordenone, blew up. A couple of hours after the explosion, the Red Brigade claimed responsibility. In their communique, they said that rather than "knee-capping" someone who would be replaced, they wanted to hurt the Americans where it hurt most...by blowing up some of our needed supplies. So they planted a bomb on a rail car they knew was headed towards Aviano, set the timer and waited. Had the bomb gone off at the supply depot on base, it might have been a different story. But bomb went off before the car arrived on base. The damage it did, didn't hurt the base at all. The car they picked contained nothing but office supplies, something which was held back from news reports.
It hit home to me when I heard about the train incident, that I could easily have been the target instead. I became a lot more aware of my surroundings after that. I also noticed that I didn't see Carabinieri cars as often after that. I figure the Italian police had a lot to do with the change in tactics. It's possible that every time the Red Brigade looked for me, they also found nearby Carabinieri keeping an eye on me. That forced their hand and they changed tactics.
Flash forward to 1989. I was now on a temporary assignment to an Army unit at Soto Cano AB, Honduras. I was the Noncommissioned Officer in Charge of the Public Affairs office. The position had to be an Air Force member, since USAF aircraft flew in and out of the base on a regular basis. If there was an incident, an Air Force person in Public Affairs would be needed to handle the press queries.
Honduras at that time, was having a problem with the Morazanist Front for the Liberation of Honduras or FMLH. They had already made several attacks on the American military stationed in the country, and wanted nothing more than to cause more damage.
One morning, there was a bad auto accident right outside the gates to the base. American medical personnel responded and saved a number of lives. This was a good thing and we wanted to spread the word that we did good things for the country. So after a news release on the incident was translated into Spanish, my boss and I went into Comeyagua, the nearby town, to deliver the release to a number of the news outlets. The third drop point was a radio station near the center of town. When we arrived, my boss, an Army major, said he would be right out. So, I put the vehicle in neutral and waited. Standard operating procedure was to leave someone in the vehicle with the engine running and I was following that directive.
Five minutes passed and the major was still inside. At about ten minutes, I began to wonder what was going on. While I was trying to figure out the scenario, an Honduran walked up to the driver's side of the truck I was in and asked in a very unfriendly tone, if I needed help. I replied I didn't and that I was waiting for someone. The person then walked away from the truck towards the rear and I watched him go into a building about 100 feet away. Moments later, a different person came out of the doorway, paused a moment while he looked at me and took off down the street away from me. I made note of him and continued my vigil around the truck, making plans on what I would do should trouble break out before the major returned.
Less than five minutes later, I observed a pea-soup green Chevy Impala, probably early '70s, I don't remember now, pull up in front of the door and stop. Both front doors opened and the man who a short time earlier ran off in the direction the car came from, stepped out and went inside the building. The driver turned, faced my direction and stretched, then opened the back driver's side door and leaned in to do something. As he did that, the man who left the car moments earlier, along with the man who came to my truck earlier and third man came out of the building. One opened the rear passenger side door, while the other two climbed in the front and leaned over the seat to do something in the back seat area.
I now had a plan for a possible contingency and watched the quartet closely in my rear view mirror. As I watched, my stomach suddenly tightened. I saw the business end of an AK-47 pop up over the top of the front seat. Then it hit me what was going on. They were preparing their weapons they were going to use to attack me. A chill ran up and down my spine, my hands rubbed the cool, blue steel of the only protection I had, and I step on the clutch and slowly put the transmission into first gear. I had decided the moment I saw the first weapon come out, I would give the horn two quick blasts as I sped around a corner 20 feet in front of me. I would make the first left I saw then turn right at each of the first four right turns I came upon. I would then stop and wait. After a short time, if I didn't see the bad guys, I would return to the area of the square, hopefully pick up my boss and get the hell out of there.
Well, I didn't have to use my plan. Right around the time the group had finished what they were doing, and during what I assumed was the leader giving them the game plan for the attack, something happened that I will never forget. A bell rang and from a building on the other side of the street, behind the Chevy, a bunch of young, school aged Honduran children came running out, into the square.
The four guys behind me all jumped out to the street, straightened up and began looking around. Then they started arguing with each other until the original driver said something and the three others got in the car. The driver remained outside the car, staring at me and our eyes locked in the mirror. He stared for a few moments, then with his hand formed in the fashion of a pistol, he pointed it at me and pretended to shoot me. He pretended to blow the smoke out of the barrel, then got in the car and backed down the street a way, turned around and headed out of sight.
I was happy to see those kids. As a few of them walked past my truck on their way home, I reached into my pocket, grabbed all the money I had (Honduran limpiras, both paper and coin) and tossed it into the street and said, Gracias los niños! The children of course, picked it up, a couple tried to return it to me, but I waved it off and the kids for the most part hung nearby until my boss came out. He got in the truck, apologized for being so long and asked what was going on. I told him on the way to our last stop, which he wanted to skip. We then headed back to the safety of the base, where I was debriefed by intelligence.
My third confrontation with terrorists occurred in The Philippines a year and a half later. It was December 1990, and I had just picked up my Filipina girlfriend. We decided to get something to eat at a hotdog near her apartment before we headed out to do whatever it was we had planned to do. There wasn't a lot we could do, and few places we could go. Several months earlier, the New Peoples Army, or NPA, a group of murdering thugs, had walked up to two airmen just outside a hotel near the base and put a .45 round into the back of their heads. The assassinations forced the officials to declare almost all the local area, off-limits to Americans. A few weeks later, a small area known as "The Fish" was opened and declared secure by both the Air Force Security Police and the Philippine Army Police.
In December, the "fish" was still the only part of Angeles City most Americans could go...and outside of visiting strip bars filled with Filipina bar gals, there wasn't much to do in the "Fish."
The hotdog stand I was in, was right near the main gate to the base, on the other side of Field Avenue from the gate. It was recessed into the front of a building with the front wall completely open to the street. After we got our food, we went to back of the building and I sat with my back to the back wall where I could keep a close eye on the happenings in the street in front of me. I watched as American GIs walked by with their girlfriends, and Philippine military troops walked by. Then I watched three Philippino men walk by in leather coats.
I thought this was strange since even though it was 6:30 pm, the temperature was still about 80. But the three glanced inside the building and continued walking. A few minutes later, they came back. The first person walked across the street and stopped under a tree and leaned up against it. The other two stopped on either side of the building and leaned up against the wall. As I continued to talk to my girlfriend, I was watching the three out of the corner of my eye. I could tell the person across the street had a weapon under his jacket...the bulge wasn't obvious, but it was detectable. And I thought I could see bulges under the coats of the other two, but wasn't sure. So then my mind started going down the options list.
After watching dozens of GIs walk by the threesome and the three not even batting an eye their way, including very drunk airmen who would have been easy pickings for thieves, I decide they weren't criminals waiting for score. They had to have an agenda and most likely, I was that agenda. By an odd coincidence, I resembled my boss who was constantly on television announcing closures, openings and things of interest to all Americans at Clark AB. We knew from intelligence briefings, that my boss was on the hit list for the NPA. I could only assume the three surly looking Philippino guys waiting outside the hotdog stand, were in fact, NPA Sparrows (the name the group gave to their assassins) and they were waiting for me, thinking I was my boss, or they knew I worked in the same office and decided I was a target of opportunity. Either way, I knew I was in trouble if I left the building. And, as long as I was inside, they were content to wait. Again, I began forming a plan. When I finalized the idea, I told my girlfriend, as she was very important to it.
The plan was simple. I would go to the counter and get two more cokes. After sitting down, I would reach for my cigarettes (I was a smoker then) and crumple up the pack (there were several left in it) and ask her to go get me a pack of Camel Lights. I knew the cigarette stand next to where one of the thugs was waiting didn't have that brand and told my girlfriend to ask for them and when told they didn't have that brand, to ask where she could get them. She would then ask if Checkpoint would have them because everyone knew Checkpoint was the largest of all the street vendors. I explained to her when she got to Checkpoint, she was to go to the Philippine police and tell them about the three guys waiting outside the hotdog stand.
Then it was time to implement the plan. I got our drinks, tossed my not-really-empty-pack of cigarettes into a nearby trash can and asked my gal to go get me a pack. She did, and followed the plan. I drank my drink and waited and watched. The three looked at each other and a few moments later, I watched as the one near the tree snapped his head to his right, then say something and all three began running off down the street. A moment later, six Philippine Army troopers ran by in the same direction and behind them, my girlfriend with a big smile on her face. When she came over to me, I hugged her and said, "Let's get out of here." We walked over to the bus stop on base and waited for the bus. While we waited, I heard a series of gun shot off in the distance.
The next morning, I heard several possible NPA members had been shot and one or two wounded were captured. I smiled knowing I probably assisted in their demise.
Memories of those incidents came back to me as I sat and watched the events of 9/11. And as I watched, an intense hatred of terrorist grew in me.
That hatred is still there. To this day, I wish I was helping fight this global terror war the United States is involved in. But I can't. So my hatred grows. It will remain with me to the day I die. And so will the depression I feel everyday knowing I can't help my fellow fighting Americans fight that war.
I'm sure everyone knows where they were and what they were doing when they heard the news. I was asleep at the time. On the west coast, it was a little past 8 am and my phone rang. I woke, but as I was pulling myself out of bed, the ringing stopped, so back to the pillow I went. But a moment later, the phone rang again. Still half asleep, I went into the living room and picked up the phone.
"Hello."
"They took out the twin towers."
"Who? Bin Laden?"
"Turn on your TV."
That was extent of the conversation with a friend of mine. After the 1993 bombings, I had expected that group of scumbags to go after the towers again. Bin Laden was logical mastermind for me...even half asleep. I was called moments before the first tower collapsed...and watched the panic which ensued after it and the second tower went down. I spent the rest of the morning like everyone else...watching the news.
As I watched, I thought back to my days in the US Air Force...to the days terrorists went after me. Yes...I was a terrorist target.
The first time it happ ened was in Italy in 1977. The Brigate Rosse, or Red Brigade was terrorizing the people of northern Italy. I was then stationed at Aviano AB, in the northeast portion of Italy, near the Red Brigade area of operations. They worked out of Milan, Italy. Their tactics were not to kill, but to maim. They would shoot their targets in the knee, known as "knee-capping," which would in effect cripple the person. Their targets initially, were journalists who wrote negative articles about them. Later on, they changed their modus operandi and got into kidnapping and murder. But that isn't what this story is about.
One day, I was called to the office of the Carabinieri, the Italian State Police. When I arrived, our Security Police commander, base commander and few other people who I don't recall were present. I was told the Red Brigade had issued a threat to "knee-cap" an American journalist. Since my job at the time was that of editor of The Vigileer, the base newspaper for Aviano AB, there was the possibility I could be targeted. There were more American military journalists at an Army post near Vicenza, Italy and I am sure they were told the same thing I was.
I was told since Aviano was an open base, it would be a lot easier for the Red Brigade to get to me. The Carabinieri informed me what to watch for, and what to do if I saw anything suspicious. Then they told me to limit my trips off base. Well, that was almost impossible for me, since my newspaper was put together and printed in Pordenone, Italy, about 10 miles away and I had to be at the printing plant the two days prior to publishing the paper. I told them that, and told them I would keep an close eye on my surroundings and then asked if there was anything else because I had work to do. They mentioned things to watch for again and I went back to my office.
For the next three weeks, whenever I saw a car with plates from Milan, Italy in my rear view mirror, or parked near where I was going, I changed my plans. I would perform a scouting mission before I parked my car looking for Milan plated vehicles. Sometimes I would see a nearby Carabinieri vehicle parked near where I was, sometimes I wouldn't. I would think that they were watching me and they probably were. I didn't mind...I liked my knees.
Then, on a bright, sunny Saturday morning, a rail car on a supply train heading towards Aviano AB from the station in Pordenone, blew up. A couple of hours after the explosion, the Red Brigade claimed responsibility. In their communique, they said that rather than "knee-capping" someone who would be replaced, they wanted to hurt the Americans where it hurt most...by blowing up some of our needed supplies. So they planted a bomb on a rail car they knew was headed towards Aviano, set the timer and waited. Had the bomb gone off at the supply depot on base, it might have been a different story. But bomb went off before the car arrived on base. The damage it did, didn't hurt the base at all. The car they picked contained nothing but office supplies, something which was held back from news reports.
It hit home to me when I heard about the train incident, that I could easily have been the target instead. I became a lot more aware of my surroundings after that. I also noticed that I didn't see Carabinieri cars as often after that. I figure the Italian police had a lot to do with the change in tactics. It's possible that every time the Red Brigade looked for me, they also found nearby Carabinieri keeping an eye on me. That forced their hand and they changed tactics.
Flash forward to 1989. I was now on a temporary assignment to an Army unit at Soto Cano AB, Honduras. I was the Noncommissioned Officer in Charge of the Public Affairs office. The position had to be an Air Force member, since USAF aircraft flew in and out of the base on a regular basis. If there was an incident, an Air Force person in Public Affairs would be needed to handle the press queries.
Honduras at that time, was having a problem with the Morazanist Front for the Liberation of Honduras or FMLH. They had already made several attacks on the American military stationed in the country, and wanted nothing more than to cause more damage.
One morning, there was a bad auto accident right outside the gates to the base. American medical personnel responded and saved a number of lives. This was a good thing and we wanted to spread the word that we did good things for the country. So after a news release on the incident was translated into Spanish, my boss and I went into Comeyagua, the nearby town, to deliver the release to a number of the news outlets. The third drop point was a radio station near the center of town. When we arrived, my boss, an Army major, said he would be right out. So, I put the vehicle in neutral and waited. Standard operating procedure was to leave someone in the vehicle with the engine running and I was following that directive.
Five minutes passed and the major was still inside. At about ten minutes, I began to wonder what was going on. While I was trying to figure out the scenario, an Honduran walked up to the driver's side of the truck I was in and asked in a very unfriendly tone, if I needed help. I replied I didn't and that I was waiting for someone. The person then walked away from the truck towards the rear and I watched him go into a building about 100 feet away. Moments later, a different person came out of the doorway, paused a moment while he looked at me and took off down the street away from me. I made note of him and continued my vigil around the truck, making plans on what I would do should trouble break out before the major returned.
Less than five minutes later, I observed a pea-soup green Chevy Impala, probably early '70s, I don't remember now, pull up in front of the door and stop. Both front doors opened and the man who a short time earlier ran off in the direction the car came from, stepped out and went inside the building. The driver turned, faced my direction and stretched, then opened the back driver's side door and leaned in to do something. As he did that, the man who left the car moments earlier, along with the man who came to my truck earlier and third man came out of the building. One opened the rear passenger side door, while the other two climbed in the front and leaned over the seat to do something in the back seat area.
I now had a plan for a possible contingency and watched the quartet closely in my rear view mirror. As I watched, my stomach suddenly tightened. I saw the business end of an AK-47 pop up over the top of the front seat. Then it hit me what was going on. They were preparing their weapons they were going to use to attack me. A chill ran up and down my spine, my hands rubbed the cool, blue steel of the only protection I had, and I step on the clutch and slowly put the transmission into first gear. I had decided the moment I saw the first weapon come out, I would give the horn two quick blasts as I sped around a corner 20 feet in front of me. I would make the first left I saw then turn right at each of the first four right turns I came upon. I would then stop and wait. After a short time, if I didn't see the bad guys, I would return to the area of the square, hopefully pick up my boss and get the hell out of there.
Well, I didn't have to use my plan. Right around the time the group had finished what they were doing, and during what I assumed was the leader giving them the game plan for the attack, something happened that I will never forget. A bell rang and from a building on the other side of the street, behind the Chevy, a bunch of young, school aged Honduran children came running out, into the square.
The four guys behind me all jumped out to the street, straightened up and began looking around. Then they started arguing with each other until the original driver said something and the three others got in the car. The driver remained outside the car, staring at me and our eyes locked in the mirror. He stared for a few moments, then with his hand formed in the fashion of a pistol, he pointed it at me and pretended to shoot me. He pretended to blow the smoke out of the barrel, then got in the car and backed down the street a way, turned around and headed out of sight.
I was happy to see those kids. As a few of them walked past my truck on their way home, I reached into my pocket, grabbed all the money I had (Honduran limpiras, both paper and coin) and tossed it into the street and said, Gracias los niños! The children of course, picked it up, a couple tried to return it to me, but I waved it off and the kids for the most part hung nearby until my boss came out. He got in the truck, apologized for being so long and asked what was going on. I told him on the way to our last stop, which he wanted to skip. We then headed back to the safety of the base, where I was debriefed by intelligence.
My third confrontation with terrorists occurred in The Philippines a year and a half later. It was December 1990, and I had just picked up my Filipina girlfriend. We decided to get something to eat at a hotdog near her apartment before we headed out to do whatever it was we had planned to do. There wasn't a lot we could do, and few places we could go. Several months earlier, the New Peoples Army, or NPA, a group of murdering thugs, had walked up to two airmen just outside a hotel near the base and put a .45 round into the back of their heads. The assassinations forced the officials to declare almost all the local area, off-limits to Americans. A few weeks later, a small area known as "The Fish" was opened and declared secure by both the Air Force Security Police and the Philippine Army Police.
In December, the "fish" was still the only part of Angeles City most Americans could go...and outside of visiting strip bars filled with Filipina bar gals, there wasn't much to do in the "Fish."
The hotdog stand I was in, was right near the main gate to the base, on the other side of Field Avenue from the gate. It was recessed into the front of a building with the front wall completely open to the street. After we got our food, we went to back of the building and I sat with my back to the back wall where I could keep a close eye on the happenings in the street in front of me. I watched as American GIs walked by with their girlfriends, and Philippine military troops walked by. Then I watched three Philippino men walk by in leather coats.
I thought this was strange since even though it was 6:30 pm, the temperature was still about 80. But the three glanced inside the building and continued walking. A few minutes later, they came back. The first person walked across the street and stopped under a tree and leaned up against it. The other two stopped on either side of the building and leaned up against the wall. As I continued to talk to my girlfriend, I was watching the three out of the corner of my eye. I could tell the person across the street had a weapon under his jacket...the bulge wasn't obvious, but it was detectable. And I thought I could see bulges under the coats of the other two, but wasn't sure. So then my mind started going down the options list.
After watching dozens of GIs walk by the threesome and the three not even batting an eye their way, including very drunk airmen who would have been easy pickings for thieves, I decide they weren't criminals waiting for score. They had to have an agenda and most likely, I was that agenda. By an odd coincidence, I resembled my boss who was constantly on television announcing closures, openings and things of interest to all Americans at Clark AB. We knew from intelligence briefings, that my boss was on the hit list for the NPA. I could only assume the three surly looking Philippino guys waiting outside the hotdog stand, were in fact, NPA Sparrows (the name the group gave to their assassins) and they were waiting for me, thinking I was my boss, or they knew I worked in the same office and decided I was a target of opportunity. Either way, I knew I was in trouble if I left the building. And, as long as I was inside, they were content to wait. Again, I began forming a plan. When I finalized the idea, I told my girlfriend, as she was very important to it.
The plan was simple. I would go to the counter and get two more cokes. After sitting down, I would reach for my cigarettes (I was a smoker then) and crumple up the pack (there were several left in it) and ask her to go get me a pack of Camel Lights. I knew the cigarette stand next to where one of the thugs was waiting didn't have that brand and told my girlfriend to ask for them and when told they didn't have that brand, to ask where she could get them. She would then ask if Checkpoint would have them because everyone knew Checkpoint was the largest of all the street vendors. I explained to her when she got to Checkpoint, she was to go to the Philippine police and tell them about the three guys waiting outside the hotdog stand.
Then it was time to implement the plan. I got our drinks, tossed my not-really-empty-pack of cigarettes into a nearby trash can and asked my gal to go get me a pack. She did, and followed the plan. I drank my drink and waited and watched. The three looked at each other and a few moments later, I watched as the one near the tree snapped his head to his right, then say something and all three began running off down the street. A moment later, six Philippine Army troopers ran by in the same direction and behind them, my girlfriend with a big smile on her face. When she came over to me, I hugged her and said, "Let's get out of here." We walked over to the bus stop on base and waited for the bus. While we waited, I heard a series of gun shot off in the distance.
The next morning, I heard several possible NPA members had been shot and one or two wounded were captured. I smiled knowing I probably assisted in their demise.
Memories of those incidents came back to me as I sat and watched the events of 9/11. And as I watched, an intense hatred of terrorist grew in me.
That hatred is still there. To this day, I wish I was helping fight this global terror war the United States is involved in. But I can't. So my hatred grows. It will remain with me to the day I die. And so will the depression I feel everyday knowing I can't help my fellow fighting Americans fight that war.
Monday, September 17, 2007
Memories of Bad Days
A little more than six years ago, the world changed. Terrorists saw to that.
I'm sure everyone knows where they were and what they were doing when they heard the news. I was asleep at the time. On the west coast, it was a little past 8 am and my phone rang. I woke, but as I was pulling myself out of bed, the ringing stopped, so back to the pillow I went. But a moment later, the phone rang again. Still half asleep, I went into the living room and picked up the phone.
"Hello."
"They took out the twin towers."
"Who? Bin Laden?"
"Turn on your TV."
That was extent of the conversation with a friend of mine. After the 1993 bombings, I had expected that group of scumbags to go after the towers again. Bin Laden was logical mastermind for me...even half asleep. I was called moments before the first tower collapsed...and watched the panic which ensued after it and the second tower went down. I spent the rest of the morning like everyone else...watching the news.
As I watched, I thought back to my days in the US Air Force...to the days terrorists went after me. Yes...I was a terrorist target.
The first time it happened was in Italy in 1977. The Brigate Rosse, or Red Brigade was terrorizing the people of northern Italy. I was then stationed at Aviano AB, in the northeast portion of Italy, near the Red Brigade area of operations. They worked out of Milan, Italy. Their tactics were not to kill, but to maim. They would shoot their targets in the knee, known as "knee-capping," which would in effect cripple the person. Their targets initially, were journalists who wrote negative articles about them. Later on, they changed their modus operandi and got into kidnapping and murder. But that isn't what this story is about.
One day, I was called to the office of the Carabinieri, the Italian State Police. When I arrived, our Security Police commander, base commander and few other people who I don't recall were present. I was told the Red Brigade had issued a threat to "knee-cap" an American journalist. Since my job at the time was that of editor of The Vigileer, the base newspaper for Aviano AB, there was the possibility I could be targeted. There were more American military journalists at an Army post near Vicenza, Italy and I am sure they were told the same thing I was.
I was told since Aviano was an open base, it would be a lot easier for the Red Brigade to get to me. The Carabinieri informed me what to watch for, and what to do if I saw anything suspicious. Then they told me to limit my trips off base. Well, that was almost impossible for me, since my newspaper was put together and printed in Pordenone, Italy, about 10 miles away and I had to be at the printing plant the two days prior to publishing the paper. I told them that, and told them I would keep an close eye on my surroundings and then asked if there was anything else because I had work to do. They mentioned things to watch for again and I went back to my office.
For the next three weeks, whenever I saw a car with plates from Milan, Italy in my rear view mirror, or parked near where I was going, I changed my plans. I would perform a scouting mission before I parked my car looking for Milan plated vehicles. Sometimes I would see a nearby Carabinieri vehicle parked near where I was, sometimes I wouldn't. I would think that they were watching me and they probably were. I didn't mind...I liked my knees.
Then, on a bright, sunny Saturday morning, a rail car on a supply train heading towards Aviano AB from the station in Pordenone, blew up. A couple of hours after the explosion, the Red Brigade claimed responsibility. In their communique, they said that rather than "knee-capping" someone who would be replaced, they wanted to hurt the Americans where it hurt most...by blowing up some of our needed supplies. So they planted a bomb on a rail car they knew was headed towards Aviano, set the timer and waited. Had the bomb gone off at the supply depot on base, it might have been a different story. But bomb went off before the car arrived on base. The damage it did, didn't hurt the base at all. The car they picked contained nothing but office supplies, something which was held back from news reports.
It hit home to me when I heard about the train incident, that I could easily have been the target instead. I became a lot more aware of my surroundings after that. I also noticed that I didn't see Carabinieri cars as often after that. I figure the Italian police had a lot to do with the change in tactics. It's possible that every time the Red Brigade looked for me, they also found nearby Carabinieri keeping an eye on me. That forced their hand and they changed tactics.
Flash forward to 1989. I was now on a temporary assignment to an Army unit at Soto Cano AB, Honduras. I was the Noncommissioned Officer in Charge of the Public Affairs office. The position had to be an Air Force member, since USAF aircraft flew in and out of the base on a regular basis. If there was an incident, an Air Force person in Public Affairs would be needed to handle the press queries.
Honduras at that time, was having a problem with the Morazanist Front for the Liberation of Honduras or FMLH. They had already made several attacks on the American military stationed in the country, and wanted nothing more than to cause more damage.
One morning, there was a bad auto accident right outside the gates to the base. American medical personnel responded and saved a number of lives. This was a good thing and we wanted to spread the word that we did good things for the country. So after a news release on the incident was translated into Spanish, my boss and I went into Comeyagua, the nearby town, to deliver the release to a number of the news outlets. The third drop point was a radio station near the center of town. When we arrived, my boss, an Army major, said he would be right out. So, I put the vehicle in neutral and waited. Standard operating procedure was to leave someone in the vehicle with the engine running and I was following that directive.
Five minutes passed and the major was still inside. At about ten minutes, I began to wonder what was going on. While I was trying to figure out the scenario, an Honduran walked up to the driver's side of the truck I was in and asked in a very unfriendly tone, if I needed help. I replied I didn't and that I was waiting for someone. The person then walked away from the truck towards the rear and I watched him go into a building about 100 feet away. Moments later, a different person came out of the doorway, paused a moment while he looked at me and took off down the street away from me. I made note of him and continued my vigil around the truck, making plans on what I would do should trouble break out before the major returned.
Less than five minutes later, I observed a pea-soup green Chevy Impala, probably early '70s, I don't remember now, pull up in front of the door and stop. Both front doors opened and the man who a short time earlier ran off in the direction the car came from, stepped out and went inside the building. The driver turned, faced my direction and stretched, then opened the back driver's side door and leaned in to do something. As he did that, the man who left the car moments earlier, along with the man who came to my truck earlier and third man came out of the building. One opened the rear passenger side door, while the other two climbed in the front and leaned over the seat to do something in the back seat area.
I now had a plan for a possible contingency and watched the quartet closely in my rear view mirror. As I watched, my stomach suddenly tightened. I saw the business end of an AK-47 pop up over the top of the front seat. Then it hit me what was going on. They were preparing their weapons they were going to use to attack me. A chill ran up and down my spine, my hands rubbed the cool, blue steel of the only protection I had, and I step on the clutch and slowly put the transmission into first gear. I had decided the moment I saw the first weapon come out, I would give the horn two quick blasts as I sped around a corner 20 feet in front of me. I would make the first left I saw then turn right at each of the first four right turns I came upon. I would then stop and wait. After a short time, if I didn't see the bad guys, I would return to the area of the square, hopefully pick up my boss and get the hell out of there.
Well, I didn't have to use my plan. Right around the time the group had finished what they were doing, and during what I assumed was the leader giving them the game plan for the attack, something happened that I will never forget. A bell rang and from a building on the other side of the street, behind the Chevy, a bunch of young, school aged Honduran children came running out, into the square.
The four guys behind me all jumped out to the street, straightened up and began looking around. Then they started arguing with each other until the original driver said something and the three others got in the car. The driver remained outside the car, staring at me and our eyes locked in the mirror. He stared for a few moments, then with his hand formed in the fashion of a pistol, he pointed it at me and pretended to shoot me. He pretended to blow the smoke out of the barrel, then got in the car and backed down the street a way, turned around and headed out of sight.
I was happy to see those kids. As a few of them walked past my truck on their way home, I reached into my pocket, grabbed all the money I had (Honduran limpiras, both paper and coin) and tossed it into the street and said, Gracias los niños! The children of course, picked it up, a couple tried to return it to me, but I waved it off and the kids for the most part hung nearby until my boss came out. He got in the truck, apologized for being so long and asked what was going on. I told him on the way to our last stop, which he wanted to skip. We then headed back to the safety of the base, where I was debriefed by intelligence.
My third confrontation with terrorists occurred in The Philippines a year and a half later. It was December 1990, and I had just picked up my Filipina girlfriend. We decided to get something to eat at a hotdog near her apartment before we headed out to do whatever it was we had planned to do. There wasn't a lot we could do, and few places we could go. Several months earlier, the New Peoples Army, or NPA, a group of murdering thugs, had walked up to two airmen just outside a hotel near the base and put a .45 round into the back of their heads. The assassinations forced the officials to declare almost all the local area, off-limits to Americans. A few weeks later, a small area known as "The Fish" was opened and declared secure by both the Air Force Security Police and the Philippine Army Police.
In December, the "fish" was still the only part of Angeles City most Americans could go...and outside of visiting strip bars filled with Filipina bar gals, there wasn't much to do in the "Fish."
The hotdog stand I was in, was right near the main gate to the base, on the other side of Field Avenue from the gate. It was recessed into the front of a building with the front wall completely open to the street. After we got our food, we went to back of the building and I sat with my back to the back wall where I could keep a close eye on the happenings in the street in front of me. I watched as American GIs walked by with their girlfriends, and Philippine military troops walked by. Then I watched three Philippino men walk by in leather coats.
I thought this was strange since even though it was 6:30 pm, the temperature was still about 80. But the three glanced inside the building and continued walking. A few minutes later, they came back. The first person walked across the street and stopped under a tree and leaned up against it. The other two stopped on either side of the building and leaned up against the wall. As I continued to talk to my girlfriend, I was watching the three out of the corner of my eye. I could tell the person across the street had a weapon under his jacket...the bulge wasn't obvious, but it was detectable. And I thought I could see bulges under the coats of the other two, but wasn't sure. So then my mind started going down the options list.
After watching dozens of GIs walk by the threesome and the three not even batting an eye their way, including very drunk airmen who would have been easy pickings for thieves, I decide they weren't criminals waiting for score. They had to have an agenda and most likely, I was that agenda. By an odd coincidence, I resembled my boss who was constantly on television announcing closures, openings and things of interest to all Americans at Clark AB. We knew from intelligence briefings, that my boss was on the hit list for the NPA. I could only assume the three surly looking Philippino guys waiting outside the hotdog stand, were in fact, NPA Sparrows (the name the group gave to their assassins) and they were waiting for me, thinking I was my boss, or they knew I worked in the same office and decided I was a target of opportunity. Either way, I knew I was in trouble if I left the building. And, as long as I was inside, they were content to wait. Again, I began forming a plan. When I finalized the idea, I told my girlfriend, as she was very important to it.
The plan was simple. I would go to the counter and get two more cokes. After sitting down, I would reach for my cigarettes (I was a smoker then) and crumple up the pack (there were several left in it) and ask her to go get me a pack of Camel Lights. I knew the cigarette stand next to where one of the thugs was waiting didn't have that brand and told my girlfriend to ask for them and when told they didn't have that brand, to ask where she could get them. She would then ask if Checkpoint would have them because everyone knew Checkpoint was the largest of all the street vendors. I explained to her when she got to Checkpoint, she was to go to the Philippine police and tell them about the three guys waiting outside the hotdog stand.
Then it was time to implement the plan. I got our drinks, tossed my not-really-empty-pack of cigarettes into a nearby trash can and asked my gal to go get me a pack. She did, and followed the plan. I drank my drink and waited and watched. The three looked at each other and a few moments later, I watched as the one near the tree snapped his head to his right, then say something and all three began running off down the street. A moment later, six Philippine Army troopers ran by in the same direction and behind them, my girlfriend with a big smile on her face. When she came over to me, I hugged her and said, "Let's get out of here." We walked over to the bus stop on base and waited for the bus. While we waited, I heard a series of gun shot off in the distance.
The next morning, I heard several possible NPA members had been shot and one or two wounded were captured. I smiled knowing I probably assisted in their demise.
Memories of those incidents came back to me as I sat and watched the events of 9/11. And as I watched, an intense hatred of terrorist grew in me.
That hatred is still there. To this day, I wish I was helping fight this global terror war the United States is involved in. But I can't. So my hatred grows. It will remain with me to the day I die. And so will the depression I feel everyday knowing I can't help my fellow fighting Americans fight that war.
I'm sure everyone knows where they were and what they were doing when they heard the news. I was asleep at the time. On the west coast, it was a little past 8 am and my phone rang. I woke, but as I was pulling myself out of bed, the ringing stopped, so back to the pillow I went. But a moment later, the phone rang again. Still half asleep, I went into the living room and picked up the phone.
"Hello."
"They took out the twin towers."
"Who? Bin Laden?"
"Turn on your TV."
That was extent of the conversation with a friend of mine. After the 1993 bombings, I had expected that group of scumbags to go after the towers again. Bin Laden was logical mastermind for me...even half asleep. I was called moments before the first tower collapsed...and watched the panic which ensued after it and the second tower went down. I spent the rest of the morning like everyone else...watching the news.
As I watched, I thought back to my days in the US Air Force...to the days terrorists went after me. Yes...I was a terrorist target.
The first time it happened was in Italy in 1977. The Brigate Rosse, or Red Brigade was terrorizing the people of northern Italy. I was then stationed at Aviano AB, in the northeast portion of Italy, near the Red Brigade area of operations. They worked out of Milan, Italy. Their tactics were not to kill, but to maim. They would shoot their targets in the knee, known as "knee-capping," which would in effect cripple the person. Their targets initially, were journalists who wrote negative articles about them. Later on, they changed their modus operandi and got into kidnapping and murder. But that isn't what this story is about.
One day, I was called to the office of the Carabinieri, the Italian State Police. When I arrived, our Security Police commander, base commander and few other people who I don't recall were present. I was told the Red Brigade had issued a threat to "knee-cap" an American journalist. Since my job at the time was that of editor of The Vigileer, the base newspaper for Aviano AB, there was the possibility I could be targeted. There were more American military journalists at an Army post near Vicenza, Italy and I am sure they were told the same thing I was.
I was told since Aviano was an open base, it would be a lot easier for the Red Brigade to get to me. The Carabinieri informed me what to watch for, and what to do if I saw anything suspicious. Then they told me to limit my trips off base. Well, that was almost impossible for me, since my newspaper was put together and printed in Pordenone, Italy, about 10 miles away and I had to be at the printing plant the two days prior to publishing the paper. I told them that, and told them I would keep an close eye on my surroundings and then asked if there was anything else because I had work to do. They mentioned things to watch for again and I went back to my office.
For the next three weeks, whenever I saw a car with plates from Milan, Italy in my rear view mirror, or parked near where I was going, I changed my plans. I would perform a scouting mission before I parked my car looking for Milan plated vehicles. Sometimes I would see a nearby Carabinieri vehicle parked near where I was, sometimes I wouldn't. I would think that they were watching me and they probably were. I didn't mind...I liked my knees.
Then, on a bright, sunny Saturday morning, a rail car on a supply train heading towards Aviano AB from the station in Pordenone, blew up. A couple of hours after the explosion, the Red Brigade claimed responsibility. In their communique, they said that rather than "knee-capping" someone who would be replaced, they wanted to hurt the Americans where it hurt most...by blowing up some of our needed supplies. So they planted a bomb on a rail car they knew was headed towards Aviano, set the timer and waited. Had the bomb gone off at the supply depot on base, it might have been a different story. But bomb went off before the car arrived on base. The damage it did, didn't hurt the base at all. The car they picked contained nothing but office supplies, something which was held back from news reports.
It hit home to me when I heard about the train incident, that I could easily have been the target instead. I became a lot more aware of my surroundings after that. I also noticed that I didn't see Carabinieri cars as often after that. I figure the Italian police had a lot to do with the change in tactics. It's possible that every time the Red Brigade looked for me, they also found nearby Carabinieri keeping an eye on me. That forced their hand and they changed tactics.
Flash forward to 1989. I was now on a temporary assignment to an Army unit at Soto Cano AB, Honduras. I was the Noncommissioned Officer in Charge of the Public Affairs office. The position had to be an Air Force member, since USAF aircraft flew in and out of the base on a regular basis. If there was an incident, an Air Force person in Public Affairs would be needed to handle the press queries.
Honduras at that time, was having a problem with the Morazanist Front for the Liberation of Honduras or FMLH. They had already made several attacks on the American military stationed in the country, and wanted nothing more than to cause more damage.
One morning, there was a bad auto accident right outside the gates to the base. American medical personnel responded and saved a number of lives. This was a good thing and we wanted to spread the word that we did good things for the country. So after a news release on the incident was translated into Spanish, my boss and I went into Comeyagua, the nearby town, to deliver the release to a number of the news outlets. The third drop point was a radio station near the center of town. When we arrived, my boss, an Army major, said he would be right out. So, I put the vehicle in neutral and waited. Standard operating procedure was to leave someone in the vehicle with the engine running and I was following that directive.
Five minutes passed and the major was still inside. At about ten minutes, I began to wonder what was going on. While I was trying to figure out the scenario, an Honduran walked up to the driver's side of the truck I was in and asked in a very unfriendly tone, if I needed help. I replied I didn't and that I was waiting for someone. The person then walked away from the truck towards the rear and I watched him go into a building about 100 feet away. Moments later, a different person came out of the doorway, paused a moment while he looked at me and took off down the street away from me. I made note of him and continued my vigil around the truck, making plans on what I would do should trouble break out before the major returned.
Less than five minutes later, I observed a pea-soup green Chevy Impala, probably early '70s, I don't remember now, pull up in front of the door and stop. Both front doors opened and the man who a short time earlier ran off in the direction the car came from, stepped out and went inside the building. The driver turned, faced my direction and stretched, then opened the back driver's side door and leaned in to do something. As he did that, the man who left the car moments earlier, along with the man who came to my truck earlier and third man came out of the building. One opened the rear passenger side door, while the other two climbed in the front and leaned over the seat to do something in the back seat area.
I now had a plan for a possible contingency and watched the quartet closely in my rear view mirror. As I watched, my stomach suddenly tightened. I saw the business end of an AK-47 pop up over the top of the front seat. Then it hit me what was going on. They were preparing their weapons they were going to use to attack me. A chill ran up and down my spine, my hands rubbed the cool, blue steel of the only protection I had, and I step on the clutch and slowly put the transmission into first gear. I had decided the moment I saw the first weapon come out, I would give the horn two quick blasts as I sped around a corner 20 feet in front of me. I would make the first left I saw then turn right at each of the first four right turns I came upon. I would then stop and wait. After a short time, if I didn't see the bad guys, I would return to the area of the square, hopefully pick up my boss and get the hell out of there.
Well, I didn't have to use my plan. Right around the time the group had finished what they were doing, and during what I assumed was the leader giving them the game plan for the attack, something happened that I will never forget. A bell rang and from a building on the other side of the street, behind the Chevy, a bunch of young, school aged Honduran children came running out, into the square.
The four guys behind me all jumped out to the street, straightened up and began looking around. Then they started arguing with each other until the original driver said something and the three others got in the car. The driver remained outside the car, staring at me and our eyes locked in the mirror. He stared for a few moments, then with his hand formed in the fashion of a pistol, he pointed it at me and pretended to shoot me. He pretended to blow the smoke out of the barrel, then got in the car and backed down the street a way, turned around and headed out of sight.
I was happy to see those kids. As a few of them walked past my truck on their way home, I reached into my pocket, grabbed all the money I had (Honduran limpiras, both paper and coin) and tossed it into the street and said, Gracias los niños! The children of course, picked it up, a couple tried to return it to me, but I waved it off and the kids for the most part hung nearby until my boss came out. He got in the truck, apologized for being so long and asked what was going on. I told him on the way to our last stop, which he wanted to skip. We then headed back to the safety of the base, where I was debriefed by intelligence.
My third confrontation with terrorists occurred in The Philippines a year and a half later. It was December 1990, and I had just picked up my Filipina girlfriend. We decided to get something to eat at a hotdog near her apartment before we headed out to do whatever it was we had planned to do. There wasn't a lot we could do, and few places we could go. Several months earlier, the New Peoples Army, or NPA, a group of murdering thugs, had walked up to two airmen just outside a hotel near the base and put a .45 round into the back of their heads. The assassinations forced the officials to declare almost all the local area, off-limits to Americans. A few weeks later, a small area known as "The Fish" was opened and declared secure by both the Air Force Security Police and the Philippine Army Police.
In December, the "fish" was still the only part of Angeles City most Americans could go...and outside of visiting strip bars filled with Filipina bar gals, there wasn't much to do in the "Fish."
The hotdog stand I was in, was right near the main gate to the base, on the other side of Field Avenue from the gate. It was recessed into the front of a building with the front wall completely open to the street. After we got our food, we went to back of the building and I sat with my back to the back wall where I could keep a close eye on the happenings in the street in front of me. I watched as American GIs walked by with their girlfriends, and Philippine military troops walked by. Then I watched three Philippino men walk by in leather coats.
I thought this was strange since even though it was 6:30 pm, the temperature was still about 80. But the three glanced inside the building and continued walking. A few minutes later, they came back. The first person walked across the street and stopped under a tree and leaned up against it. The other two stopped on either side of the building and leaned up against the wall. As I continued to talk to my girlfriend, I was watching the three out of the corner of my eye. I could tell the person across the street had a weapon under his jacket...the bulge wasn't obvious, but it was detectable. And I thought I could see bulges under the coats of the other two, but wasn't sure. So then my mind started going down the options list.
After watching dozens of GIs walk by the threesome and the three not even batting an eye their way, including very drunk airmen who would have been easy pickings for thieves, I decide they weren't criminals waiting for score. They had to have an agenda and most likely, I was that agenda. By an odd coincidence, I resembled my boss who was constantly on television announcing closures, openings and things of interest to all Americans at Clark AB. We knew from intelligence briefings, that my boss was on the hit list for the NPA. I could only assume the three surly looking Philippino guys waiting outside the hotdog stand, were in fact, NPA Sparrows (the name the group gave to their assassins) and they were waiting for me, thinking I was my boss, or they knew I worked in the same office and decided I was a target of opportunity. Either way, I knew I was in trouble if I left the building. And, as long as I was inside, they were content to wait. Again, I began forming a plan. When I finalized the idea, I told my girlfriend, as she was very important to it.
The plan was simple. I would go to the counter and get two more cokes. After sitting down, I would reach for my cigarettes (I was a smoker then) and crumple up the pack (there were several left in it) and ask her to go get me a pack of Camel Lights. I knew the cigarette stand next to where one of the thugs was waiting didn't have that brand and told my girlfriend to ask for them and when told they didn't have that brand, to ask where she could get them. She would then ask if Checkpoint would have them because everyone knew Checkpoint was the largest of all the street vendors. I explained to her when she got to Checkpoint, she was to go to the Philippine police and tell them about the three guys waiting outside the hotdog stand.
Then it was time to implement the plan. I got our drinks, tossed my not-really-empty-pack of cigarettes into a nearby trash can and asked my gal to go get me a pack. She did, and followed the plan. I drank my drink and waited and watched. The three looked at each other and a few moments later, I watched as the one near the tree snapped his head to his right, then say something and all three began running off down the street. A moment later, six Philippine Army troopers ran by in the same direction and behind them, my girlfriend with a big smile on her face. When she came over to me, I hugged her and said, "Let's get out of here." We walked over to the bus stop on base and waited for the bus. While we waited, I heard a series of gun shot off in the distance.
The next morning, I heard several possible NPA members had been shot and one or two wounded were captured. I smiled knowing I probably assisted in their demise.
Memories of those incidents came back to me as I sat and watched the events of 9/11. And as I watched, an intense hatred of terrorist grew in me.
That hatred is still there. To this day, I wish I was helping fight this global terror war the United States is involved in. But I can't. So my hatred grows. It will remain with me to the day I die. And so will the depression I feel everyday knowing I can't help my fellow fighting Americans fight that war.
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