David...before and after. Or, then & now.

Happy New Year Everyone...

A truly fine Happy New Year to you all. May the coming new year bring your dreams and wishes to fruition.




I'm thinking of my daughter, Kristin... And, I'm thinking of what this new year has in store for us. I am especially thinking of those men and women that will be spending New Year Day in some foreign, far away place. Away from their loved ones, fighting, sacrificing, for our freedoms. I shall pray for them...I hope you will too.

I believe it will be a fine year. Remember, think positive for nothing works as well as the "power of positive thinking."

I like fishing...

A knowing look. A gentle touch. Sand brushed from her cheek. Holding hands. Ocean breezes gently blowing. Her hair flowing easily. Romance and a moonlit beach. The sea glistening, shimmering. Water sounds. Ah....the essence of it all. Makes one think of fishing.

Fishing reminds of a mule I bought some years back from an old Oklahoma farmer. Nothing particularly unusual about this mule except that it pointed quail. Actually, it was a multiple‑use animal. In addition to finding birds, you could ride it while hunting. When I offered more money for the mule than the farmer could refuse, the mule was sold. The farmer advised me, however, that I would have trouble getting the mule to cross a nearby river.

"I don't see why," I said, "there's a bridge over the river."

"I know there's a bridge," the old farmer said, "but that mule likes to fish more than it likes to hunt." I know the feeling.

So do a lot of others. During last year nearly 50,000,000 Americans bought fishing licenses. Less than 4,000,000 applied for a marriage license during this same period. These statistics confirm that fishing is 20 times more popular than marriage. This conclusion may be debatable, but the figures are pretty close to the truth.

One thing is certain....fishing is the most popular participant sport in the United States. It is an activity that crosses nearly all social and economic boundaries, a pastime that is steeped in history and tradition. A diversion that provides a gratifying challenge as well as a chance to immerse yourself in nature.

Fishing is a sport for anyone, any age‑‑8 to 80, blind, crippled, or crazy. I'm not sure into which category I fit. Certainly my eyes aren't what they used to be, I do have a noticeable limp from an old war wound, and I'm crazy about fishing.

And I enjoy extending my angling knowledge to others through my writings. Almost everybody's attitude will change considerably once they have had a successful fishing experience. It's up to all of us who are enthusiastic anglers to pass along not only our knowledge of the sport, but also our love of the game and our desire to preserve it for future generations.

But I'm not the sort of fisherman who fishes just for the pleasure of catching lots of fish. My enjoyment of fishing comes from the challenge that any particular fish or location delivers. I'm not nearly as excited by the thought of catching 100 walleye as I am by stalking the biggest fish in the school.

I am delirious when I have to lean into my fly rod with a large northern pike on the end of my line. I lose all awareness of time and place. I am aware only of the light tippet, the subtle motions that signal a fish's unpredictable moves, and the angle of pressure that disturbs it.

And I like fishing anytime‑‑for any kind of fish. Catfish or grayling or paddlefish or tarpon or whatever. But I like some better than others. If one has no priorities, one has nothing.

And one of my priorities is the smallmouth bass. Inch for inch, pound for pound, the bronze‑back is the gamest fish of all.

Anticipation high. Another cast. Nothing. And another. This time I land the Klasing popper on the pebbled bank and work it into the water, a technique I've used before. "Very nice," I mumble to myself as the popper hops niftily into the water.

Having written hundreds of fishing stories, for me, a comfortable way no longer remains to get to the fish that's suddenly there. Do I say "And then it happened!" or "Suddenly, kaboosh!" And do I follow with my Fenwick 9‑weight fly rod bent U‑shape, the fish surging, the line singing, my pulse racing, the rod dancing, and my mind wondering whether the tiny tippet will hold? Does that do something for you? And finally how to describe the incredible creature, this muscular bronze fish finally lifted, admired, and released? Is it enough to know that it happened? And more?

A really fine young lady...

Came across this web site...everyone should have a look at it. This is the kind of young person that's makes us old warriors proud. Youth is our future...God bless this young lady.

http://www.nikkiusa.com/

David's Web Site....

Check this one out... http://www.davidmcouch.com

WORDS OF THOUGHT

Our hope for eternal life in the hereafter does not just spring from a longing for spiritual existence, but grows out of our love for life upon this earth, which we have tried and found good. Happiness is the goal of every normal human being. As it is given to few men to die happy, the best that man can hope and strive and pray for is momentary happiness during life, repeated as frequently as the cards allow.


I read within a poet's book
A word that starred the page,
"Stone walls do not a prison make,
Nor iron bars a cage."

Yes, that is true, and something more:
You'll find, where’re you roam,
That marble floors and gilded walls
Can never make a home.

But every house where Love abides
And Friendship is a guest,
Is surely home, and home, sweet home;
For there the heart can rest.


If we take a generally accepted definition of bravery as a quality which knows no fear, I never have seen a brave man. All men are frightened. The more intelligent they are, the more they are frightened. The courageous man is the man who forces himself in spite of his fear, to carry on. Discipline, pride, self‑respect, self‑confidence, and the love of glory are attributes that will make a man courageous even when he is afraid.

While waiting to be guillotined during the French Revolution, someone said, "Bailly, thou tremblest." "It is only from the cold," he replied.

The greatest test of courage on the earth is to bear defeat without losing heart. Courage in strife is common enough; even dogs have it. But courage which can face the ultimate defeat of a life of good will...that is different, that is victory. Courage is the best gift of all; courage stands before everything. It is what preserves our liberty, safety, life, and our homes and parents, our country and children. Courage comprises all things: a man with courage has every blessing.

An open letter to terrorists and to those who harbor and support you...

I am told by the leaders of my government that you are intelligent people. In light of your actions, I am having growing difficulty believing that. At the very least, it has become increasingly obvious that you lack a fundamental comprehension of my psychology as an American. I hear on our news broadcasts that your rage is fueled by my support of Israel. It has never been about nationality or religious faith -- never about Jew vs. Arab. I thought you would finally have understood that when I sent my children into harm's way in order to protect the innocent citizens of Arab Kuwait from the savage wolf who would devour them for his own gain. It has everything to do with the lessons taught to me by my father -- and his before him for many generations before the white man came to this land we call America. I have a vivid memory of coming home, as a boy of about nine years of age, and telling my father of feeling helpless horror as I watched the neighborhood bully unmercifully torment a boy even smaller than myself. My father reflected for a long moment, then quietly inquired of me as to what I had done about it. I said that I had watched until it was over and had then come home. The look in his eyes penetrated me to my core for he had never looked at me in that way before. He said that he was deeply ashamed of me and he sent me to my room with instructions to think about what had happened. It seemed hours before he came to my door. He sat beside me on my bed and, for a painfully long while, he said nothing. When finally he spoke, he explained, "There will always be among us dishonorable men who are devoid of humanity and compassion. They are but naked animals and an empty shell of what truly is a man. They attempt to fill their emptiness by the exercise of power over others, thinking that it makes them whole men. Often they are enraged that they do not even understand their own emptiness, what it is that they lack. When these men are also cowards, they disguise themselves as sheep among the flock and attack from the shadows. This is the vilest form of subhuman behavior for even animals attack openly when they must attack. When humanity and integrity are present in a man, he expresses them as compassion. When compassion and strength achieve perfect balance within a man, they manifest as wisdom. The compassionate man feels the pain of others. The wise man protects others from pain. For, if you watch and do nothing to protect others, who will come to your aide when you alone remain and the bully comes for you? "Some things are far more important than your personal safety and freedom from pain. If ever again you see someone being hurt, protect him, even if you are certain to be injured in the process. Then I will know that I have truly raised a man" Anyone who understands the impact of this lesson -- and how deeply it runs in the man I have become, will understand my unflinching willingness to sacrifice my children in defense of Arab and Jew alike when they are threatened by the bullies and cowards of the world. And please do not insult my intelligence with claims of Jewish treatment of Palestinians. I am old enough to retain vivid memories of 1948. I remember the excitement of the Jews over the prospect of governing "with" them. Their reaction, and that of their neighbors, was to attempt to finish what the Nazis could not. Repeatedly. Intelligent men? I, for one, am stunned by the monumental stupidity of your arrogance. Did you actually think that only Americans would occupy the World Trade Center? You have but fired the first pitiful salvo of World War III for the entire world is now preparing to come after you, your host, your financiers and your supporters. And please, do not listen to what I say. You would do far better to watch the sky. I must say that I owe you a profound debt of gratitude. Not for what you have done or what you have unleashed upon the world, but for what you have accomplished. For not one among us could have accomplished it. On Monday, September 10, 2001, we were a divisive, apathetic nation. Our young people had nothing by which to identify with our history or heritage; our people were divided by factions of religion and skin color; our government was polarized and paralyzed by political party affiliation, able to agree upon nothing; the military had difficulty obtaining volunteers and most of us simply changed TV channels in response to Red Cross pleas for blood donations. Your actions have changed all of that in a way that has occurred only twice before in the history of this nation -- once in 1776 and again on December 7, 1941. The worst in the worst of Allah's children has brought out the best in the best of Allah's children and, for this, I thank you. Since your cowardly act, Muslim, Jew, Christian, black, white, yellow and brown have stood shoulder to shoulder for hours in the hot sun to donate blood for the injured. Our government has suddenly become totally united in its purpose. Our military is having difficulty handling the flood of volunteers from among our young people. Our flag makers report that there is no way humanly possible that they can keep up with the demand -- shipments are sold out within minutes. You have accomplished a miracle that only God could have anticipated. And, it would seem, the hand of God was present even in the date that you selected for your attack, for you could not have chosen a date more in keeping with a reawakening of American pride and purpose. There is in America a nationwide system for seeking help in times of emergency. Every American knows that, when threatened, he can pick up any telephone and dial 911 and help is immediately on the way to assist and protect him. By selecting September, (our 9th month), 11, 2001 to exhibit your cowardice, you unwittingly placed a 911 call that has brought all of America together in a way that brings tears of joy and pride to my eyes. No longer is our battle cry, "Remember Pearl Harbor!" Thanks to you and your kind it will now and forevermore be, "Remember 911!" whenever the innocents of any nation find themselves threatened by cowards with guns. I do not, for a moment, deny that you hurt me. Far too many parents and children now go to bed wondering where their loved ones are. And, yes, I am momentarily reeling. But it is from the sudden realization that I share the planet with anyone capable of such an atrocity against the humanity of so many nations. In his Inaugural Address in Washington, DC on January 20, 1961, President John F. Kennedy said, "Let every nation know, whether it wishes us well or ill, that we shall pay any price, bear any burden, meet any hardship, support any friend, oppose any foe to assure the survival and the success of liberty." He was talking about the liberty of all men, of all faiths, of all nations. You need to understand that the truth of that statement is the very fabric of who and what I am. I wish neither to rule nor to inflict injury upon the innocents of any nation. I am the lion who sleeps with God's lambs to protect them from ravenous wolves that would devour them. Your 911 call has awakened the lion and now I hunger for the flesh of wolves. In closing let me state, Muhammad taught that Allah is a God of love -- yet you have the unmitigated gall to bastardize Islam to suit your own personal, unholy agenda. Who now is the infidel?

The Soul of America

I am compelled to comment on the soul of America, and about the future of America; I want to comment on our responsibilities as custodians of this great nation. It is usual to spurn such old fogeyism as I am about to exhibit with a knowing nod and a patronizing smile. For, as we draw near the close of the twentieth century, who can deny that mankind is farther advanced in practically all the arts and certainly all the sciences than we ever have been? Why not be gleefully optimistic?

I can tell you why. Human progress has never been certain. The pathway of history is littered with the bones of dead states and fallen empires. Through the ages, many civilizations have sprung forth and prospered only to fail and shrink and die. And they were not, in most cases, promptly replaced by something better. Nearly a thousand years passed between the fall of Western Rome and the rise of the Renaissance, and in between we had the Dark Ages. I, for one, don't want my children's children to go through a couple of centuries of darkness before the sun comes up again.

So the Jeremiahs weren't so wrong after all. It is sad to watch the beginnings of decay. It is sad to see an Age of Pericles replaced by the drunken riots of Alcibiades. There was, indeed, just cause for gloom when into the palaces of the Caesars went Nero and Calicular, and when the once‑noble Praetorian Guard became a gang of assassins willing to sell the throne to the top bidder.

Alaric's Goths surged over the walls of Rome, not that the walls were low, but because Rome, itself, was low. The rank and file of Rome became locked in a bitter conflict that permeated every level of society. Rome experienced a conflict of ideals, a battle between the Appollonian and the Dionysiac precepts. The Appollonian life‑value, symbolized by structure, order, and control, languished and was replaced by the Dionysiac value where morality and ethics gave way to riot, impulse, and ecstasy.

The hedonistic life-style of Pompeii, the orgies on Lake Traisimene, the gradually weakened character of a once responsible society that reduced them at last to seeking safety in mercenaries and the payment of tribute‑‑all these brought Rome down. She went down too soon. She had much to teach the world.

And so I look upon our own country and much I see disturbs me. For we are locked in a civil war of life values, too. The struggle now is for the hearts and minds of the people. Again, it is a war of ideals. And, someday soon, I believe, the winner will emerge and the loser will fade from memory. For now, the outcome is much in doubt. But, we are a great people. We have a noble tradition. We have much to teach the world, and if America should ever go down, it would be too soon.

One thing is certain. We shall be given no centuries for a slow and easy decline. The United States is quickly evolving into a nation of immoral illiterates. We have watched juvenile delinquency climb steadily. Seventy‑five percent of our high school students have tried drugs, 50% on a regular basis; 80% have had sexual encounters, "children having children" has become a real problem. And, nearly thirty percent of the children who enter first grade never graduate from high school. How strong can a nation be when one person in three is a high school dropout?

We are now reaping the results of the national insanity known as "progressive education." This is the education where everybody passes, where the report cards are noncommittal lest the failure be faced with the fact of their failure, where all move at a snail's pace so the slowest is not left behind, and all march toward adulthood in the goose‑step of "togetherness." Thus the competition that breeds excellence is to be relinquished for the benefit of something called "life adjustment."

With what results? While more children now are attending school than any other time in our history, the two‑thirds that do graduate come out of school knowing less. We have produced tens of thousands of high school graduates who move their lips as they read and cannot write a coherent paragraph. Our educational system is graduating high school seniors without the ability to perform even the simplest mathematical problems, and their knowledge of history, government, and geography is zilch. But, in fact, most students regularly pass tests in these subjects. So, why don't they know them? We have been engaged in the wholesale production of mediocrity.

So what to do?

When was the last time you examined the curricula of your local schools? How do your schools rank on the standardized tests? For that matter, have you seen the standardized tests? When have you looked at your school's report cards and the philosophy behind their grading systems? Have you asked to examine any senior English themes? Have you offered any recognition to your school's best scholars to compare to the recognition you accord your school's best football players?

The funny thing about "progressive educators" is that theory vanishes when the referee's whistle blows for the kickoff. In the classroom they pretend to grade subjectively, against the student's supposed capacity, lest he be humiliated by natural inadequacy. But on the football field they never put in a one‑legged halfback on the theory that, considering his disability, he's a great halfback. They put in the best halfback they've got, period. The "ungifted" sit on the bench or back in the stands even though they, too, might thirst for glory. Did you know that a major university even graduated a football player that was illiterate? If our schools were as anxious to turn out scholars as they are to turn out winning football teams this strange contradiction wouldn't exist.

Having precluded discipline in education, it follows that we also debauch discipline in art. Some great painters and sculptors of the past studied anatomy so diligently that they often indulged in body‑snatching. And today, after many centuries we still stare at the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel and marvel at its beauty.
But this commitment is of little concern to the modern non‑objective painter. All he needs is pigment and a press agent. He can fling colors at a canvas and the art world will discover him. He can stick bits of glass, old rags, and quids of used chewing tobacco on a board and he is a social critic. He can drive a car back and forth in puddles of paint and a national magazine will write him up. He can place a religious symbol inverted in a container of urine and receive world renown.

Talent and craftsmanship is for old fogies. If you undertake to paint a cow it must look something like a cow. That takes at least a sign‑painter's ability. But, you can claim to paint a picture of your psyche and no matter what the result, who is to say what your psyche looks like? So our art galleries, museums, and bank lobbies are filled with daubs being stared at by confused peoples who haven't the guts to admit they are confused.

But the age of pseudo art is a balsa cross that American civilization bears. Much more serious are our crumbling moral standards and the dulling of our capacity for righteous wrath.

Our Puritan ancestors were preoccupied with sin. They were too preoccupied with it. They were silence‑ridden and guilt‑ridden, and theirs was a repressed and neurotic society. But, they did have certain redeeming qualities. They were able to work and study and discipline themselves; they had stamina and gumption. They wrested livings from rocky land, built our earliest colleges, started our literature, caused our industrial revolution, and found time in between to fight the Indians, the French, and the British, to bawl for abolition, women's suffrage, and prison reform, and to experiment with graham crackers and flight.

And for all their exaggerated attention to sin, their philosophy rested on a great granite rock: man was the master of his soul. You didn't have to be bad. You could and should be better. And if you wanted to escape the eternal fires you'd better be.

This has changed in America. We have accepted sin as largely illusory. We have become enamored with "behavioristic psychology." This holds that a man is a product of his heredity and his environment, and his behavior to a large degree is foreordained by both. He is either a product of a happy combination of genes and chromosomes or an unhappy combination. He moves in an environment that will tend to make him evil. He is simply a stream pebble rolled helplessly by forces beyond his control and, therefore, not responsible.

Well, the theory that anti‑social misbehavior can be cured by demolishing inner‑city slums and building in their places elaborate public housing is not sound. The crime rates continue to rise along with our spending for social services. We speak of the underprivileged. Yet the young men who swagger up and down the streets, boldly flaunting their gang symbols, are far more blessed in creature comforts, opportunities for advancement, and freedom from drudgery than 90 per cent of the children of the world. We have sown the dragon's teeth in pseudo‑scientific sentimentality, and out of the ground has sprung the legion bearing guns, knives, and bicycle chains. Clearly something is wrong.

Welfare relief is becoming an honorable career in America. It is a pretty fair life, if you have neither conscience nor pride. The politicians will weep over you. The state will give a mother a bonus for her illegitimate children, and if she neglects them sufficiently she can save enough out of her payments to keep herself and her boyfriend in joints and gin. Nothing is your fault. And when the city fathers of a distressed community suggest that able‑bodied welfare recipients might sweep the streets, the "liberals" arise and denounce them for their medieval cruelty. Isn't it time we stopped this elaborate pretense that there is no difference between the genuinely unfortunate and the mobs of reliefers who start throwing bottles and bricks every time the cops try to make a legitimate arrest?

I don't know how long Americans can stand this erosion of principle. But I believe that many of my starry‑eyed friends are kidding themselves when they pretend that every planeload of immigrants that puts down in the United States is equivalent in potential to every shipload of Pilgrims that put into Plymouth. Nations are built by people capable of great energy and self‑discipline. I never heard of one put together by welfare payments funding neer‑do‑wells and do‑nothings, or by making heroes out of free‑loaders and jack‑legs.

Finally, there is the status of our entertainment and our literature. Can anyone deny that movies are more obscene than ever? But those in the industry don't call it dirt. They call it "realism." Why do we let them fool us? Why do we nod owlishly when they tell us that filth is merely a daring art form, that licentiousness is really social comment? Isn't it time we recognized the quest for the fast buck for what it is? Isn't it plain that the financially‑harassed movie industry is putting gobs of sex in the darkened theaters and distributing salacious VCR tapes to lure curious teenagers into the sphere of spending? The entertainment industry conventionally accepts that perversion and homosexuality are no longer barred from the screen, provided the subjects are handled with "delicacy and taste." Good grief!

The national media are a party to the crime, too. The movie ads are now so sexually suggestive that standards are needed. The media is supplied with several different ads for each movie. If the publishers and the networks accept the most suggestive ones, those are what they get. But if they squawk, the cleaner ads are sent down. Isn't it time we all squawked?

It's time we quit giving the lead story to the extra‑marital junkets of celebrities. It is time we stopped treating as glamorous and exciting the brazen antics of crooners. It is time we asked our Broadway and Hollywood columnists if they can't find something decent and inspiring going on along their beats.

Oh, yes. We have lots of "realism." Incestuous Americans. Perverted Americans. Degenerate Americans. Murderous Americans. How many of these "realistic" Americans do you know?

We are smothering our youngsters with violence, cynicism, and sadism piped into the living room and even the nursery. The grandchildren of the kids who used to weep because The Little Match Girl froze to death now feel cheated if she isn't beaten, raped, and thrown kicking and screaming into a fire.

And there's our literature. The old eye-poppers of the past, which tourists used to smuggle back from Paris in their dirty clothes, are now tame stuff. Compared to some of our modern slush, "Ulysses" reads like the minutes of the Epworth League. Henry Miller's "Tropic of Cancer," which resembles a collection of inscriptions taken from privy walls, is now on sale to your high‑school‑age son or daughter. The quick-buck boys have apparently convinced some bumfuzzled judges that there is no difference between a peep show and a moral lecture.

And, of course, we have our historical novels in which the romance of man's upward progress from savagery is lost in a confused wallow of bundlings and tumblings. The foreign reader of one of these epics on the development of the American West must marvel that our forefathers found time to quell the Indians, plow up half the country, and build the transcontinental railroad while spending practically all their time rolling in the hay.

The media should simply quit advertising scatological literature. Of course, some will call this censorship. They will denounce this for tampering with the facts. After all, we are a free society, in addition to being a capitalistic one. And people generally like smut, so it sells. I would like to raise a somewhat larger question. Who is tampering with the soul of America?

For nations do have souls. They have collective personalities. People who think well of themselves, collectively exhibit spirit and enthusiasm and morale. When nations cease believing in themselves, when they regard their government with cynicism and their traditions with flippancy, they will not long remain great nations. When they seek learning without effort and wages without work they are beginning to stagger. Where they become hedonistic and pleasure‑oriented, when their Boy Scouts on hikes start to hitch rides, there's trouble ahead. Where business fraud becomes a way of life, expense account cheating expected, and union goonery a fiercely defended "right," that nation is in danger. And where police departments try to control burglary by the novel method of making it a department monopoly, then the chasm gapes.

I don't want to overdraw the picture. The United States of America is still a great, powerful, vibrant, able nation. Most Americans do believe in themselves and in their country. But there is blight and there is decay to be cleared away if we are to survive the hammer blows which quite plainly are in store for us all.

We have reached the stomach‑turning point. The point where we should re‑examine the debilitating philosophy of permissiveness. Let this not be confused with the philosophy of liberty. The school system that permits our children to develop a quarter of their natural talents is not a champion of our liberties. The healthy man who chooses to loaf on unemployment compensation is not a defender of human freedom. The playwright and author who would profit from pandering to the worst that's in us, are no friends of ours.

It is time we revived the idea that there is such a thing as sin‑‑just plain old willful wrong. It is time we brought self‑discipline back into style.

Let's look to our educational institutions at the local level, and if Johnny can't read by the time he's ready to get married, let's find out why.

Let's look at the distribution of public largesse and if, far from alleviating human misery, it is producing the sloth and irresponsibility that intensifies it, let's get it fixed.

Let's quit being bulldozed and bedazzled by self‑appointed crusaders. Let's have the guts to say that a book is dirt if that's what we think of it, or a painting may well be a daub if you can't figure out which way to hang it. And if some artist welds together a collection of rusty cogwheels and old corset stays and claims it compares to Michelangelo's "David," let's have the courage to say that it looks like junk and probably is.

Let's close the curtain on plays and movies that would bring blushes to Marines at a stag party. Let's not be awed by actors or politicians with barnyard morals even if some of them have climbed aboard the Presidential yacht. Let us pay more attention in our news commentaries to the decent people everywhere who are trying to do something for the good of others. In short, let's cover up the cesspool and start planting some flowers.

I am fed up with the educationists and pseudo‑social scientists who have underrated our potential as a people. I am fed up with the critics and promoters who try to pass off pretense for art and prurience for literature. I am tired of seeing America debased and low‑rated in the eyes of foreigners. And I am genuinely disturbed that to idealistic youth in many countries the deceit of the Middle East appears synonymous with morality, while we, the chief repository of freedom, are regarded as being in the last stages of decay.

We can learn a lesson from history. Twice before, our British cousins appeared heading into a collapse of principle, and twice they drew themselves back. The British court reached an advanced stage of corruption under the Stuarts. But the people rebelled. And in the wild days of George IV and William IV it looked as though Britain was crumbling again. But the people pounded through the reform laws, and, under Victoria, went on to the peak of their power.

In this hour of fear, confusion, and self‑doubt, let this be the story of America. Unless I misread the signs, a great number of our people are ready. You see, the magic of the system we live under is not that the ship of state will sail straight at all times, but that if it begins to list or drives itself head on into a storm, free men can exercise free judgment and try to alter the course. Let there be a fresh breeze, a breeze of new honesty, new idealism, new integrity.

Lest We Forget...

Lest we forget... There really are men and women willing to die for us; and the freedom to walk in any direction we want, saying anything we want. Nothing is more important than that...


Merry Christmas and Happy New Year to you all...

Merry Christmas

I don't care what anyone says... Christmas is still an important part of our lives. Don't be afraid to call it Christmas and celebrate Christ's birthday. And, remember...remember how important Christmas was to us as children. You know, how difficult is was going to sleep the night before we could open the wonderous gifts that Santa brought us. And, how early we arose that morning. Yes, the world is changing, evolving...don't let Christmas and the thoughts it brings get away from you...

May we think of those warriors that won't be able to spend Christmas with their families because of their dedication to God, Duty, and Country. They all have my prayers. I hope they have yours too.

A letter to Dad...

Just came across this letter... Sad, but there is something to be learned here. My father was diagnosed with inoperable lung cancer in Oct 1990. He gave treatment a shot, but died in April 1991. I was very fortunate to be able to write this letter to him...I believe it's important for all of us "macho" sons to tell our fathers how we feel.

Dear Dad,
Mom just gave me the news of your probable release from the hospital. Using the words of another, this is really a “Hallelujah.” You did it again, Dad—defied all odds as well as the expectations of the doctors. I know you are excited and encouraged about your future. I am. I should have known you could deal with the radiation sickness, as you will handle the ordeal of cancer. Nevertheless, it genuinely scared me when the doctors called the family together in preparation for your death. I will never forget the elegiac quality of mother’s phone call, “The doctor said your Dad is a very sick man and his chances aren’t very good. You need to come now.” It definitely made me consider the realities of life.
Many years ago, you taught me the immutable fact that life isn’t always fair. Well, this is one of those times; it’s just not fair. Why would anyone have to go through the pain and suffering of cancer, not just the physical pain, but the mental pain, the trepidation of imminent death? “You’ll understand when you’re my age,” you told me in the hospital. I know you’re correct, but right now I feel a little lost. I can’t imagine what it will be like not to have a father: someone to go to for advice, or support, or just to talk to in the morning over a cup of coffee, or all those other times when fathers are especially important—like making that special card and phoning you on your birthday.
When I saw the second and third degree radiation burns on both sides of your neck, and the excruciating pain you were experiencing from the severe radiation burns on your esophagus and stomach, I felt completely helpless. The feeling I had was much like the role reversal that sometimes occurs with children who mistakenly believe they know what is best for their parents. I wanted to make your pain go away, to comfort you as I would my children, to trade lives with you so you could walk out of the hospital and go home, your life returning to normal. I honestly believe it would be easier for me to endure your mental and physical pain than to bear the emotional pain I feel with your suffering.
I was also appalled at your physical condition. How could any physician allow this kind of life‑threatening damage? I realize that intense radiation is often used as a substitute for tumor removal when surgery is not feasible because of other problems. But, irradiated patients should not only be carefully watched for signs of radiation induced pneumonia, but for acute radiation sickness as well. Wouldn’t it be a terrible shame to die of a prescribed treatment simply because a physician did not monitor your condition? I realize not all physicians are good at dealing directly with patients, but when an individual is responsible for a human life, there is no latitude for mistakes—close supervision and constant evaluation of the patient take priority over everything.
At the same time, and as much as I want to deny it, I know you have lung cancer, an inoperable bronchogenic carcinoma. This is undeniably a pernicious disease that requires serious treatment, even the life‑threatening combination of chemotherapy and radiation. At least there is a chance of recovery with drastic therapy; consider the result of no treatment. Besides, the combination of multiple drug chemotherapy with radiotherapy sometimes yields higher survival rates than surgery. As a matter of fact, these newer protocols have been reported to show more response, longer survival, and even some cures.
“The things most worthwhile are never easy,” you always say. Well, what you are facing now is definitely not easy. I am having trouble understanding the worth too. Is it to teach those around you the value and importance of inner strength, or determination, or acceptance of the realities of life? If so, it’s a hard lesson you have to present. Like I have always said, “Dying is easy, it’s the living that’s hard.” This is also the kind of situation that builds disillusionment with God; why would God allow us to suffer so? This question can’t be answered. It doesn’t need an answer though.
Our hope for eternal life in the hereafter does not just spring from a longing for spiritual existence, but grows out of our love for life upon this earth, which we have known and found good. No one wants to die, but if death is going to occur, and it will, then knowing we have given life makes it easier. And you have given life, Dad. Not just mine, but also to a multitude of others that have known you: the men in battle that owe you their lives as a result of your leadership and what you taught them, a son and a daughter, six grandchildren, and, of course, Mom. There are countless others, too.
I know you are happy with your life. How could you feel otherwise with all the great memories you have? After all, isn’t that what life is—memories? Not even counting 50 years with the same, wonderful woman, you have the experience and memories of five average lifetimes. Remember, you have successfully completed three careers, experienced three major wars and countless lesser conflicts, and have personally known many peoples of the world while living much of your life in strange and faraway places. You take for granted much that most people haven’t even experienced. I know you feel fortunate.
I feel fortunate, too. You see, I got to go with you to many of these places, to experience and learn and grow. I am fortunate because I was able to spend the most important time of my life with you, my childhood. Isn’t it also fortunate we have been able to experience the personal closeness we have acquired over the last couple of decades? Many fathers and sons never realize this intimacy.
Also, in a strange sort of way, I feel fortunate now. I believe the opportunity to write this letter is a privilege; many sons never get the chance to tell their fathers how they feel. It seems our egos and the macho image we have to display prevents many of us from expressing our true feelings. Well, I’m going to put my “machoism” in my back pocket for a while. Nothing is now more important than conveying to you my feelings and thoughts.
And I’ve been thinking about a lot of things lately, from cabbages to kings, but mostly about my life’s time—all the things I’ve done and how its been—about how I came to be what I am today. “You’re just like your Dad,” my lovely wife says when she believes I am being meticulous. I like hearing this. You taught me well; if I’m going to do something, I’ll do it properly. I wasn’t born this way either, I learned from the standards you set for yourself. “You are what your parents are,” I always say. I feel very fortunate to have learned the best way; I was taught by example.
Teaching me wasn’t always easy either. I regret the frustrations I sometimes caused you. I know I was a temerarious child. But, you know the old saying, “The arrogance of the young is a direct result of not having known enough consequences. The turkey that every day greedily approaches the farmer who tosses him grain is not wrong. It is just that he has never experienced Thanksgiving.”
When you’re young you tell yourself, “I’m not going to make the same mistakes my father made.” But, as you grow older and more mature, you realize your father didn’t make as many mistakes as you thought. Isn’t it interesting that the older I get, the smarter you get? I have finally learned, Dad, that wisdom comes not from a book, but from life’s experiences. Unfortunately, we don’t always learn from other’s experiences though. We must walk the fire ourselves.
I was indubitably one of those children that had to walk a lot of fire, too. Remember when I drove your new Mercury Turnpike Cruiser into the sandy creek bottom nearly destroying the car, or when I almost became a high school drop‑out? You never punished me for these stupid acts. Somehow, in your infinite wisdom you knew I didn’t need punishment, I had learned. I will never forget you saying, “You punished yourself, you learned your lesson.” That is what I love most about you: your understanding and wisdom. That’s what being a good father is all about, being wise enough to teach your children so they can go into the world as mature, hardworking, responsible adults. I never had any doubt that you always had my best interests at heart. You were always willing, ready, and able to put out the fire before it hurt me—even if it also burned you. You allowed me to learn those important lessons, but made sure I wasn’t permanently injured when I had to walk the fire. You taught me well. I will do the same for my children.
Of course, there are those good times that stand out, too. Like when you took me to the white beaches of Guam and swam with me in the crystal clear waters; you opened the door to my lifelong fascination of strange and wonderful creatures, removing forever my fear of the unknown and the unusual. And, when our trip on the glass bottom boat in Okinawa was cut short because mother became seasick; you taught me consideration. Then, when we climbed and climbed and climbed the mountains in search of Dall Sheep, I learned not to quit; I learned my body could do more than I believed. Neither of us will every forget the Alaskan bear hunt; I learned to face danger and fear with control. You are directly responsible for my surviving the rigors of bloodshed in Viet Nam and the battle wounds I received. Dad, you have given me life more than once, with your strength, your support, your presence. Even during those times when we were not together, you have always been with me in mind and soul.
I remember, once when I was very young, my Boy Scout troop had a father and son camping trip. Going on this trip was the most important thing in the world to me, but you were in Korea. Oddly enough, even at my youthful age I realized you obviously couldn’t take me and I held no resentment. Someone volunteered to go as my father. An admirable act to me now, but at the time I resented anyone thinking they could take your place. I handled this in an interesting manner; I imagined with all my heart that you were there. Every time I saw my “substitute” father, I pretended it was really you. To this day, I can still see you camping with me; indeed, you will always be with me in mind and soul.
I had to write this letter, Dad, to thank you for a great life. While this letter is especially for you, it is also for the other fathers and their children that have experienced, or will experience the harsh realities we are facing. I know this letter was difficult to read. It was also difficult to write. No amount of descriptive writing can convey the immeasurable admiration and love I have for you. I am a life you have given, your legacy. I am a part of you. You will not be forgotten.
Loving always,
Your son, Michael

Importand Stuff To Know...

"A slipping gear could let your M203 grenade launcher fire when you least expect it. That would make you quite unpopular in what's left of your unit."- Army's magazine of preventive maintenance.

"Aim towards the Enemy."- Instruction printed on US Rocket Launcher

"When the pin is pulled, Mr. Grenade is not our friend."- U.S. Marine Corps

"Cluster bombing from B-52s are very, very accurate. The bombs are guaranteed to always hit the ground."- USAF Ammo Troop

"If the enemy is in range, so are you."- Infantry Journal

"It is generally inadvisable to eject directly over the area you just bombed."- U.S. Air Force Manual

"Whoever said the pen is mightier than the sword obviously never encountered automatic weapons."- General MacArthur

"Try to look unimportant; they may be low on ammo."- Infantry Journal

"You, you, and you ... Panic. The rest of you, come with me."- U.S. Marine Corp Gunnery Sgt.

"Tracers work both ways."- U.S. Army Ordnance

"Five second fuses only last three seconds."- Infantry Journal

"Don't ever be the first, don't ever be the last, and don't ever volunteer to do anything."- U.S. Navy Swabbie

"Bravery is being the only one who knows you're afraid."- David Hackworth

"If your attack is going too well, your walking into an ambush."- Infantry Journal

"No combat-ready unit has ever passed inspection."- Joe Gay

"Any ship can be a minesweeper ... once."- Anonymous

"Never tell the Platoon Sergeant you have nothing to do."- Unknown Marine Recruit

"Don't draw fire; it irritates the people around you."- Your Buddies

"If you see a bomb technician running, follow him."- USAF Ammo Troop

"Though I Fly Through the Valley of Death ... I Shall Fear No Evil. For I am at 80,000 Feet and Climbing."- At the entrance to the old SR-71 operating base Kadena, Japan

"Though I walk through the Valley of Death...I Shall Fear No Evil. For I am the meanest M******F***** in the Valley." David M. Couch, Infantry Unit
Commander.

"You've never been lost until you've been lost at Mach 3."- Paul F. Crickmore (test pilot)

"Blue water Navy truism: There are more planes in the ocean than submarines in the sky."- From an old carrier sailor

"The Piper Cub is the safest airplane in the world; it can just barely kill you."- Attributed to Max Stanley (Northrop test pilot)

"A pilot who doesn't have any fear probably isn't flying his plane to its maximum."- Jon McBride, astronaut

"If you're faced with a forced landing, fly the thing as far into the crash as possible."- Bob Hoover (renowned aerobatic and test pilot)

"There is no reason to fly through a thunderstorm in peacetime."- Sign over squadron ops desk at Davis-Monthan AFB, AZ, 1970

As the test pilot climbs out of the experimental aircraft, having torn off the wings and tail in the crash landing, the crash truck arrives, the rescuer sees a bloodied pilot and asks "What happened?" The pilot's reply: "I don't know, I just got here myself!"