Colorful Colorado

Animas River, 09 AUG 15, South of
Durango, CO.

By now most have heard of the EPA disaster on the Animas River in Southwest Colorado. When I saw the news reports, videos, and pictures Friday morning, a part of me was saddened; another part was nostalgic. I naturally preferred nostalgia.

One of the best vacation decisions my dad made was a family vacation/hunting trip to the Centennial State, Colorado, in the late summer of 1973. We left early one morning driving to Denton, TX, making for a long first day. The next we drove through Amarillo on the way to Raton Pass, New Mexico. It is in Amarillo where the Big Texan Steak Ranch is located; home of the 72 oz steak. The trip from Dallas to Amarillo takes forever. I could not imagine crossing this barren land on horseback. I have no idea how George Strait thinks he could make it 'by morning up from San Antone'. Perhaps he was traveling light.

Welcome to Colorful Colorado sign from Raton Pass, NM into
Las Animas County, Colorado.

On the third morning, we crossed the Colorado State Line, and I felt at home. We traveled the entire state and on subsequent trips, ventured into neighboring states. The first left a lasting impression on me and I would travel back a total of 13 times. As a family, we made multiple trips, one with grandparents plus an aunt and two cousins, another trip with family and aunt, and various combinations thereafter. In the summer of 1988, my middle brother and I added our new brides to the family trip. We are quick learners and have not made another inclusive trip. Since then I have visited multiple times sans family, the last in 1994. It was during that trip while rafting the Class IV and V rapids on the Arkansas River, my health changed. In some manner, I guess it fitting that a river in my favorite state would play a role in changing my life.

I love our natural resources. God has richly blessed us from the beaches and waterways of my Florida Panhandle to the mountains and waterways of North Alabama, to my beloved Colorado. It was here I experienced a "Rocky Mountain High". A high more addictive than any plant, powder, or pill offers. The majestic mountains topped with their white crowns, and wildflower-covered meadows—my favorite flower is the Colorado Columbine—streams from the ice-cold snow runoff, to the fast-moving rapids of major rivers. You can raft, float, kayak, fly fish, or simply stand in awe of God’s creation. There is nothing more peaceful than to sleep on a moonlit, crisp, cool night beside a stream gurgling over stones smoothed and polished by centuries of moving water abrading their surface; the scent of evergreen mixing with the smoke of a smoldering bonfire; the call of a lone animal in the distance. A favorite campsite was SouthMineral Campground, just West of Silverton on the opposite side of a mountain that separates it from Telluride. A pass so rough, that the town got its name from a contraction of “To Hell You Ride”

Clear Lake, three miles North of South Mineral Campground.
Elevation: 11,940 feet. Photo credit: Author's father, 1983.

It was in Southwest Colorado, that we as a family left our troubles behind, grew closer—admittedly, sometimes a bit too close—and enjoyed what I call God's handiwork. In His infinite ability, He took a nano-milli-second longer to create a place more beautiful than man can even imagine. We love the area between Silverton, Ouray, Durango, and Telluride in the San Juan Mountain National Forest. Between Silverton and Durango, you travel US Route 550 which is part of the San Juan Skyway Scenic Byway. And you thought ‘Sally sold seashells by the seashore’ was a tange tongluar. Just say “San Juan Skyway Scenic Byway” several times. A shorter section between Ouray and Silverton is known as the “million-dollar highway” because of the breathtaking million-dollar views afforded by driving along the high peaks. The entire trip from Silverton to Durango runs parallel to the Durango and Silverton Narrow Gauge Railroad. Both travel alongside the Animas River. The Spanish explorer San Juan Maria de Rivera of Santa Fe was the first to explore the area and named the river Rio de Las Animas—the River of Souls. The trip affords you ample opportunities to view the river and even cross it several times. I have seen the river full of summer activity, bustling with life; kayakers slicing gracefully between the rocks, fisherman lining the banks casting their flies in the perfect eddy. This is contrasted to the winter scene, although the river is moving, there is a stillness, a tranquil peace. The unmarred, fresh snow frames the river, which is now even bluer. Winter normally represents death, but it is this scene that makes me feel more alive. It is this scene that made me want to preserve this river even more so. My soul belongs to God, but my heart belongs to this river and Colorado. Another river that had a lasting impact on me.

Railroad bridge over Animas River.

No matter where we hiked, camped, hunted, or fished, Dad always made sure we packed out what we packed in. We even picked up trash left by others. The natural resources should be cared for and managed, as God charged man to do in Genesis. Leaving them pristine for future generations to enjoy. From my early 20s, I always thought I would retire to Colorado where I could enjoy these scenes year-round. I knew for that to happen, I had to do my part in taking care of my corner of the world. No throwing trash out windows (rarely did this before—the commercial of the Indian, er, Native American crying really got me), picking up trash when I see it, throwing it all in trash cans. I thought, if I did my part then someone in Colorado would do theirs, and when I returned to Colorado in retirement, it would still be pristine. Kind of an ecological karma thing.

Before and After spill pictures.

When I close my eyes and visualize “Colorful Colorado”, I see the bluish-green hue of Blue Spruce trees, the white, cool bark of Aspen trees, the blues and purples of Columbines, the white of snow-capped mountains, the red in the soil and rocks, the olives and browns of the Eastern Plains, and the blues of the streams and rivers like the Animas. Of all the visualizations, I do not see mustard-colored waterways. Sadly, mustard yellow is now the color of the Animas River. Colorado has over 107,400 miles of waterway divided between 158 rivers and 72 streams. All but two rivers originate within the state borders. The rivers east of the Continental Divide travel to the Gulf of Mexico and the Atlantic Ocean. The rivers west travel to The Gulf of California and the Pacific Ocean. Until last week, only 1,300 miles of streams were polluted by acids remaining from gold mining. Now, we must add to that figure. Thankfully, the volume of water that flows in the river has pushed the yellowish water to the south of Silverton. The water north is beginning to run “blue” again, although some pools of yellow remain. As does many of the heavy metals released last week.

I have no idea how long it will take to reclaim the river. In the interim, I empathize with the residents of Southwest Colorado. It was a little over five years ago, that the Gulf Coast experienced the Deepwater Horizon oil spill. Some alarmists warned the Gulf Coast is lost. It will never be the same. Thankfully, it is returning to its former glory. So too, will this river. The earth has a way of reclaiming that which belongs to it. Just as wood rots, iron rusts, and grass claws its way through asphalt and concrete, God made a way for the Earth to survive man. We too will succumb to this; ashes to ashes, dust to dust.

Plains of East Colorado
looking West.

The state of Colorado got its name from the tint of a river. The name, Rio Colorado, the Colorado River. Colorado is an adjective for red, like blushing. If the state were named after the current color of a river, the Centennial State would be called Amarillo. If that was the case, I don’t think George Strait would have made it by morning.

ABC Report on Animas River spill. 10 AUG 15

Phrogs Phinal Phlight

CH-46 Helo-Casting US Marines.

On 01 AUG 2015, the United States Marine Corps ended its yearlong transition and bid “pharewell” to one of the most storied and historic airframes in all of USN/USMC aviation. The CH-46, “Sea Knight” known affectionately as the “Phrog” "phlew" its last official flight. The Phrogs Phinal Phlight. In a retirement ceremony, a Sea Knight of the Reserve Marine Medium Helicopter Squadron (HMM) 744 flew its last hop to the Smithsonian National Air and Space Museum in Chantilly, VA, where it will remain on loan from the National Museum of the Marine Corps.

Marines rappelling from CH-46.

In another AUG, back in 1961, I entered into this world. The following AUG (1962), the Phrog took its first flight. It entered service in 1964. The 46 has served aboard LHA/LST/LPD and deployed to FOBs in every conflict since Vietnam. Last year, Phrogs flew their last combat missions and returned to CONUS. Many confuse the 46 with the much larger US Army CH-47, also a tandem rotor helicopter, or “banana” helo. Because of its counter tandem rotors, there is no need for a tail rotor, and it can land on ice without sliding. Skilled pilots can land the “ass-end” of the Phrog on a building or mountain while keeping the forward part of the helo in a hover.

For the past 25 years, most of the men and women who piloted/crewed the helo had not even been born when the last helo rolled off the production line. The last 46 entered service in 1971. During its nine years of production, 524 units entered service in USN/USMC. The most current model is the 46F.

Marines perform Static Line Jump from CH-46.

Marines using SPIE under CH-46.

Marines "roping" from CH-46.

During its service life, the 46 supported several mission types. From disaster aid and relief to humanitarian operations to search and rescue, to the basics of movement of supplies, transporting personnel, and vertical replenishment (VERTREP). It also served in the most solemn of roles by removing the wounded and dead from the battlefield. During my time in USMC, I jumped/rappelled/roped/cast/SPIE’d out of UH-1s, CH-46s, and CH-53s. Because of the size of Force Recon teams, we normally used Hueys (UH-1) and 46s for our training missions. Typically, the 46 was crewed by a pilot, co-pilot, and crew chief/gunner, allowing for 22 combat-loaded Marines. I have made all types of static line jumps from a 46; “Hollywood” (no equipment), Equipment, Day, and Night. I have helo-cast into water (pilot travels at a “20 and 20”—twenty feet above the lowest point between crests, and 20 knots—we then push our Zodiac out the

CH-46 v CH-47 Profile View.

CH-46 v CH-47 Front View.

CH-46 v CH-47 Bottom View

lowered the ramp, then followed after) and performed wet recoveries (driving Zodiac into a helo that is hovering with ramp awash); rappelled from both the “hell hole” and off the ramp; “roped” (fast-rope) insertion, and SPIE’d (Special Patrol Insertion-Extraction). This is probably my favorite. You attach yourself to a rope that is affixed to the helo and you hang underneath while in flight, traveling up to 10 miles at 130 knots. I have a lot of fond memories of the Phrog.

Like old Marines, even equipment must leave active service and pass the torch to someone or something else. The 46, replaced is the dual tilt-rotor MV-22 Osprey. Much has been said about this airframe, but I think she will prove to be a force multiplier and will save a lot of Marines.

Author. 1987 at 29 Palms.
About to SPIE insert under CH-46.

I, like the 46, represent the Marine Corps' past. Our time in service is done. The current Devil Dogs and MV-22 represent the Marine Corps' future. To these Marines, I charge you to take care of your Marines, and always in ALL Ways, Charlie Mike.

Bravo Zulu Phrogs. May you always have Phair Winds and Phollowing Seas. (I could do this Phorever).

I shall remain, Semper Fidelis.

Marines Helo-Cast from CH-46.

I Killed a Baby Bunny Today...

I have a huge backyard and it takes a while for me to mow. It has been the location of many great memories with two little girls growing up; backyard birthday parties, slip-n-slide get-togethers, chasing and playing with dogs. Since our last German Shepherd died in 2009, it has become the perfect habitat for all manner of creatures that walk, jump, run, and even crawl.

Our rabbit population has also increased with babies running to and fro all day long. I look out for them, even throwing out lettuce and a carrot or two. When I saw what I had done today, I thought back to a time when I was 8 or 9. We had a bad Blue Jay population that stole our pecans. Dad told me he would pay me a quarter for each Blue Jay I killed and brought to him. I do not know if Dad actually thought a young boy with a BB gun was going to impact the Blue Jay population by any measurable amount, but it gave me something to do. A few days later, after a lot of misses, I killed my first bird. Not long after, I got my second. By then I noticed a bird kept returning to the same tree. I decided to climb the tree to see if there was a nest. It was a tall pecan tree on the back two acres—too far away for anyone to hear me if I called for help. I remember getting some rope from the barn and attaching one end to my BB gun and the other end to my waist. After climbing the tree, I found a nest with three or four baby birds. Until I saw them, I had not thought of what I would do if I actually found any birds. The momma bird kept flying towards me attempting to scare me off. God made the females of the species very protective and endowed them with a special trait to nurture and care for their young. She was no different. After a few moments of mental debate, I either let them live or thought I should do as my dad asked because these would grow up and “steal” our pecans. I finally decided to drop them. Later that evening, I took my Piggly Wiggly "game bag" to the house to show Dad my kills and get my money. He seemed impressed when I went into the bag for the third time to remove another bird. When he saw what I had it was easy to see the disappointment on his face. He asked how I got them. I recounted the events. He could have been angry, or worse he could have been proud. I am glad he was neither. He told me you have to give animals a fighting chance. Taking a life is a solemn event. He counted out the quarters, one for each bird, then told me to bury the birds. I found a nice place under the tree they lived in. I took the quarters from my pocket and threw them in the little grave before covering them with dirt. The dirt that covered the dead bodies was symbolic of me hiding the feelings of my actions.

Please do not misunderstand; I am not a card-carrying PETA fanatic. I grew up hunting and fishing and we ate what we caught and killed. We had cows, goats, and all breeds of dogs we cared for and provided for. We did what generations of mankind have done going back to the Garden of Eden. God made “male and female” telling them to “be fruitful and increase in number; fill the earth and subdue it. Rule over the fish in the sea and the birds in the sky and over every living creature that moves on the ground”. We are charged by our Creator to protect and manage all living things on this earth. Just do a word study (etymological) of the words “man”, “husbandry”, and “management”—they all come from the same root word. For a long time, agricultural colleges offered degrees in “animal husbandry”. It is now called “animal science”. We are to protect life and manage all Earth’s resources.

Aborted fetuses being shipped to an incinerator.

Preserved aborted fetuses for research.

After a few moments of remembering the Blue Jay event, I thought about the people who invest time and money in protecting animals. There are many people who spend their entire lives protecting and defending endangered animals like the Mexican Walking Fish or Chinese Giant Salamander. Then there are some that want to protect all animals all the time from all bi-pedal predators—man. They would give their lives to protect an animal. I guess this is admirable in a way, but then many of these same defenders have no problem with the murder of innocent babies. Oh, they have nice names for it: “manual vacuum aspiration” and “Intact D&X” (Dilation and Extraction), but they all have a singular purpose: kill the unborn child growing in a woman’s body. These aborted babies are then backed in red biological bags or placed in glass containers filled with preservatives. The red bags are then incinerated. Sometimes they are just thrown in the trash. No funerals. No memorials. People should care for animals, but having greater concern for animals than unborn humans is wrong.

All these thoughts flooded my consciousness while I stood watching. You see, I walk the backyard, make a lot of noise, and have an idea of most of the rabbit hole locations. It is kind of like a Seinfeld episode—“The Merv Griffin Show”—where George first hits a pigeon while driving, then steps on another. Finally, he swerves the car to miss a pigeon only to hit a squirrel. He continues to argue that man and pigeons “had a deal”. They do their thing (pooping on everyone and statue defecation) and in return, they move out of the way for humans. The big John Deere makes a lot of noise and I drive slow enough to give ample warning in the event there are even slower rabbits. However, today, they were not in a hole in the open yard. Instead, they were under a tree that had snapped years ago from a tornado. The limbs began to grow towards the bottom and became a huge 12-foot tall tree-bush. I was using my push mower to get under the limbs when I saw an adolescent rabbit running away. Movement caught my attention and noticed several very small bunnies crawling/walking way. They were maybe 4-inches. It was then I noticed one that was just kind of writhing in place. There was no blood and I was hoping that the blades had missed him (the actual hole was under the tire track and not the blades). I walk away in an attempt to allow the momma to return and care for her young. I decided to not finish mowing under the bush. A few moments later after mowing around another tree, I finished and knocked on the back door to get my wife’s attention. She came out on the deck and I told her what had happened. She was sad. I recounted the Blue Jay story and how I felt about that event. Moments later, after cleaning both mowers and stowing them in “Ed’s Shed”, I walk back to the tree-bush. There he was. He was not moving. Thankfully, all the others were gone. I walk to the garage to get a shovel. Since the first grave for birds, I have dug many graves for animals. It is never an easy task. I decided to bury him between my two German Shepherds, Jacoba and Nikko. Perhaps this way, he will always have someone to play with. The dogs loved to lie under the tree-bush and ironically, the bunny is only 20 feet from where he was born.

Bunny Burial.

I finished filling, covering, and tamping down the moist soil. I killed a baby bunny today; it reminded me of all the aborted babies and it made me sad. At least this baby had a funeral.

(Note: During the 40 minutes it took to write this, 80 babies were aborted.)

What Freedom Means to Me

“Humanity has won its battle. Liberty now has a country”.

Marquis de LaFayette, 1781

Before I can answer what freedom means to me, we must first understand what freedom is and how we get or achieve freedom. What is freedom? Dictionaries define it multiple ways but essentially they offer the following. Freedom (noun): (1) the power or right to act, speak or think as one wants without hindrance or restraint. (2) absence of subjection to foreign domination or despotic government. (3) the power of self-determination attributed to the will; the quality of being independent of fate or necessity. Synonyms include independence, self-determination, self-rule. How do we achieve freedom? To me, this is an easy answer. Freedom comes from God, but it is up to man to keep and preserve it.

Man was made in the image of its—our—Creator. He gave us “free will”. This phrase simply means we were created with the ability to think, analyze, draw conclusions and finally make decisions and choices. Because we were made in His image we possess the ability of reason and decision making. The scripture is clear: “Then God said, ‘Let Us make man in Our image, according to Our likeness; let them have dominion over the fish of the sea, over the birds of the air, and over the cattle, over all the earth and over every creeping thing that creeps on the earth.’ So God created man in His own image; in the image of God He created him; male and female He created them.” Genesis 1:26-27.

We, man and woman, male and female, may look different, but all over this created planet in a created universe, the whole of humanity was created with both the ability and responsibility to manage and exert authority over our own lives and all of creation. It was upon this principle of being free our Founding Fathers authored the Declaration of Independence. “We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness. That to secure these rights, Governments are instituted among Men, deriving their powers from the consent of the governed.”

This Nation was founded upon the very principle God gave to all mankind—to be free. Years after the Revolutionary War, the writers of the Constitution enumerate some of these rights that come from our Creator—not by man and not by government—they are called the “Bill of Rights”.

We are free to choose what we believe, where we travel, where we live, what we eat, if, how and who we worship. We are free to voice our opinions or remain silent. We are free to gather publicly in both support of or opposition to our elected officials. We are free to criticize. We are free to praise. We are free to start and conduct business. We are free to enter contracts. We are free to do just about anything we want, even denouncing how wonderful this Nation is. This means we are free to burn, stomp, and disrespect the flag of this great Nation. We are free to draw cartoons and create art of religious figures. We are free.

While I have tried to explain what freedom is, I find it difficult. Freedom is hard to explain while you live free, but becomes extremely easy when you lose it. To me, freedom is more about the conscious choice to become and remain free. It is about our daily decision to either accept encroachments on freedoms or question their validity. It is about exercising our rights or losing them.

We have all heard the expression, “Home of the free because of the brave”. We then associate “the brave” with the men and women serving in our military. This is a true and an apt applicable association—our military is all volunteer and they will serve and “fight for right and freedom” “in ev'ry clime and place”. However, I assert the responsibility belongs to all that live free. We must choose to remain free, for we can either live free in our lives, or in our memories.

When we look back to the Revolutionary War, the men that gathered, took up arms, and battled a superpower, they were your neighbors, not some trained military. They were craftsman, noblemen, store clerks, farmers, backwoodsmen, authors and doctors, and lawyers. They represented three percent of the Colonists. A mere three percent changed the course of a nation and lead the world to a monumental change in philosophy and government. They fought from Lexington to Yorktown in small towns, countrysides, and valleys, with names like Ticonderoga and Saratoga, Boston and Bunker Hill, Camden, and Cowpens. These brave men were veterans of a war, yet not professional soldiers. They agreed with John Adams. Shortly before he signed the Declaration of Independence he said, “I am well aware of the toil and blood and treasure that it will cost us to maintain this Declaration, and support and defend these States. Yet through all the gloom, I can see the rays of ravishing light and glory. I can see that the end is more than worth all the means and that posterity will triumph”. These three percent in tattered uniforms, using rags for boots stood proudly as they watched Cornwallis and his British Army adorned in colorful uniforms march in and surrender to Washington.

The Declaration of Independence John Trumbull

The spirit of the three percent resides in each of us. We know the importance of living free. Living in the manner God intended. We have seen this spirit multiple times. From all the battlefields on foreign soil to a seat on a Montgomery bus. We must be willing to take a stand and lift up our voice to stop anyone that attempts to limit our freedom.

Thomas Paine challenged, nay charged us to do just that, “Those who expect to reap the blessings of freedom must, undergo the fatigue of supporting it.”

Declaration of Independence

What freedom means to me is choosing to and doing all in my power to make all people free and most importantly, keeping this Nation as the “home of the free”. The cost of freedom is high. It is never paid in full. The costs are worth it and the means justify the end.

Enjoy your weekend but please take a moment to reflect on the 56 signatures affixed to a parchment titled “The unanimous Declaration of the united Thirteen States”. These men knew and willingly accepted the risk of death by signing their name in a Philadelphia, PA meeting hall. What are you willing to risk?

May God continue to bless these United States of America.

LabCorp Comedy Club

This morning I had to have blood drawn for some labs. I joined three ladies in the waiting room. There were many open seats, but I chose the row with only two seats. It was closer to the door, and there was a woman in her late 30s in the other chair. That had no bearing on my decision.😉 However, this is not about her. Instead, it is about the Lady, in her mid-60s. Let's call her Miss WTH. She was explaining to the other women how bad Obamacare was, and they shook their heads in agreement, much like a bobblehead doll on the dash of an F-250 Fx4 muddin' in the woods. She then shifted gears and started with how Obama was going to stop the 2016 election. "He is using all these racial shootings to stir up 'the blacks' and will enact 'The' Martial Law. He will use this to confiscate all the guns." The truck must have stopped because their heads were no longer bobbing.

She explained Obama was going to use Jade Helm as a way to get people used to seeing the military in their city. Okay, this goes on and I am waiting for my 0845 appointment. I interrupted asking where she was getting her information, acting like I had never heard such. She replied, "The internet. Go to 'the' YouTube."

Other comments included (1) Obama has a clone--you know they have that technology--and if you take him out, his clone will take over. (2) Less than 1% of the world controls all world events--"them Bilderbergs". They control the world. "Well, I’ll be." I said just loud enough for the lady--call her Miss America--beside me to hear, "I thought they were a nice store where you could take your kids and build-a-bear. I'll be." Miss America laughed.

I then chimed in, saying, "I think they are actually Reptilians from Rigel 7."  Miss America pinched my arm and winked at me. Miss WTH just looked at me like I was some conspiracy kook. How ironic.

Miss WTH's phone started ringing while two black families entered. Miss WTH announces that it is her sister in Atlanta and had to answer. She explains she is having blood work--"but nothing serious". (Miss Third Lady was then called back and had a look of both relief for herself and pity for us that remained.) Miss WTH asked her sister if she had heard of the shooting, then asked all of us the same. Without waiting for replies, Miss WTH explained she visited that very church years ago and probably sat in what today is a blood-stained pew. Incidentally, we could also hear her sister from Atlanta because of the volume. For a while, I thought we were on a conference call. She mostly said "Nooo" and "I'll be". Miss WTH then told her sister how her 66th birthday went.

"'My man' was angry. I did not get to the restaurant until 6:15. We had planned to meet at 5:30, but I was running late."--"How many dates 'had' you been on with him?" her Atlanta sister inquired.--"This would have been our third. He told me he had to leave and apologized, then got up and left. I was appalled at his behavior. Why would he do that to me? He did not give a single reason. I was talking to my daughter at 10 while watching the news, and she was asking about the date. I told her, no dinner, no card, no present, and the next thing I know she showed up with a flower she picked from her garden and a tin of cookies".

A black lady sitting beside Miss WTH was directly across from me. She was smiling at me while rolling her eyes and shaking her head. The collective waiting room looked as if all were doing their best to contain their laughter. One fart and the laughter would have sounded like a Jerry Seinfeld joke at a comedy club on Saturday night.

The door opened, EDDY GILLEY? -- "That's me!" I have not sprung to my feet that fast since one of my German Shepherds placed his cold nose on my bare butt. Once standing, Miss America mouthed "I hate you". Might I add--and this is important--Miss America has cerulean blue eyes, red lipstick, and her black sunglasses were perched upon her stylish blonde hair. She wore a light blue sleeveless scalloped neck shirt, white shorts, and tan leather thong sandals. Her nicely pedicured toenails were accentuated by red nail polish, and for the record, her fingernails were real and French-tipped. Anyway, Miss America was a bit envious of my winning the lottery, I mean, being called back to get stuck with a HUGE needle. I placed my hand across my heart and feigned a look of disbelief.

Jerry Seinfeld.

I turned to Miss WTH and said, "Excuse me. Ma'am, I do not mean to interrupt. I just wanted to wish you a belated Happy Birthday and offer my apologies for the events you described. I agree, it is hard for me to think of a single reason why your man would not want to spend an evening with you."

Someone must have farted as I turned to go because the room erupted in laughter.

Now I know how Jerry Seinfeld feels on a Saturday night at the (LabCorp) Comedy Club.

National Donut Day

Whether you spell it Doughnut or Donut, the first Friday in June is the day set aside to honor these sinfully delectable, delightful diet busters. I prefer ‘donut’ by taking the “ugh” out of something so sweet. This Friday, 05 JUN 2015 marks the 77^th annual “official” National Donut Day, the first occurring on 07 JUN 1938.

Milton Quality Bakery Donuts

It was on this day that a young US Army doctor, Morgan Pett, stopped at a local bakery to purchase 8 dozen donuts to distribute to patients at a military hospital. One of the patients was Lieutenant General Samuel Geary, who was so moved by the act of kindness, he wanted to fund a program that would provide a free donut to every serviceman. The Salvation Army, having provided donuts to our fighting men in Europe in World War I from their “huts”, quickly joined the cause.

WWI Poster

During WWI, our fighting men longed for something that was freshly baked such as breads and rolls. Something fresh and sweet was even better. The fighting men also enjoyed the “sweet” young ladies serving the desserts in the “donut huts”. These ladies were affectingly known as “Donut Dollies”. In WWII, the ladies of the American Red Cross also distributed donuts and they too were lovingly called Donut Dollies.

Everyone enjoys biting into a soft, warm donut. Whether it is the familiar round (toroidal-shaped) or filled (injected with cream, custard, or fruit preserves), we all know a good donut when we bite into one. I have eaten at all the national chains—Krispy Kreme, Dunkin’ Donuts, and even Spudnuts (made with potato flour) and several local bakeries from the East to the West Coast but none compare to Milton, Florida’s own Milton Quality Bakery.

Dropping by the bakery on the way to school, no matter how late I might be, was always worth it. Cheese Danish, Boston Crème, Lemon filled…ummmm, tasting these treats was a party for the palate. Milton Quality Bakery (MQB) set the standard for all pastries. I have many wonderful memories from high school, birthdays, to introducing MQB to my children. Those who grew up or lived in Milton and then moved away always make it a priority to stop in to get a donut. Whenever NW Florida friends visit me in North Alabama, they ask for my donut order and bring it to me. One of my first stops and definitely my last when I visit Milton is always MQB.

Kenneth Norman "Mitch" Michener
09 FEB 45 - 03 OCT 14

For many Milton and Santa Rosa County residents, MQB is a fixture. It has been in the same location as far back as I can remember. Another fixture was co-owner Kenneth “Mitch” Michener. After a tour in the US Navy, he remained in Milton to marry a sweet, pretty young girl, Frances Malone. Mitch joined the family business and was our real-life “Fred the Baker”. On many a late night, we would be on our way home while Mitch would be leaving his home because it was “time to make the donuts”. Mitch loved fast cars. He was known to all the young guys, kind of like a modern-day James Dean bad boy. I am sure some of Milton’s Finest would have preferred he not drive so fast, but he could always say he was late getting to the bakery. We all know of the affinity to donuts that LEOs have.

Sadly, this National Donut Day is the first without Mitch. He passed last October. While there are no words to lessen the family’s pain of loss, I hope they take some comfort in the knowledge many of us think of him whenever we bite into one of their donuts. They are simply the best donuts I have ever eaten.

LtCol Orson Swindel, USMC

There seems to be a common thread weaving together the US military and donuts. From WWI through WWII to Mitch serving in the US Navy and yours truly, a US Marine, donuts are ever-present. With that in mind, I leave you with a funny anecdote from Vietnam. In SEP 1969, LtCol Orson Swindel, USMC, was a “guest” at a North Vietnamese POW camp. LtCol Swindel was piloting his F-8E Crusader on Veterans Day, 11 NOV 66, when he was shot down. He would be shuffled between various POW camps, including the infamous Hanoi Hilton, in which he shared a cell with John McCain, and the horrendous Son Tay camp. You might remember the failed rescue attempt at this prison camp. Anyway, in OCT 1969, Swindel's interrogator was making fun of and belittling the USA and how it was a young country without many traditions or holidays. Swindel, ever the Marine, was not willing to let the enemy win any battle, even if it was about holidays. He knew the Marine Corps' birthday was in a few weeks (10 NOV) and wanted to celebrate it, but could not tip his hand. Instead, he made up ‘National Donut Day’ (unofficial), a day all Americans dress up in festive attire, schools are let out, businesses are closed, and all Americans eat at least one donut. He continued to spin the yarn, explaining that donuts are similar to the French “sweet bread” (the French had a long history in Vietnam, so the Vietnamese were familiar with the dessert). He got the other POWs involved to continue the ruse with the guards.

Milton Quality Bakery | Milton, FL

As the day drew near, no one knew what would happen. If the ruse was discovered, the POWs could be beaten or worse. Finally, the day arrived. On the 194^th Marine Corps Birthday, and the day before Veterans Day, the POW camp known for its harsh conditions with little food, served the American servicemen “donuts”. A Marine-led Pastry Mission was successful against the Vietnamese captors. For one day, at least one meal, POWs had a taste from home, much like the American fighting men half a century earlier in European trenches of WWI.

So on this “official” National Donut Day, I hope you enjoy your favorite fried flour treat and reflect back on memories you shared with friends eating them, our military men and women, and more importantly, the people who made and served them, like the Donut Dollies and Mitch and Frances Michener. I just wish I were close enough to Milton to stop in MQB for a Boston Crème and perhaps hear the roar of Mitch starting one of his hot rods.

Note: For additional information on LtCol Swindel, please visit:
Interview by Gene Pell's show "Veterans Chronicles" on Radio America (audio)

I'll Fix You Right Up

Rufus "Doc" Thames, Jr., MD

Growing up in Milton, living “way out in the Country” with two younger brothers provided me with ample opportunities to injure myself. Most times we just “rubbed some dirt on it” and “walked it off”, but there were other times we had to seek ‘professional’ medical attention. From the time I could remember until moving away from Milton after graduating from Pensacola State College (then PJC) to finish my education, I saw three doctors: Dr. E. V. Sutton, Dr. H. M. (Max) Meredith, and Dr. Rufus Thames, Jr. I was a patient of only the first two. It was a chance meeting that Dr. Thames treated me. More on that later.

Shortly after graduating with my fellow Class of ’79 MHS Panthers in MAY, I started working for Boo Weekley’s daddy, Tom. Tom purchased the Milton location of Fortune’s Rexall Drugs from Ed Fortune. For many years the store was located in Gateway Plaza (beside Waffle House) before moving to the Berryhill Road location in the 1980s. I was originally hired to work the cash register, stock shelves, sweep, etc. That was not enough for me. I soon was checking in orders for sundries and OTC medications. Better, but not where I wanted to be. I wanted to work alongside Tom. He allowed me to do so and I soon learned to read prescriptions, pull the meds, type the labels (yes on a typewriter), and basically do everything required to work alongside a pharmacist. It was a wonderful experience and learned a lot while working there. But before all this happened, I had a lot of learning to do.

One of the first things every employee in the store learned was to answer the telephone: “Fortune’s Drugs, how may I HELP you?” If it was a doctor’s office, we immediately “hollered” to Tom so he knew to pick up the phone. Normally, nurses call in prescriptions or inquire about a patient’s prescription history. That is, all but Dr. Rufus “Doc” Thames, Jr. He preferred to do this himself. Sometime within the first week or so, I answered the phone, “Fortune’s Drugs, how may I help YOU?”—I was a fast learner—I heard what can only be described as a loud vocalization of a man that could not utter any words in any known language. It sounded like Uh-huhhhh. Say this aloud to yourself, as if you are agreeing with something someone told you in conversation, but hold on to that “h”. Go ahead. We will wait. Got the sound in your head? That is all I heard so I once again replied, in a somewhat more professional voice attempting to express authority, “This is Fortune’s Drugs, HOW.MAY.I.HELP.YOU?” The reply was the same single grunt I heard earlier, but a bit more emphatic. I am now lost. I was not taught this in training. What if this was a mental patient—what are the protocols for talking someone down? What if it was a patient suffering an “adverse drug reaction” and I hung up on them, could the store be held liable? I then continued trying to explain this was a business and attempted to develop some common communication skills. Perhaps monosyllabic words were necessary. It was then I heard Tom start hollering, “That’s Doc Thames! That’s Doc Thames!” as he dropped what he was doing to pick up the phone. You might have noticed we did a lot of hollering. Hollering pronounced hollerin’ (drop the ‘g’) was acceptable when trying to communicate from front to rear of the store. It is different from “yelling”, pronounced yellin’. Yelling is when you increase your volume and are shouting at someone while engaged in an angry conversation. For example, “Mom holler’d for us kids to come in. When we showed up late, she yell’d at us for not coming when she holler’d”.

Tom attempted to explain that I was new, still learning and that it would never happen again. This he said while looking down at me from his perch in the pharmacy above the store level. Most of us are old enough to remember when “drug stores” had a compartmentalized pharmacy area that was elevated two or three feet from floor level. This was to instill trust (fear?) in what the pharmacist told you. They were authoritative and were in a position superior to you. They were “above” you and you must reach “up” to take the medicine they were handing “down” to you. Kind of like when Moses had to reach “up” to take the stone tablets of the Ten Commandments God was handing “down" to man.

After the call, Tom explained Doc Thames always calls in his own prescriptions and he only says, “Uh-huhhhh”. I learned to understand his signature single-word greeting rather quickly. Again, I am a fast learner. I also soon learned to read prescriptions (scripts) and was taking calls from doctors’ offices. One day the phone rang, and after my now professional yet congenial greeting of “Fortune’s Drugs, how may I ASSIST YOU?” I received the unmistakable greeting from Doc Thames. I quickly explained I could take the script. Without any pause, he asked: “Son, do you hunt?” –Yes sir.—“Do you take a shot if you cannot make sure the area beyond the deer is clear?”—No sir.—“If you do not have a clear shot but still think you can kill the deer, do you take the shot?”—No sir.—“Do you understand why I am asking you these questions?”—Yes sir. “Why?”—You want to make sure I understand the importance of taking a prescription correctly and not try to do so just to prove I can. I must be 100% confident my actions will not endanger anyone. In other words, Doc Thames was making sure I had no doubt in my mind about taking this script. I am not sure a teenager in a drug store could take the Hippocratic Oath, but I certainly understood the “Primum non nocere” portion and he wanted to make sure he fulfilled the “First, do no harm” clause of the oath. Satisfied I could handle it, he then rattled off the script. I am not sure if I jumped for joy, but there was a smile on Tom’s face when I turned to face him. He took the scripts from my hand and then compared them to his. He was listening in on the conversation. I guess he too wanted to “Primum non nocere”.

Sometime later, Tom had me take something to Doc Thames at his office. I was walking with a pronounced limp because I had twisted my ankle. It was swollen and all shades of colors in the G BIV portion of ROY’s name. At the time my normal doc was Max Meredith and could have seen him, all I had to do was walk in the back door and Sharon (his RN) would have put me in a room. Dr. Thames told me to “sit down in this chair and I’ll fix you right up”. He untied my shoe, pulled off my sock then examined my ankle and foot. He wrapped it in an elastic bandage and told me to take it easy. If it was not any better in 10 days, come back. He had a room full of patients, but he took the time to tend to my ankle. On the way back to the drug store I remembered meeting Doc Thames on New Year’s Eve 1978. His son Ricky hosted a party on their property and we would gather around a huge bonfire. We listened to music, told lies to each other, and tried to find a girl to kiss at midnight. While counting down the minutes, Doc Thames walked up and asked how we were all doing. He was just coming home. He hung out with us for a bit and told us all to be careful.

A year or so later, Fortune’s Drugs won the contract for providing prescription and OTC medications to the inmates at Santa Rosa County Sheriff's Office (SRCSO) jail. I met Doc Thames on SAT mornings at the jail. I sat beside him as he examined the patient; he recorded his own notes and rattled off the scripts. I wrote the scripts on Fortune’s Drugs prescription pads then took them back to the pharmacy and once filled, delivered the prescriptions back to SRCSO jail later that day. Between patients, we would have a few moments to talk. He always encouraged me to stay in school. No matter what I do, enjoy it. Asked if I had a girlfriend and whether I was treating her right. Asked how my tennis playing was going and how many times I had beaten Dr. Matthews. He always talked about making my time count. One of his many pearls of wisdom, one I will never forget, “it’s just as easy to ask a pretty girl out as it is an ugly girl”. So true.

Rufus Thames, MD 19 NOV 26 - 20 APR 90

Working in the drug store afforded me many opportunities. I was able to learn a lot about medicine, being responsible for opening/closing a business, and generally matured a lot. It also afforded me the opportunity to meet a lot of wonderful people, some of them the pillars of the community from judges to school board members, and some on the opposite end of the social spectrum. I learned to look past their circumstances and see them as people. I also heard countless stories about Doc Thames. Regardless of the social stratum, tax bracket, or even which side of the river you lived, everyone had a kind word to say about Doc Thames. He was always just a phone call away. Whether they saw him at his office in the middle of the night or at the ER, he did what was necessary to treat them. For payment, he took either a few bills of crumpled, sweat-laden cash, a post-dated check, a pot o’ collards, a basket o’ chicken, or even a bushel of fresh corn. He was not a physician for the money or social standing. He did it because he cared about the people, regardless of their situation. When he looked at my ankle, I was a bit uncomfortable. Here was a grown man kneeling before me, taking off my sock and shoe. I was nobody; a teenage boy. The whole event sort of had a “foot washing” vibe to it. The entire point of washing another’s feet is servitude. Doc Thames was a servant. He took care of his fellow man. He was a man larger than life. He was a just man. He was a good man. Many around Milton only have to look at family portraits to see their “memories”. He delivered many babies and in so doing, gave those families many loving memories. Most of my memories were made sitting beside him, watching him in his element, even if the exam room was a small room at the county jail. Each of us with our own spit cup, passing the time while seeing one patient after the other. He treated them no differently than any other. Like all other patients, he “fixed ‘em right up”.