In Memoriam

Location: Alpha One Outpost, the northernmost outpost in the Republic of South Vietnam.
Population: 110; one company of ARVN soldiers and 2 advisors, Captain Bill and me, 1st Lt.
Date: Mid-June, 1968.
ROE: fire only if fired upon.

"Probe the DMZ and look for signs of enemy activity," were the orders.  Our response: "Wonder which dumbass REMF came up with that brilliant idea?"  We could see a mile in either direction from the outpost, a huge sand dune a few hundred feet south of the Z.  Plus, there were motion sensors planted throughout the area.  Plus, a FAC (Forward Air Controller in a small airplane) could do a flyover any time to see if there was any enemy activity.

NVA artillery on the cliffs just north of the Ben Hai River, about a mile away from A1, had the high ground, a clear view of our outpost and the DMZ for miles around.  Their gunners were good, could drop a round in your back pocket at will, having numerous preregistered points in the DMZ.  They fired salvos into our outpost whenever they were bored, watched us dive into our rat holes, laughed their asses off.   They got bored quite often.  Our rat holes were bunkers dug deep into the sand and covered with 3' of sand bags, with only small firing ports above ground on all 4 sides.

Ours is not to question why.  Saddle up: steel pot, flak jacket, web gear, M16, 2 extra magazines, 1 canteen of water, 1 C-Rat.  It was a one-day op, didn't need sleeping gear.  An ARVN would carry our 25-pound PRC-25 radio.  It would be the 2 advisors  - Captain Bill and me - and 3 platoons of ARVN, leaving 1 platoon behind to secure the outpost.

BOOM!  "Incoming!"  We'd been in the Z about 45 minutes when the first artillery round landed 15' behind the HQ group - easily identified at a distance by our waving radio antennas.  Shrapnel bounced off my flak jacket and helmet, nearly knocking me to the ground.  Bill and I took off like scalded cats and dove into a huge bomb crater, our radio carrier not far behind.  Boom!  Boom! Boom!  One salvo after another.  Terrifying!  Deafening!  Pucker factor 10!

Bill got on the horn to HQ in Dong Ha, "Cobra to base, we're under artillery attack, need a FAC to contact Swordfish.  Yesterday!  Over."  Luckily, there was already a FAC in the air, monitoring a marine op several clicks southwest of us.  Base diverted the FAC, which called us for a sit-rep a few minutes later.  Bill provided our coordinates, said, "Crank up Swordfish and shut 'em down!"

FAC, "Roger that, Cobra.  Going off-push to contact Swordfish.  Bird Dog, out."  Swordfish was the battleship New Jersey, cruising a few miles offshore, the NVA guns well within their range.  The NJ had 16" guns, 2K pounds per round.  NVA guns were probably 105 MM, about 33 pounds.  No contest!  We cheered when the first NJ rounds landed, putting an abrupt halt to the barrage.

Silence never sounded so good!  As we cautiously emerged from the bomb crater I noticed my right pants leg was wet in back. "What the hell!?"  Did I get hit?  I felt around above the wetness, didn't feel any wounds.  I yanked out my canteen: holes on both sides.  "Holy shit!"  Yanked out the canteen cup: yup, nasty jagged hole.   Looked closely at the sturdy canvas canteen holder: holes on both sides.  So, where's the shrap?

I stripped off my web gear and probed around with my army knife.  "Plunk."  The chunk of shrapnel that had been lodged in my web belt bounced off my jungle boot onto the ground.  Bill was watching me, big grin on his face.  "You think it's funny, you freakin' hyena?"  That got him laughing out loud, which relieved the tension, forcing a wry grin from me.

We lucked out that day, thanks to our flak jackets, helmets and the numerous bomb craters.  Only a handful of walking wounded amongst the ARVN.  No KIA other than my canteen.

So, this Memorial Day, I salute my canteen, which made the ultimate sacrifice on my behalf, saving me from the loss of a kidney, if not my life.

The wooden skewer marks the path of the shrapnel, which still had enough momentum

to do me damage if my heavy web belt hadn't been in the way.

Much Ado About Nothing Much

Am I the only person in the entire world that isn't totally gaga about THE ROYAL WEDDING?  The only person who doesn't give a rat's ass?  The only person who's so fed up with seeing their pictures on the front page of every newspaper and cover of every magazine he's ready to puke?

I doubt it.

It must be a woman thing, something guys simply can't understand.  Guys understand virtually nothing about women anyway.  Oh sure, we act like we do.  What choice do we have?  We pretend we know what's going on in those devious female minds.  But honestly?  We're clueless.  And they bloody well know it, too.

Today's THE DAY, I guess.  The only reason I suspect it's THE DAY is because Trish turned on the TV while I was eating breakfast - something that never happens.  While chomping on my toasted cinnamon raisin bread, I hear this British swish announcer gushing his little heart out about THE ROYAL COUPLE and HER parents and BLAH, BLAH, BLAH.

I quickly snarfed up the rest of my toast, gulped down my milk and beat feet to the garage.  Barely made it.  Was mere seconds away from revisiting my toast after I spewed it up on the kitchen floor.

WHEW!

Let's Hang Out

You know what?  Small paintings go much faster than big ones.  Duh!

Let's Hang Out

Acrylic on Canvas

10" x 8"

Let There Be Light

Let there be light!
And there was light.
And the man looked upon the light.
And the man's mate looked upon the light.
And the man said to his mate, "That's one ugly mutha!"
And the man's mate agreed.
And the man and his mate decided to replace the light.
And so it came to pass.

One Ugly Mutha

CRASH!  Uh, oh, that can't be good. 

I was taking my daily, after-lunch nap at the time.  The loud crash and the sound of breaking glass ended that endeavor.  Upon exiting the bedroom, I saw what had happened: the bottom glass shade on the fan-light had popped off the keyhole pegs and crashed onto the dining room table.  Our housekeeper was dusting the (spinning) blades, tapped one blade just enough to nudge the shade off the pegs.

I did the same thing a couple years ago, nudged the spinning fan with a ladder.  CRASH!  Glass everywhere, nasty gouges in our solid oak dining table.  The mental midget that designed the damned light should have his ass kicked up between his ears. 

I hated those fan lights from day one.  I think they were designed to fit a Chinook helicopter, and besides being ugly, they didn't put out enough light.  Anyway, enough was enough, and I said to Trish, "Those darn things are outta here."  We both got online and started shopping.

The Chinook rotor blades have now been replaced with a couple props that were spares for the Spirit of St Louis.  Although I've installed and removed several fan lights over the years, I hired a handyman to install the new ones.  Didn't need the aggravation - nor the pulled arm muscle that was a side benefit of the one I installed outside awhile back.  Took a year for the arm to fully recover.

Coincidentally, we had recently decided to replace the pair of recessed 'can' lights above the raised bar area of the kitchen peninsula.  Trish suggested pendants.  Great idea!  Off to Lowe's we went, the first of several buy-that/return-this trips to get the correct components.  The install was tricky because the track had to be at a 45 degree angle and I had to cut a hole in the top of pot shelf to access the electric wire.  I finished the installation a couple days ago, also added a dimmer.

And the man looked upon the lights and was pleased.
And the man's mate looked upon the lights and said, "Oh yeah!"

The end.

Go With the Flow 3

Go With the Flow, 3of 3

Acrylic on Canvas

36" x 24"

The Complete Flow Set

RIP

RANGER
Always a Gentleman

2003-2018

RIP

Born in Boston and raised in the Pacific Northwest, Ranger was a traveling pooch from the get go.  In late 2009, he moved to Arizona to pursue his interest in Therapy Dog work, which kept him busy during the school year but left him free to travel in the summer.  He traveled extensively in North America, from Alaska to Mexico, from California to Nova Scotia.  He retired, rather reluctantly, in 2015.  Ranger is survived by his adoptive parents, Trish and Mike, and his brother, Artie. 

Ranger dictated this to me awhile back. 
 In his own words:

"It was great ride!  My adoptive parents loved me a lot, took great care of me, hauled me all over the place so I could read the local pee-mail.  And the food, OMG!  Mom really knew how to get my tail wagging.  I'm sorry I had to leave but it was time.  I was stiff and sore, 

couldn't see well, kept tripping and bumping into things.  Very embarrassing! 

I know you'll miss me but I live on in your hearts and memories."  

"Here is a celebration of my life, in pictures."  

"My first kayak trip.  It was okay but chasing balls was more fun." 

 "Tried this sheep-like look for awhile when I was a teenager, 

but it wasn't really working for me."  

"Didn't the fool the sheep, either."

"Later, I tried the mustache look, more sophisticated - and in keeping with my Boston roots."

"We came across this big lug while hiking in the Yukon.  

I was ready to take him on but Mom was worried I might get hurt.  Spoil sport!"

"I was quite fond of humans but never understood why they kept fighting each other 

like they did here, over and over.  Pretty silly."

"Mom put me up to this.  Told me to sit in the stupid boat so she could take a stupid picture.  
I thought she was going to give me a ride but she didn't put any coins in the stupid machine.  So I just had to sit there, looking stupid.  The look on my face reflects my mood, kinda resentful."  

 "My little brother, Artie, was rude and pushy at first, had to give him lots of corrections.

It was touch and go for awhile, but we finally became best friends."

"A girl driving a flatbed Ford?  Really?

"I blended in nicely here at the Colorado National Monument.
Artie, not so much.  He kept fading, a strawberry blonde wannabe."

Go With the Flow 2

The 2nd of 3 paintings on the same theme.

18" x 24" Acrylic on Canvas.