Memorial Day 2024

---

 "O say does that star-spangled banner yet wave
O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave?" 

A highly recommended visit to Arlington National Cemetery, Spidey sense fully activated, will never be forgotten. 

 If you can risk the DC assault by Whitey on every street, you will be provided a respite from the chaos surrounding the  United States Capitol, accorded by the Demoncrats.

Thanks, Mayor Bowser...

I recall having a friend with a dog bearing the same name and countenance...

"Inspirational and jaw-dropping..." are reflections of those who have seen Arlington  National Cemetery and the seemingly endless rows of our veterans who have made the ultimate sacrifice. 

A sea of our dead warriors...

Millions of mothers, wives, husbands and children lost their sons, daughters, husbands, wives, mothers and fathers.

In defense of values and freedoms that are being sucked from our nation by the parasitic Prince of Persia acolytes.

"O say does that star-spangled banner yet wave
O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave?" 

Armed Forces parades, UTC basketball and football games, as well as special events found the ROTC Color Guard representing our university department, and, by extension, the United States Army.  

Barely eighteen years old, I revelled in being asked to become a member of the Color Guard.  Patriotism was always stressed in the Sergeant Major's family.

  One of the first things SFC Daw did upon our arrival in Columbia was to erect a flagpole.

The colors flew proudly at 217 Ashwood Drive, at the very top of the best sledding hill of my life...

Hopefully making my father even prouder of his son, after being awarded an Army four year ROTC scholarship, I built on that by posting the colors for UTC.

Without exception, those final words

"...O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave?"   

would continue to ring in my mind for some time after the ceremony.

As I strain to recall this delightful instructor of those most in need of Christian based guidance, I do remember a few things.

She was married to a math instructor, I believe at Soddy Daisy High, also a gifted teacher and beacon for teens under his tutelage.

True patriots.

He, like me, was quite fortunate in  having a beautiful, effusive wife.

Never apologizing for being a conservative veteran with rules given me by my Father and my Drill Instructor father, I have engaged in hundreds of meaningful conversations as I try to distract my patients...

Seriously, I gather so much joy and strength from the silent majority, such as this great Catholic couple.

My  dear friend, Rick Sharp, an Airborne Ranger and minister, was the first Notre Dame alum I encountered upon my arrival in Chattanooga.  

This articulate and pretty high school teacher was representative of a diminished-in-numbers class of teachers who could be trusted to provide what was best for our kids, not their political stance.

Her modification of our National Anthem:

"...O'er the land of the free BECAUSE of the brave?" 

As a  young lad reared in conservative rural North Carolina, the Stars and Stripes always elicited a wave of love of God and country.

My first time attending school on a military installation provided an exposure to those values in a highly concentrated environment.

I was immersed into a sea of United States Army soldiers and their families.  Again, the men in my family were all Manly Men; I was now blessed:

I was able to witness numerous incredible parades and field drills by hundreds of Manly Men, patriots all of them.

Battalions of them.

To quote Chris Matthews, the liberal hack with the huge forehead, 

" I have to tell you, you know, it's part of reporting this case, this election, the feeling most people get when they hear Barack Obama's speech. My, I felt this thrill going up my leg. I mean, I don't have that too often. "

Maybe he was just experiencing a common symptom of Demoncrats - wetting themselves.  Chris, you washed up POS, follow your party's icon and buy some Depends.

In my case, the thrill ran up my spine...

The presence of so many Army soldiers in uniform rendering salutes to the colors leaves quite the mental image.

  That buttressing of values that were, in those days, and without exception, instilled by their parents ensured a generation of patriots would be ready for their turn in defense of our freedom.

My first Memorial Day found me proud of my young buck sergeant father...

Just before his promotion to E-5 and a reminder of a much remembered axiom from my father:

"Son, always have a good watch and even better shovel."

Note the entrenching tool and a beautiful Seiko...

The Seiko watches my father possessed over the years were few in number, as their longevity was remarkable.  They were beautiful marvels of engineering.

I hoped that, some day, I would possess one.

Fast forward to UTC - I would appreciate the "...even better shovel." advice some years later, digging latrines on field exercises as a cadet.

That entrenching tool provides an essential function in retrograde operations, also...

Highly recommend a visit to the USS Arizona...

The far distant rumblings, provided by big tank guns blasting miles from 7984 G Bailey Court, provided a lullaby for my drifting off into sleep.

After a chat with Jesus, there was no 'counting sheep'.

Nope, it was those M60 mechanized monsters heaving 105 mm rounds a mile downrange.  General Patton had to be looking down and admiring this evolution of the M48.

Again, highly recommend a visit to the Patton Museum.   

No, Joe, you are not General George S. Patton.

I fondly remember my visits to the Patton museum.

Dedicated to one of the most remarkable, if not controversial, field generals in the United States Army, this reminder of the historic sacrifices by our soldiers has been unceremoniously shut down.

General Patton was, after all, an insignificant historic figure:

Europe can thank him for their salvation.

The French have probably forgotten his rescue of Paris, ordering the soldiers who did the fighting and dying to stand aside so that the pompous REMF De Gaulle could prance under the Arc de Triomphe on his white steed.

Typical of the French, De Gaulle demanded US troops be removed from France a couple of decades later. 

  According to Dean Rusk's autobiography, the not-particularly-snappy line was 

"Does your order include the bodies of American soldiers in France's cemeteries?" 

Secretary of State Dean Rusk should have also replied:

"F*#k you and the horse you rode in on!"

De Gaulle - what a POS.

But not as much of a Piece of Sh*t as our Commander - In - Grief who has destroyed our military.  

Just waiting for the Buffoon Biden stating he was a tank commander.

Pete Hegseth's book  'The War on Warriors' recounts an unbelievable occurrence: standard infantry weekly training, e.g., radio operations at the squad level, was cancelled at the last minute by a 'woke' senior officer and replaced with much more significant and important training for our national defense:

LGBTQ XYZ .... accommodation!

The training must be on the proper use of  pronouns.  No, not grammatically correct usage, but, bowing to the altar of evil and surrendering to the most weird of weird creatures - do not confuse a man and a woman or spirit, et al. - retroactively change the definition of the English language.

And that's an order, soldier!

   WTF?

By the way, Captain Hegseth was deemed a white far right threat to the military because of a religious tattoo...

Can President Trump get here quickly enough to avoid God's wrath?

 U.S. Army Center of Military History

The Demoncrats have clearly demonstrated their disdain for our military.

The Hamas supporting traitors also have vitriol for the American way of life...

Happy 78th!

Thirteen was not such an unlucky number...

  "Helmet? I don't need no stinkin' helmet!" 

My father, despite his duties as a soldier, found time to teach his son how to throw, catch and hit that bit of horsehide so beautifully seamed.

My first organized baseball was the Little League as a ten year old in Hawaii.

As a kid growing up, fun on the diamond was a large part of my recreation.  No matter where I lived, there were other boys anxious to play ball.  Sometimes, the teams were only 3 on 3, with restrictions placed on the foul lines.  

Some of the guys had gloves; some didn't.  If you had forgotten your glove or, for whatever reason, didn't have one, you simply borrowed one from the other team.  On occasions, only a left handed glove was available, forcing an adjustment in catching and throwing the baseball.

I found early on I was ambidextrous, with perhaps a bit stronger left arm.  My father, noting this, suggested I learn to switch hit.  I was a bit reluctant, as I felt comfortable as a left handed hitter.

Additionally, first base was closer than from the right hand batter's box...

My father threw many baseballs in order for me to become proficient from the right side of the plate.

The impending start of the baseball season had me quite fired up.  I planned to switch hit, determined by the pitcher on the mound.  

The pitcher on that very first game was a lefty; I dug in from the right hander's box...  

He went 2 and 0; I waited to pounce on the next pitch.

He took a full windup and delivered a fast ball right down the middle of the plate.  That baby was smoking fast - maybe 50 MPH...

The sweet sound of wood (not aluminum) smacking that baseball heralded a hot shot between first and second.  I knew I would soon be standing on second (trying to suppress that Banty Rooster as I took my first step toward first base...).

That first step, to invoke FDR, has forever "...lived in infamy." 

So proud of that baseball hurtling out of the infield, I subsequently learned a rule of baseball of which I wasn't aware:

When the runner exits the batter's box, he must not step on the plate.  Oh, was I surprised when the ump shouted "Yerrr out!"

Pointing at the plate to me, as I had an incredulous look on my face, he seemed to relish the self-inflicted wound.

To quote one of my farmer relatives, that umpire was grinning "like a mule in a poke salad patch!".

Demonstrating the maturity typically displayed by a ten year old, I eschewed from that point forward any deviation from my much-preferred left hand box...

Visiting North Carolina for Christmas of 1962 provided an opportunity for me to accompany my father on a squirrel hunting adventure.

This would likely be the last Christmas visit to North Carolina for several years, as the Daw family was headed to Hawaii for three years.

SGT Daw's decision to eschew astronaut training in order to become a jungle operations infantryman, as part of his quest for that Drill Instructor Hat, necessitated our move to the only US state where jungles exist.

Even as a four year old, I was well familiar with my father's early morning departures from home in order to walk deep into the woods and find a nice spot to sit and wait for the sun to rise.

My incredible mother would inevitably have fried squirrel and gravy for supper that night.  MMMM good...

And, when I learned to ride a bike, I often flew a squirrel's tail.  Hail to Rocky the Flying Squirrel!

On this cold December morning, not dissimilar from Fort Carson's winter mornings, I would accompany my father on a much-anticipated trek into the woods.

We were spending a few days with my paternal grandfather, B.C. Daw.  Oh my - what a playground his farm presented to this 8 year old...

This mission in the woods that dark and cold morning solidified gun safety habits my father had been teaching me since I was 5 years old.

That was a couple of months after I learned from a counselling session, as a 4 year old, that adults were to be addressed as "Sir or Ma'am".  

Although armed with a flashlight, travel in darkness presents inherent difficulties; weapon transport modifications were warranted.

As an example, there was never to be a round or shell in the chamber while moving.  If an obstacle, such as a fence, is encountered, place your weapon on the ground and retrieve it after negotiating the fence.

Oh was I a proud young stud when my father was about to cross the fenceline and, instead of placing his 12 gauge shotgun on the ground, he placed it in my capable hands.

The omnipresent Banty Rooster was stirred...

After handing the shotgun to my father, I climbed over the fence; we were then enroute to a nice place my father remembered as a youth for squirrel hunting.   Lots of pecan and walnut trees provided tons of food for these tasty rodents.

To this day, many decades later, I still cast glances at tree tops and occasionally see a squirrel bouncing those branches on high.  That branch movement always elicits memories of innumerable squirrel hunting outings after school and the increased heart rate that accompanied that excitement.

Again, Chris Matthews, a thrill ran up my spine, not my leg.

I will always have that image of a ball of flame, in the early morning daylight, exploding from the barrel of my father's 12 gauge seared into my memory.

And, like Talladega, the unique smell stands out.  

To paraphrase Kilgore from 'Apocalypse Now':   “I love the smell of burning gunpowder in the morning.” 

No weapon for me; there would be more years teaching me about the responsibility that goes along with firearms.

Christmas that year in 1962 provided me with a most remarkable weapon:

The Fanner Fifty

The fanning of a gunfighter's pistol, which probably never actually occurred, was much celebrated in the old westerns of the early sixties.  Now, with a roll of  caps loaded, the Fanner Fifty provided seemingly unending ammunition in those Cowboy and Indian battles.

And Santa had left one for me!

Carried away with the ebullience felt that Christmas morning, I was on top of the world with my cowboy hat and pistol belt.

With a veritable treasure trove of ammunition at my disposal, the wonderful smell of gunpowder filled our home.

It wasn't long after my foray into the wonderful of caps (again, that primal urge to blow things up...), that I discovered I could explode the cap with precise scraping from my thumbnail.  

That was a good day.

Back to Christmas Day, 1962...

My little sister, now four years old, was a more than capable playmate.  Reciprocation was our watchword, as playtime with her 

Important lesson:

Never point a gun at anyone!

Never.

I was  too young to employ the Alec Baldwin defense...

Christmas, 1968,  in Columbia found a .410 shotgun under the tree.

My father's weapons and hunting protocol proceeded until that beautiful 'graduation' gift was presented.

I had used the .410 shotgun on numerous hunting trips with my father.  I was attentive to detail and careful in adhering to instruction given by him.  

And my father was an 11 Bravo.

His situational awareness and 'Spidey Sense' were well honed by his experience with the North Carolina National Guard, the US Army Basic Training and AIT, the 4th Infantry Division and Jungle Operations special warfare, as accorded by the 25th Infantry Division.

Tropic Lightning - light infantry, jungle warfare.

I was super careful on my hunts with my father, whether it was the placid tenor of a squirrel hunt - no walking about; your weapon could be placed on the ground - or the more demanding rabbit hunt, as the immediacy of a dancing squirrel overhead did not match that required for rabbit hunting.

I knew my father's watchful eye would catch any violation of protocol...

Likewise, bird hunting, quail or dove, required their own gun safety considerations. 

 I recall one October day after the corn harvest, my father and I were waiting for the doves to come our way.

This was a large cornfield and several groups of dove hunters were present patiently waiting for a flock to visit us.  My father's extremely keen eyes - combat in the jungles of Vietnam - easily spotted a large flock of doves headed for the cornfield.

Noting a group of hunters directly across from us, about 100 meters away, I confirmed with SFC Daw they were not far enough away to fire in their direction.  He nodded his head, indicating we must always have a clear zone of fire.

Well, here came the flock of doves; there must have been several dozen.  Approaching from our right, our first opportunity of a shot found those hunters in the fire zone.  A few more seconds and a safe fire zone would develop...

With both of us tracking the birds, my father with his 12 gauge and me with his .410, we heard the report of several shotguns from the group of hunters across from us.

And, just as we were about to unload on the doves, it start raining birdshot...

The dumbasses were showering us with their falling shot.  We took cover, although  no real danger was evident as the kinetic energy had all but dissipated.

Nevertheless, the Rifle Team coach for the prestigious Columbia Military Academy stood tall and indicated in no uncertain terms his displeasure with their lack of awareness. 

My father's counselling session must have embarrassed them, as they soon departed.

But not before they violated another bird hunting axiom:

Never shoot a sitting bird...

We had a small backyard at Schofield Barracks; each family was responsible for their backyard maintenance.  Our front yard was in conjunction with our courtyard neighbors' - perfect for our tackle football contests...

My father had always shown me how to use every tool he used.  This Renaissance Man could fix anything and had extensive knowledge of lots of interesting tools this young boy, also, wanted to use.

I knew power tools were out of the question, but I coveted the use of our lawn mower.  I enjoyed watching those fascinating sharp blades that provided a nice smooth cut.

And it only required leg power.  As a nine year old with strong legs, my father granted permission for me to cut the backyard.  He dutifully watched me on my first two cuts.

That third cut, after gaining my father's confidence that I was perfectly capable of cutting the grass, found me seeing how fast I could make those rotary blades spin.

Casting a glance at the partially drawn drapes on the patio and noting my father wasn't evaluating me, I put some muscle into that mower.  

I can still recall that shower of clippings that seemed to explode.

This mower was invented in 1870.

This was the first step in the quest for the use of the holy grail, a gasoline powered lawn mower.

Not until I was ten...

Getting plenty of opportunities to use this truly awesome machine of grass destruction in Fort Knox, KY for three years, as well as a year in Goldsboro, NC, while my father was dodging bullets in Vietnam, the stage was set for my first financial enterprise.

After moving to Columbia, this brand new neighborhood built on Ashwood Drive provided a few customers who allowed me to cut their lawns.

And a financial boon it was.

My previous income as a seventh grader in Goldsboro was two-fold:

A monthly five dollar allowance provided a steady income.

During the tobacco harvest season, I earned fifty cents an hour handing tobacco leaves in groups of three or four to my mother, in order for her to loop them onto tobacco sticks.

I used to marvel at how talented she was, her wrists and hands making intricate and furious movements.  She could loop a full stick of tobacco in under a minute!

I was proud of my mother.

Almost as proud as I was of the five dollars I just earned from a Saturday's work.  I will never forget Mr. Howell in his overalls handing out our booty.   

And the respect Mr. Howell showed this thirteen year old was evidenced by the fact he paid my mother and me separately.

Thanks, Mr. Howell.  My first five dollars went for a 42 inch sissy bar that would complement my 10 speed Western Flyer.

With a flag that waved on top of it...

The move to Columbia and start of high school sent my financial future soaring.  Each of my lawn mowing business customers paid five dollars for just one yard!

My favorite yard to cut was the house on the other side of the Brattons...

No names here, but I was very fortunate that the nice lady who lived there liked to sunbathe in her lounge chair while I cut the grass.

In a bikini...

Oh my - smokin' hot.

It always seemed to take a little longer to cut her lawn, especially the backyard...

Taking another trip on the Wayback Machine,  a man named John Cameron Swayze was one of the best TV salesmen of two decades.

Wikipedia:

 Over a period of twenty years beginning in 1956, Swayze became widely known as the commercial spokesman for Timex watches, and for the slogan "It takes a licking and keeps on ticking." 

In one of these commercials, performed live, he strapped the watch to the propeller blades of an outboard motor, lowered it into a tank of water and ran the motor for a few seconds. When he pulled the motor out of the water and tipped up the blades, the watch was missing. Unfazed, he ad libbed, "It's probably on the bottom of the tank–still ticking."[18] 

And it was.

That Banty Rooster wanted out, as I was now sporting a wrist watch, emulating my father.

Not long after I started wearing my beautiful "takes a licking..." Timex, it stopped keeping accurate time.  An analog watch, requiring winding, seldom experienced failure.

Especially a Timex watch.

Soon, an often repeated phrase from my father would come to the forefront...

After returning the Timex for an exchange, the problem seemed to be solved.  

Thankfully so, as further advancement in high school and a position as night manager at Royce Shoe Store necessitated more dependence on knowing what time it was.

That, too, was short-lived.  Maybe my father was right -  the watch that never took a lickin' stopped tickin'.

The exposure to thousands of patients over the years have revealed to me that I was not alone in that idiosyncrasy of physiology.  

In fact, a former staff member of mine a few years ago described her similar experience with the wearing of watches.  Explanations vary as to the genesis of this unusual trait.

Variations in body temperature, electrical currents and even magnetism can lead to this.

Maybe I have a magnetic personality.

At any rate, Sergeant First Class Ted Daw had the solution:

The saga of the Seiko would soon begin...

My first Seiko...

Isn't she a beauty?

How was it possible this engineering marvel required battery replacement only once every five years? 

No more watch winding for this young man...

Jumpmaster Bill had previously shown admiration for my sweet Seiko at our prejump classes...

A number of the freshman cadets were training for the Airborne PT test, in preparation for Airborne School at Fort Benning.  Strenuous physical training was followed by performing PLF's (parachute landing falls) from the top of the bleachers at Chamberlain Field.   I was thankful for the combat boots; falling at 26 feet per second requires proper body, leg and feet position as well as great ankle support. 

Surrounded by Manly Men and true patriots, it was impossible to escape the infectious testosterone-driven thrills provided by Army training programs.

 The UTC ROTC Military Science and Leadership Program provided those young men who wished to excel four years of sophisticated combat training, stressing Airborne Ranger operations.

Providing cadence, every run had 'Jody song' variants, punctuated with the classic Airborne mantra:

"C-130 rolling down the strip,

Airborne Daddy's gonna take a little trip.

Stand up, hook up, shuffle to the door.

Jump right out and count to four.

If my main won't open wide, I've got another one by my side.

If that one should fail me, too, 

bury me deep with a case of brew!"

There was a jumpmaster, Bill (cannot remember his surname, if I even knew it - it was always 'Bill'...), who provided instruction and the airplane for twenty bucks a jump.

Twenty dollars was steep in 1972; minimum wage was $1.85 an hour.  I recall lamenting that wage while at Pizza Hut, but comforting myself by the dream of making 20 bucks a day someday after college...

Bill was short in stature and long in hair, but appearances can be deceiving.

He was a supremely accomplished skydiver, having competed in international competitions for a number of years.

His instructions were well received by the cadets; he was one of those rare individuals that inspire respect from those around him, sometimes without saying a thing.

That first block of instruction was held at Bill's home in East Brainerd.  We were all pumped.  Rappelling was becoming old  hat; new challenges were on the horizon.

There was something, however, he wasn't sharing with us...

The second and final class before our actual jump provided more technical information and emergency procedures both in and out of the aircraft.  

As this was going to be a static line jump, there was much less danger than with free falling. 

 This parachute jump would not be like exiting a C-130; it would require positioning oneself on metal steps welded on the underside of the single engine plane's right wing.  It was imperative the jumper was parallel to the airplane, facing the earth, and release in such a manner that there would be no impeding of the static line.

Just stay parallel with the earth after release of the wing strut; the static line will be unimpeded allowing for proper deployment of the canopy.

Of course, deployment of the reserve chute was covered, including the cutaway and throwing of the reserve.

That was when Bill's demeanor suddenly became more somber.  He was describing safety improvements in skydiving, including the introduction of the AAD, Automatic Activation Device.

This device can be preset to deploy the reserve parachute at a specific altitude if descent is faster than it should be.  This would come in handy with a malfunction.

It also would have saved Bill's fiancee's life.

Pausing a moment before he continued, he recounted witnessing the death of the love of his life.

She and a friend of Bill's were executing high altitude and high speed acrobatics, thousands of feet above the earth.  Apparently they collided in midair, rendering  her unconscious.

The other skydiver landed safely, seconds after Bill witnessed his fiancee's plummet and slamming into the ground at terminal velocity.

Bill recalled "She bounced 12 feet off the ground...".

On that depressing note, we called it quits for the evening.  That mental image of Bill's fiancee's death was hard to forget.  

The next time we met, that first jump was finally going to be a reality.

Glad I wasn't going to be free falling...  

It was a beautiful Saturday at the Higdon airstrip.  Bright sunshine bathed us all day; it was a bit gusty, but mostly calm.

At 220 pounds, I was designated to jump last, utilizing a modified T-10 Army cargo chute.

Watching that plane take off, discard a jumper, and land five times was getting my epinephrine going.  As the fifth jumper landed in the drop zone, the plane returned within a couple of minutes.

Some trepidation started seeping in, facing the reality that it was now my turn.  No, I would never 'chicken out'.  Nevertheless, a few subliminal 'what if...'  thoughts were creeping into my mind.

With the T-10 harness secured, I ambled over to the waiting plane and climbed inside with the pilot and Bill.  The pilot made a pass over the drop zone, deploying a wind streamer in order to determine wind direction and velocity.

Giving me the 'thumbs up', Bill indicated I position myself on the wing struts.  Having been seated by the open door, it seemed more daunting with the discernable trees, cars and houses as the airplane climbed.

Above three thousand feet, I was more relaxed, for whatever reason.  Bill hooked up my static line and I positioned myself as instructed by our jumpmaster.  

With the wind buffeting my face, I looked at Bill, waiting for his signal to depart the plane.  With a big grin on his face, he indicated that I should leave my Seiko with him, as an afterthought.  

I looked at him like he was crazy, as I was now ready to jump.  He shrugged his shoulders, saying something about his dead fiancee...

He was just having fun in the moment...

Gee, thanks, Bill!

The jump was quite enjoyable.  Most notable was the total silence after the plane left the vicinity.

So quiet.....

As I looked down to see where I was landing, a sudden realization that a substantial wind change must have occurred; I was way off the designated drop zone.

I was tugging on those risers, trying to avoid landing in the middle of a highway near the airstrip.  I successfully veered away from the highway in time to warn some kids playing in their yard I was coming their way.  

God smiled on me; I missed their house and didn't land on any of the children...

Bill had to dispatch a truck to pick me up, as I was a half mile from the DZ.  He cracked a big smile when I triumphantly held up my left arm, displaying my treasured Seiko, still intact.

A sixteen year old bride and mother at seventeen found folks counting their fingers doing the math...

My birth of 17 August, 1954, was, in fact, outside of the 'out-of-wedlock' stigma.  October of 1953, on my cousin Jerry's birthday, this 16 year old angel married the love of her life.

Yes, Martha, it did matter in those days.  

Don't get started with the 'bastard' connotation...

The nuclear family, reflecting family values, was the norm.

Even for the Democrats.

Imagine that.

"Sounds great!"

These two young, talented and highly motivated teenagers quickly solidified their goals.  My father, working 3 jobs for years now, had another child on the way.

His successes in the North Carolina National Guard produced an opportunity that God had provided the Daw family.

The United States Army, in anticipation of ominous events on the horizon, was providing nice bonuses for top National Guard soldiers.

My father was clearly one of them.  

Again, when he was deployed during a raging hurricane, my Mother provided a calming and reassuring environment for her newborn baby and five year old son.

When our Mother smiled, the cacophony seemed to diminish.  Even baby Denise was happy in her crib...

Not long after, that beautiful Impala convertible parked out front of our Kinston home signalled a momentous change in the environment.

I can still remember her grass skirt as she took hula lessons...

I never saw that in North Carolina or Colorado.

She constantly assured Denise and me our father would return home safely because of his training and God's love.

This relaxing summer afternoon was an infrequent respite from her responsibilities as a caretaker for her grandfather and big sister for my Aunt Faye and Uncle Gene.

Quite the athlete, my father's bride could hurl a fastball as well as execute sweet shots on the court. 

Again, the longest running Armed Forces Parade...

Biden is summoning the Prince of Persia demons in his party.

My firstborn's namesake and his encounter with Michael, who is likely issuing warning orders to his battalions of warriors, has provided warning to the Prince of Persia acolytes that control the Demoncrats.

 Daniel 12:1 

 iDevice N Droid 

As a business owner, customer service in a professional and friendly manner is paramount for success.

My front desk staffing, as well as chairside assistants, were concerned with our mission of patient treatment as well as welcoming them into our family of patients.

Our patients were always comfortable in our office.  They knew any question they might have would not be summarily dismissed by an uncaring staff.

My biggest joy of any day was the smile delivered by a satisfied patient.  The hugs were also gratifying.

Mel, Grayson and Sonja provide that type of service and family atmosphere so prominent in Chattanooga, especially in Hixson.

I always feel at home with these guys.  Manly Man Mel, a Dawg fan like my commander at Fort Rucker, Colonel Belman Maddox, shares commonality with me in his love for college football primarily, the NFL secondarily.

My delightful son, Dylan, sometimes doesn't know his own strength, resulting in a few trips to see Mel.

Grayson installed a new screen and phone protection worthy of an A-10 Warthog.

Quick, reliable service at a fair price - what's not to like?

Not Miss Bee, thank you...

Bee!

She is beautiful and checks me for any smell of Bullitt, who recently crossed that Rainbow Bridge...

Sadly, Bee won't smell him any more.

She appreciates chicken nuggets in lieu of Bullitt's smell.

And as much as I love me some chicken nuggets, I still prefer Bullitt...