Traits like honor, integrity, compassion, and respect are not traits you, all of a sudden, decide to accept as personal traits on a particular day and go forth from that point on as a person worthy of being identified as owning these traits. These traits are developed and honed over time through actions and deeds that demonstrate these traits. It requires an intentional and determined effort. As these traits are practiced they become who we are; like muscle memory of a repeated action they demonstrate themselves without an intentional thought to implement, but rather are implemented out of habit. It is also required that these actions be implemented without thought of personal gain.
A friend of mine (COL William Galbraith) once wrote, “The leadership philosophy of a senior leader is developed through years of experience and education. A philosophy of leadership is a statement or idea that guides how an individual will lead. If an individual starts to develop a leadership philosophy when appointed as a senior leader then the potential for failure is prevalent. The philosophy we use to lead is not something we can turn on and off like a light switch; it is who we are and those we lead know this. The development of a leadership philosophy is conducted in conjunction with the development of who we are. What motivates a leader on a personal level will, in part, define the leadership philosophy.”
Likewise, our philosophy defines who we are and who we are defines our philosophy. It’s a given if you lack honor, integrity, compassion, and respect you’re probably a jerk. A jerk cannot just arbitrarily start to be a person of integrity. You cannot, because of guilt felt after an action or deed, decide on Saturday to be a person of honor and compassion starting at sunrise on Sunday on your way to Church. As stated by my friend who is much smarter than I, “…the potential for failure is prevalent.” You are destined to fail and repeated failure will eventually lead you to the belief that you being a person of worth is beyond your capabilities and you’ll go back to being whatever caliber of jerk you were the day before—perhaps worse, because now any lingering doubt about whether or not you were a jerk to begin with has been removed and now you are an angry jerk.
However, the scenario played out in the last paragraph may not be all together true—which means there’s hope for you yet. You can be a person of integrity, honor, compassion and respect, regardless of your caliber of jerk-hood; you just need a strong desire and you need to cater the approach. These traits are developed and applied, not applied fully developed. Let me lead you down a rabbit; bear with me for just a minute. I consider myself a good person, but I also consider myself a failure. I am my own worst critic. People tell me I’m a good person, but they don’t know my secrets. I know that God forgives and I will be eternally grateful for that; and I use the term “eternally” in the most literal of terms. But I have a hard time forgiving myself for past actions. People say, “but you should forgive yourself” because these were done long ago (some not so long ago) and you have been forgiven and hanging on to them will only drag you down. I think the guilt helps me when a desire (or temptation if you will) comes along and prods me to do or say something that defy honor, integrity, compassion or respect. I remember the guilt and often (but sadly not always) the temptation goes away. I remember the feeling I have when I approach God and ask, “Lord, can you forgive me just one more time?” Remembering the guilt is a tool, it’s helpful to me.
OK, let’s get back on track. You can adopt a desire to do and say the right thing. You can adopt a desire to be a better person. Will you, after accepting this new you, always be a person of honor, integrity, so one and so forth? No. You will fail, but with each successful attempt the failures will dissipate, not completely but a reduction in failure is as good as a win. Will you eventually, after years of trying, get to a point where you will never fail? No. There will always be failures. However, with each failure you can, if you have the foresight to do so, learn a lesson that will come in handy the next time that option presents itself. I might add here if you are at a point in your life where you feel you have mastered the traits of honor, integrity, so on and so forth, then you may not possess any of them; pride trumps them all. Just sayin’.
In full disclosure I must say this will be the hardest thing you will ever do. It is something you will have to “want” with every once of energy. Start small, maybe yield the right of way in traffic and let someone in. Of course I must also say, if this is too hard for you, there is an easier way; just be a jerk your whole life and be remembered as such. Like Bill says, “…what motivates us will define us.” What defines us is who we are.
I have a great job. I spent 23 years on active duty intermixed with an additional 4 years as a traditional reservist. After I retired from active service I worked as a government contractor for 2 years after which I left contracting for a job with the Department of Defense as a Department of the Army Civilian and I’ve been doing that for 12 years. Barring a few years in the late 70’s and early 80’s I have spent my entire adult life as a soldier or working with soldiers. I’ve been to the four corners, several countries in Europe, Asia, Netherlands, Middle East, Far East, and patches of remote solitude in the Atlantic and the Pacific. I’ve even had the opportunity to fly a P3-Orion a 1000 feet above the Atlantic off the coast of Iceland. Sadly I’ve never been to Africa or Australia. I’ve seen things and done things most cannot comprehend let alone understand with any level of acceptable acuity. Most of it was good and, as those who have walked this path know all too well, some not so good. Regardless, I cannot imagine anything this side of life as better. All in all, it is a life well spent.
At present—present as in “on this date that I am writing this”—I am at Fort Lewis, Washington; known today as Joint Base Lewis-McChord. Been here a few days on a temporary assignment and will head back to my normal duty station tomorrow morning. I’m wrapping things up and currently in a “wait-mode” for some final actions to be completed. My attention has been drawn to some activity outside the window. Two busloads of young soldiers are drawing their issue of needed equipment at a warehouse across the street. Most are very young and I suspect they have just arrived at Lewis-McChord after completing their Basic Combat Training (I think they may call it Initial Entry Training now) or maybe they have arrived from a previous duty station after completing their Advanced Individual Training.
Their adventure is just beginning. Where they go from here, which unit they will be assigned to, or what their position will be in that unit is unknown to me. But I wish I could go talk to each and every one of them and offer up some hard-learned advice. But I would never do that. I remember what I thought when old retired soldiers came up to me and gave me advice when I was a young soldier just starting out; I had no need of their advice because I already knew everything I needed to know. They were an irritant to me. I see now that was a regrettable mistake; certainly a missed opportunity that could have made my life as a young soldier easier, a bit more accomplished, and much more fulfilling.
However, I wish I could bestow upon them words of wisdom; perhaps not wisdom but at least that bit of advice that we all need from time to time. I would tell them to pick their friends wisely. Just because a person wears the same uniform and is perhaps in the same unit does not mean they are trustworthy enough to be a trusted friend and confidant; a person you can trust to watch your back and who will run to your aid during times of trouble and hardship. Many are, but the “few” are not. The intent of the few is to deceive and take as much from others as they can by their self-serving interactions, to mislead and misdirect. Sadly, the ability to recognize these “few” comes only after being burned a few times.
I wish I could bestow upon them words of warning. That every personal action has a reaction and is sometimes emphasized with ill-fated consequences. We all make mistakes but not all have the integrity to “man-up” and take responsibility for our own actions. Take note and check-fire on an attitude that can lead to that face to face encounter with the Command Sergeant Major.
I would tell them to take as much time as needed to identify the Warrant Officer, Non-Commissioned Officer, or Commissioned Officer that everyone respects, that everyone goes to when confused or in trouble, and after identifying that person to emulate their actions, their attitude, and their professionalism. By doing this they too will eventually become that person others seek out when dire circumstances warrant. They can be that trusted professional who by words, actions, and deeds, can change the course of a life.
Yea, that’s some of what I would tell them. But they are young and must learn from their mistakes just like we all did. I wish them luck, I wish them well, and I envy them; their adventure, if they have the foresight to see it as such, is just beginning.
A friend of mine posted a blog titled, “American Genocide and the New World Order.” I call him a friend but we have never actually met. My first introduction to his writing was when I purchased his book, “The Three Meter Zone” which became my “go-to” manual when I was a First Sergeant serving in the U.S. Army. Shortly thereafter I started following his Blog and have garnered a plethora of wisdom from his narratives.
I enjoy reading his posts. This particular post got me to thinking; sometimes my thinking is a good thing, sometimes not so much. Every word in his post is truth. The kind of truth nobody wants to hear. The kind of truth that, if taken to heart, would bring to light the fact that delusion has taken the place of reason and common sense, that compassion has been overrun by arrogance, and a truth that demonstrates, in no uncertain terms, that integrity and honor have been pushed aside for the sake of expediency and a self-serving agenda.
I commented on his post stating in part, “…and I have to wonder if we are not just banging our heads against the sidewalk.” I was referring to the daily demonstrated fact that very few want to hear the truth, so why speak it.
We live in a country that has turned its back on God, has pushed God out of our schools, our homes, our government, our lives, and even out of some of our churches. We live in a country that has willfully, expeditiously, and with a not so hidden sense of glee taken, the lives of millions upon millions of unborn children every year; this is done with no remorse, no sorrow, no regret, and is called “a god given right” to do so. We have taken steps to ensure single parent households are the norm and same sex marriage is not only acceptable but proper and encouraged. The mindset that embraces these callused attributes has been around since Cain and Able but I think in recent decades it has flourished and is driving us headfirst (with eyes wide open) into perdition. In fact it is being taught in our schools as a curriculum, either directly or indirectly.
Many will ridicule the Christian faith and claim it infringes on the U.S. Constitution and call it hate speech but at the same time hold Islam up as a bastion of hope. Many claim gun control is the answer and call guns and the people who own them evil… until the time comes when someone breaks into their house and they have no gun to protect themselves. They might have time to call 911 but they would be better served calling a crime scene cleanup crew; that’s all the police will be able to do once they get there, but nobody wants to believe that. Many want open borders and claim there is nothing wrong with illegals… until an illegal injures or kills one of their own. Many believe it is their right to murder an unborn child, but on those occasions when the parent changes their mind their life is enriched by the child, but nobody wants to believe that. Many wish to push aside our Republic and replace it with Socialism knowing full well that socialism, as a government, has never worked; how stupid is that?
So, what good does it do to tell the truth to people who do not want the truth and who will go so far as to lash out and attack when the truth is spoken. We see the attacks daily. A conservative is shouted down and buildings burned to keep them from speaking in public places, but the left (the progressive, the liberal, the socialist democrat, whatever you want to call them today) is appalled and claim the 1st Amendment as a law that MUST be upheld when they speak. A double standard that only a few enlightened people actually see. Actually, everyone sees it, many just choose to not “see” it.
So, again, why do we continue to speak truth to those who care not? We do it because there is a hope that some will listen. We do it for that mother who changed her mind. We do it for the families that realize they have been lied to for years and they want (and need) a Godly truth. We do it for that person who grows weary of being spoon feed someone’s agenda and realize they have a mind of their own and they need a renewable energy source for that new thought process. We do it for a teacher in the classroom who is inundated with twisted social experiments from the Department of Education. We do it for those who do not know they are being lied to and are being manipulated and played the fool by the puppet master. We do it for that soldier and police officer who defend the lives of the delusional masses and are hated for it.
I know very few read my words and that’s OK, some do. Our world is in a spiral dive and I will do all I can for those who seek the truth. I’m not saying every word I say is truth. Sometimes I will fail, sometimes I will get caught up in the foolishness, sometimes I will lash out as well… I am thankful that my salvation is based on God’s grace and is not based on a performance based requirement. A performance based requirement would certainly place me in the pit with the puppet master. When I stand before God I will have to answer for lots of mistakes, both intentional and unintentional. What I do not want to answer for are those things I should have done but chose not to.
These are four attributes many claim to have, but, if all were revealed, may not be the case. It is easy to give “lip service” to these and, unless someone sees what you do when no one is looking, many may believe what you say and take you at face value. Action—action gives evidence when words die away. Do we claim honesty, but bend a little on taxes? Do we claim integrity, but work diligently only when the boss is looking? Do we do only what is asked and see no reason to go an extra step because there is nothing in it for us personally? Do we claim generosity and compassion, but turn a blind eye to the plight of others within arm’s reach?
We can say what we want. We can lay claim to all these favorable attributes and toot our own horn, but without actions as proof our words mean nothing—perhaps, if that is the case, our lives means nothing as well. If, by our actions (not our words) others label us with these attributes then it may be we are on the right path.
Do those who truly possess these attributes fall short of the text-book definition of them? Absolutely—we all have good days and bad days. Don’t let a missed opportunity lay waste to your intent. If you miss a chance to display one of these attributes, then try again. The only time we truly fail is when we stop trying.
If we took all of our good deeds and put them on the left side of a scale and put all our bad deeds on the right side of the scale, the scale would not only tip right, but would violently roll off the right side of the table and land on the family pet. Fortunate for us, the Almighty does not grade us by our deeds, but rather sees our heart and from that vantage point, rallied together with a heaping portion of His grace, sees our worth.
Honesty, integrity, generosity and compassion should be what we strive for. Will we always succeed? Most assuredly not, but we should not let a repeated failure defines us or dissuade us from trying as many times as it takes.
Got word that a friend of mine is riding from Florida to Moonshine, IL for the Annual Moonshine Lunch Run. After eating at Moonshine he is headed back to Florida. Most are probably unfamiliar with Moonshine, IL. It is literally in the middle of nowhere and if you are not sure where it is then it is very difficult to find. It has a whopping population of 2 registered residents and a single building. In this building you can get the best burger of your life.
But Moonshine and the fact that you can get the best burger is not what I’m going to talk about—beyond what has already been mentioned.
Why would anyone ride over a thousand miles to eat a burger? Are there no burgers in Florida? Well, that’s not the point and if you fail to see the point, then much of what follows will be beyond your comprehension. It is not the destination, it’s the ride.
Writers have exhausted the thesaurus trying to find the right combinations of words to adequately describe why long distance riders do what they do. To be a long distance rider you must:
Enjoy solitude – Even when you ride in a group you ride solo.
Tolerate pain – Riding long distances, regardless of how comfortable you think your seat is, is painful.
Turn a blind eye to inclement weather – Any long distance ride will ultimately come in contact with intense heat, cold weather rain, hail, dust storms and/or high winds. Often times your ride will include many (if not all) of these climatic conditions in a single day. Ride through it and come out the other side.
Look danger in the eye – Riding is inherently dangerous. The longer you ride the higher the potential for an unwanted encounter. Live with this fact and do not let it dissuade you. You can hide in fear if you like, but by doing so you rob yourself of accomplishment.
Be not disturbed by the wrong turn – A wrong turn is nothing more than an opportunity to see something you would have otherwise missed.
Expect the unexpected – Every ride, whether short or long, often has unexpected events that may alter your plan, your day or your life. If you are not comfortable with the unexpected then long distance riding is not for you.
Enjoy the little things – I have yet to be on a ride when something did not happen that made me smile. Often it is a little thing—the look of a small child from the back seat of a car, the unexpected encounter with an old friend, the sunrise or the sunset… any of these can brighten your day and enhance the ride. The little things make it all worth it.
These and other attributes are required to be a long distance rider. If you are fearful of the unexpected, bow to intimidation, back away from discomfort then you will never understand the long distance rider. And we don’t expect you to. Words cannot define what we do and we have long since stopped trying to define what we do—we just do it.
To my fellow long distance riders. Enjoy the road, ride safe, and if you happen to pass through Moonshine on a Saturday morning, stop in and get the best burger of your life.
If you have been reading my blog you probably know I wrote a book. “Solitary – Without the Confinement.” The book went public on the 30th of January. According to the publisher (one I am quickly losing faith in—but that’s another story) the book will eventually find its way to the shelf’s of major book outlet stores like Barnes & Noble and Books-A-Million—as well as others. When I first approached the publisher about my book one of their questions was, “What type of book is it?” Meaning is it a documentary, adventure, fiction… I could not really answer their question.
They told me they would assign a “genre” when it got close to the publication date. Imagine my surprise when they categorized it as a “philosophy” book. If you know me personally then I am sure that makes you laugh as you know I am no philosopher. In fact I needed to let spell-check provide the correct spelling of philosopher.
I rolled with it in the beginning as I really didn’t think it mattered all that much, but now I think it may be a problem when it comes to book sales. I mainly wrote the book for the hard-core rider as I think only the hard-core rider will fully understand the premise of the intent. Therein lies my dilemma. First, no hard-core rider is going to go to the philosophy section of a book store to look for a book. That is not to say a rider lacks the ability to understand philosophy—I think a rider may understand it more than most. The difference is a rider (especially a hard-core rider) does not learn philosophy from a book—they learn it through life events while traveling the road less travelled. A true philosopher (by that I mean a book taught self-proclaimed philosophy guru) will buy a book and learn from reading; or rather think they learn from reading. A self-proclaimed philosopher cannot conceive of building a philosophical base from the saddle of an iron horse.
I submit building a philosophical base from the saddle of an iron horse is one of the best way to learn life’s lessons.
So, what does all that mean? I have no idea because I am not a philosopher. In fact, I’m not really sure what a philosopher is. What do they do? Is it a full time job, do they get a paycheck for their efforts?
Some will buy the book and enjoy what is between the first and last page and others will not understand. I think, I don’t know for sure, but I think if you read it and do not understand at least a little then maybe there is something missing—something you need to try and find. Of course there is the opinion that I’m a lousy writer and the thing missing is writing skill.
Not sure why I wrote this blog. It really has no point to it. If I were a philosopher I could write pages and pages on the purpose of a point and the lack thereof. But I’m not, so I won’t. When a philosopher speaks all stop to listen. When I speak people look at me funny and start to giggle. It’s true I can speak to a bunch of dogs and get their undivided attention… but that might have something to do with the bacon I carry around in my pocket.
I was going to add some quotes from famous philosophers but had no idea what they were talking about. I was afraid someone might ask me what their quotes meant which, if I tried to explain, would result in the suspicion of my lack of intelligence being removed and replaced with an assurance.
Not sure I can isolate my first memory of my grandparents. I can say all the memories I have of them bring a warmth to my heart that can only be described as… well, I’m not sure there is a word that can describe it. Any bad memory I have, that is associated with my grandparents, stem from my own actions; certainly not theirs. I am ashamed to admit I lost the opportunity to create memories with them on a regular basis. As I got older (by “older” I refer to the expanse of my teen years) I thought time spent with them was a waste and better spent doing childish things. It did not become clear to me how wrong I was until much later and sadly after they had left this life. There was so very much I could have learned from them had I been mature enough to realize what stood before me.
My Grandparents – Lilly & Dale Butt
As a child my Mother would take us to visit her parents on a regular basis—often times spending the whole weekend with them. Also, during the summer, each of us would stay a week alone with them. During all of those visits I do not remember my grandparents saying anything bad about anyone. My grandmother’s favorite saying (or at least I believe it was her favorite) was, “If you can’t say anything good about someone then don’t say anything at all.” I can remember only one time when my grandmother was angry with me and she had every right to be angry—maybe more on that. Or maybe not as I am still ashamed of what I did.
My grandparents were in constant motion. My grandmother had a small garden in the front yard and if she was not in the kitchen canning fruit or in the living room sewing she was in that garden. My grandfather was the same way. I do not recall how many acres he had, but he worked them all daily and did so with an old tractor. He had cows to milk and pigs to tend to and more chickens than one child could count—I tried a number of times but could never get them to line up properly.
I recall a batch of piglets my grandma had and assume they were a litter from one of the sows in the large pig pen behind the house. I do not recall how many there were but do recall at night they would wake me up as their tiny feet pattered across the wood floor to get closer to the heat stove in the living room—yes, she kept them in the house due to the harsh winter cold of the midwest.
This wood stove heated the majority of the house.
On one particular morning I walked from the living room toward the kitchen and saw grandma carrying one of the piglets out and it was obvious to me the pig had died during the night. I asked her, “Is it dead?” She nodded her head and said “yes.” I recall feeling bad for the little pig but do not recall it making me feel so bad that I cried—not sure how old I was, but I was quite young. The cold hard facts did not become clear to me until much later in life as I recalled that incident. The death of that little pig probably equated to a month’s worth of income. Certainly had that pig lived then life that year would have been at least a bit better. Life on that farm was hard I’m sure.
I think my grandfather tolerated me as I followed him around the farm—watching and wanting to help. I’m sure I was more trouble than I was worth. I recall helping him replace a corner post on the fence that surrounded my grandmother’s garden. I don’t recall who, but someone backed into it then sped off. Actually, I think I do remember, I just don’t want to throw anyone under the bus. I helped him set it up straight and recall pounding in the nails to get the pig fence back in an acceptably secure position. That memory stuck with me for a long time. All the while thinking I had been a big help that day. Many years later, perhaps in the late ‘90s I was driving down Route 121 between Sullivan and Bethany and decided to stop by the old property. Of course the house, shed and barns were long since gone. I walked around a bit and reminisced and envisioned where the shed was, how the house was angled on the property and where the barns were. I tried to find the fresh water spring that seeped from the side of the hill that was a perpetual supply of fresh water for the horse trough—but I never found it. I also plotted where grandma’s garden had been. It was then I spied the remnants of a broken down old pig fence and there, in the corner of that remembered piece of ground, was a post laying on its side. I walked over and picked it up and saw an assortment of old nails half pounded in and all crooked—so much for being a great help that day. With my mind’s eye I envisioned the look on my grandfather’s face as I pounded those nails in. I’m sure he was amused and in fact I was amused with what my mind conjured up as the expression on his face. I dislodged the post from the rusted remnants of the pig fence and threw it in the trunk of my car. That post still holds a prominent space at my house. As a continued to walk around the property I found an old rusted horse shoe—which resides today with that post.
I recall waking up early one morning and seeing my grandfather sitting in his chair—but will hold onto that memory for a bit. Perhaps I will divulge that memory later, but more likely than not if you want to hear this particular memory you’ll have to read my book, “Solitary—Without the Confinement.” I also recall the 6:00am train that woke us up almost every morning with the smell of coal. Even today when I smell coal burning I feel a sense of security and safe haven; as if nothing can harm me.
When privileged enough to spend the week with them during the summer I recall going with my grandmother to the market. Someone would come by and pick us up because grandma didn’t drive. We would hit the grocery store then the meat market and maybe one or two other shops—this was before the days of the Super-Wal-Mart. I knew, before we headed home, we would stop and she would buy me an ice-cream cone. Again, it did not dawn on me until much later that she could not afford to buy me an ice-cream cone, but she did anyway.
I recall two oval pictures hanging in the living room and I believe they were of my grandfather’s parents. I often wonder what happened to those pictures. I do have a picture that I believe is a portrait of either my grandmother’s parents or perhaps my grandfather’s; not sure which. Who we are, at least in part, is molded by those who pass before us. By their actions my grandparents tried to show me the right way to live my life. I thank them for that and one of my regrets is I did not thank them in person when I had the chance.
My grandfather with my oldest sister and not sure who the other baby is.
The more I think on this the more recollections break free of my obscured memory. Memories of my grandparents filter through my mind like a mist. Some memories are very clear and others are faint and hard to discern. I suspect some memories are patched together based on multiple memories mixed together. My grandparent’s farm was a perfect example of a menagerie and included pigs, horses, cows, dogs, cats, chickens and pretty much any other animal that might be associated with a farm.
As children we would go to the pasture and stand on the end of the wagon and wait. After a bit ol’ Red would wonder by and stop at the end of the wagon and let one of us climb on. Red would walk around the pasture once or twice then return to the corner of the wagon to let the next child ride. Red would continue to do this as long as there was a kid waiting on the corner of the wagon.
Anyone who knew my Grandparents knew who Ol’ Red was.
I recall a particularly rainy Saturday afternoon when grandpa led one of his ponies into the enclosed front entry of the house. Of course we kids were ecstatic about having a horse in the house but grandma was not amused. Exasperated or not grandma allowed it because it brought such joy to the grandkids. Grandma may have given grandpa an ear full after we left but I really doubt that happened. I think grandpa enjoyed the fact that he excited the grandkids and I suspect grandma felt the same way.
I tihnk there was a side to my Grandpa I was too young to understand. He apparently enjoyed the little things of life as seen by this picture when grandpa put a dog in the saddle.
As a very small child I was climbing around on an old rusted combine in the pasture. I suspect in my mind I was scaling a large mountain trying to reach the cold rigid peak. Being so enthralled with my adventure I did not see the multitude of cows who decided to congregate around the base of the combine. As a small child I was rather frightened of cows—I saw them as mean animals. Sometime prior to this I saw one of the cows in the barn step back and squash the head of a small feral cat … that head was squashed as flat as a penny. The cow could not have cared less about that poor little cat or the artistic design of a flattened kitty-cat head. If a cow could squash the head of a cat then go about eating as if nothing was wrong it made perfect sense to me that a cow would take great pleasure in squashing my little head. Long story short—I was afraid to come down from the combine. I’m not real sure, but I think I may have conjured up enough courage to pee on one of them from my secure position—I might have made that part up but my memory tells me it happened. I do not recall the exact amount of time but memory tells me I spent three or four days up on that combine waiting for those cows to leave. Perhaps my memory is not all that clear about this particular bit of the story—might have been up there for an hour or so before grandpa saw my predicament and climbed the great mountain to rescue me.
Pigs and chickens were a different story. We would chase the chickens and try to ride the pigs—emphasis on try. We would stand on the fence and wait for a pig to venture into our trap and once they were close enough we would jump off the fence, pounce onto the back of the unfortunate pig, and ride it for as long as we could. I do not think we ever reached the rumored eight second requirement prevalent in rodeos, but we tried many, many times. Grandpa would stand by the fence, gesture with his hand and shout, “you darn fool kids are gonna break your neck” but laugh out loud and pound on the fence as he watched the mayhem.
I recall grandpa hitching up the wagon to the horse and allow us to lead the horse around just like those cowboys on TV. I do not believe we ever got the talent of leading a horse to any level of efficiency. In fact I recall my youngest brother Tim being flipped out the right side of the wagon as the wagon wheel hit a large tractor tire at the edge of the lane. Not sure which one of us got a spanking over that one but I suspect someone did and it would be anyone’s guess if the recipient of the administered punishment was actually the one steering the wagon. I guess, if the truth were told, we all got a quick swat after which we all scurried off to enter into other forms of mischief.
My grandpa’s skill at ringing the neck of a chicken was legendary in the region. He would reach down, snatch up a chicken, and in less than two shakes of his hand the chicken was dancing headless on the ground—that chicken didn’t see it coming. On the flip side of that story we see me chasing a chicken for what seemed like hours and once I had one in my grip I would shake that poor chicken by the head like a mad man putting out a fire. The chicken would always get away and run off never knowing what it had done to deserve such treatment. I’m sure my attempts at imitating Colonel Sanders were an amusement to both grandma and grandpa.
My grandma or my mom would take the headless body of the chicken—the product of my grandfather’s execution—and dip it into boiling water. It was the job of any adolesent in the area to pluck all the feathers and get the convicted chicken ready for dismemberment. Execute a defenseless chicken, watch it dance headless until all the blood spurted out, dunk it in scalding water, pluck the poor thing of its feathers, hack and dismember it into pieces and … well, what better way to get ready for a nice Sunday afternoon family dinner.
A little ways down the road was a creek that winded its way east and west through their farm. I’m sure it has a name but it eludes me. It had on old rickety bridge that announced anyone approaching from the north. I would go there to skip stones and try my hand at cane pole fishing—I don’t think I ever caught anything. Back then a child could wander around the country side and not have to worry about that car approaching. The occupants of the car were likely gracious and wonderful people just like my grandparents.
On farther down the road and west a mile or so was an old cemetery—Mitchell Cemetery I think it was called. I found wonder in looking at the old stones and trying to make out the dates. Many of the stones marked the passing of people over a hundred years prior. I wondered who they were at the time but lacking the ability at that young age I did not ponder who they were. All those people buried there were sons, daughters, parents and probably grandparents as well. Perhaps in a hundred years or so some child will stumble across the Oak Grove Cemetery and wonder who those two were with the stone depicting a white and black horse pulling a plow. I’m here to tell you they were wonderful people who toiled through life to sustain their family. They suffered loss and basked in the joy of God’s grace. They felt the pride as well as the sorrow of sending a son to fight a war in Europe and thanked God for his return—a war hero in the eyes of many. Who raised their children during the depression of the ‘30s and lived the life of a grandparent—a grandparent any grandchild would be honored to love.
My Mom as a young girl stand in the center of her Brothers
For conspicuous gallantry and intrepidity at the risk of his life above and beyond the call of duty: Master Sergeant Woodrow W. Keeble distinguished himself by acts of gallantry and intrepidity above and beyond the call of duty in action with an armed enemy near Sangsan-ni, Korea, on October 20, 1951. On that day, Master Sergeant Keeble was an acting platoon leader for the support platoon in Company G, 19th Infantry, in the attack on Hill 765, a steep and rugged position that was well defended by the enemy. Leading the support platoon, Master Sergeant Keeble saw that the attacking elements had become pinned down on the slope by heavy enemy fire from three well-fortified and strategically placed enemy positions. With complete disregard for his personal safety, Master Sergeant Keeble dashed forward and joined the pinned-down platoon. Then, hugging the ground, Master Sergeant Keeble crawled forward alone until he was in close proximity to one of the hostile machine-gun emplacements. Ignoring the heavy fire that the crew trained on him, Master Sergeant Keeble activated a grenade and threw it with great accuracy, successfully destroying the position. Continuing his one-man assault, he moved to the second enemy position and destroyed it with another grenade. Despite the fact that the enemy troops were now directing their firepower against him and unleashing a shower of grenades in a frantic attempt to stop his advance, he moved forward against the third hostile emplacement, and skillfully neutralized the remaining enemy position. As his comrades moved forward to join him, Master Sergeant Keeble continued to direct accurate fire against nearby trenches, inflicting heavy casualties on the enemy. Inspired by his courage, Company G successfully moved forward and seized its important objective. The extraordinary courage, selfless service, and devotion to duty displayed that day by Master Sergeant Keeble was an inspiration to all around him and reflected great credit upon himself, his unit, and the United States Army.
That is how the Medal of Honor Citation read for Woodrow W. Keeble that was presented to his family 26 years after MSG Keeble’s death. During his service during WWII and the Korean War MSG Keeble was awarded two Silver Stars, four purple Hearts and two Bronze Stars (with “V” Device).
There is much that can be written about this man—his honor, his integrity and his selfless service. I think it can all be summed up by three things he said after returning home:
“Before I experienced the horror of that attack, I was quick to call coward or yellow anyone who showed fear under any circumstances. Nevermore. I don’t know these things, but they speak truth to one. I am not a psychologist, nor a statistician, and less of a philosopher; but the depth of emotion, the dreads of fear, the referees of horrors, and the concentration of self that led me to make this observation, the fear impulse, or perhaps, better said, the (impulses caused) by fear, are stronger, more demanding than either that of love or hunger…”
“Fear in my opinion is a state of drunkenness. And when men are in that state when the fear impulse takes a hold…he loses all reason, sense of values, and is not liable, or at least should not be held accountable for acts perpetrated when thus possessed.”
The aftermath of combat operations on Guadalcanal
“During the 13 months (in the) almost continual and sustained combat in which I have ever participated, there were moments, and rare ones, I am sure; but they lose none of their terror or horror for which fear laid a relentless and a powerful hold on me, that the pull of cowardice was almost more than I could ward off. There were terrible moments that encompassed a lifetime, an endlessness, when terror was so strong in me, that I could feel idiocy replace reason. (Yet,) I have never left my position, nor have I shirked hazardous duty. Fear did not make a coward out of me.”
Keeble returned to North Dakota after the Korean War and worked at the Wahpeton Indian School (later named Circle of Nations Wahpeton Indian School) located in Wahpeton, ND. Soon after, he was afflicted with tuberculosis, which required that he undergo long-term treatment in Minnesota. Surgeons ultimately removed one of his lungs, which triggered a series of strokes that rendered him speechless, partially paralyzed and unable to work for the remainder of his life.
Keeble fell on hard times and is said to have pawned his service medals. Nevertheless, and despite his disabilities, Keeble persevered. Those that knew him and members of his family proclaim he never lost the level of integrity, honor and selfless service that sustained him during vicious combat operations in WWII and Korea.
The Medal of Honor, well deserved on the day of the incident, was not given until 26 years after his death. Since then there have been many other honors bestowed on MSG Keeble—but not near enough. What can we, as individuals, do to honor his life—and for that matter—the lives of every other honorable person we know? The answer is easy. Imitate them. Live your life firmly grounded in honor, integrity, compassion and wisdom.
Woodrow W. Keeble died January 28th, 1982 and is buried in Sisseton, South Dakota. This short blog is but a small portion outlining the life led by MSG Keeble. His accomplishments and his demons are many.
When I started this blog I made a commitment to myself to blog at least once a week and preferably once a day. Well, the once-a-day thing fell to the wayside rather quickly for obvious reasons—who has time to blog daily? If you blog daily I will assume you do not have a day job that also interferes with the daily duties that come with other self-imposed projects. My self-imposed projects include my involvement with the Hoka Hey Motorcycle Challenge, work I bring home, reading and TV—as well as the ever-present “honey-do” list. I love watching TV. I used to tell myself I was not a TV addict, but I think I am. I love old movies and I thoroughly enjoy watching a good action movie and the suspenseful intrigue of a “who-done-it” crime show. To prove a point—if I were to take a week off from work and do nothing but watch every episode of every season of “24” I would not consider the time wasted.
I also have a 1946 Dodge pickup truck that I am restoring—but haven’t started that project yet so really can’t add that to the list of distracters; yet.
Most of the things I want to write about are the thoughts that roll through my head—especially those thoughts that fill my mind while I ride. But I can’t do that. I can’t do that because most of the more prevalent thoughts are outlined in my book “Solitary—Without the Confinement” and I do not want to put them here. At least not yet. I want to wait until the book is published then expound on those thoughts once the book has been in the public for a while. Who would want to buy the book if they can read it here for free?
I know I will never sell enough books to get rich (and that was never the intent) but I would like to sell enough to make my money back. As a side note, I plan to write a blog about my publishing experience as some of it was good and some of it was bad—and it was all expensive. If I “break even” on sales I will consider the project a stellar success. Actually, breaking even has never been my objective either, since I am not confident enough in my abilities to warrant a sale of over 4,000 copies—Stephen King I’m not. In fact, based on an educated guess, I will need to sell 10,000 copies to break even.
Please consider this particular narrative as a two-pronged plea. One—is to ask those select few who follow my blog to continue to do so because it will get better. Two—this is a plea to buy my book. I think you will be pleased with it and will not consider the money spent as wasted.
“Solitary” has completed the editing phase and is currently in the design phase. I anticipate the book hitting the streets before the 1st of February, but I’m guessing since this is my first published book I am really unsure of the time-line. If you like adventure, if you like facing insurmountable odds, if you take pleasure in facing an obstacle where failure is a distinct possibility, then you will love “Solitary—Without the Confinement.”
Ain’t but two things to do while riding. Think and look for State Troopers.
I would like to ask a favor. If you read my blog and find the narratives worthwhile please tell your friends and share on Facebook. I figure the more exposure this blog gets the better my odds are of selling books.
Not sure where I’m going with this so I guess you’ll have to read along while I write and see; we’ll both discover the end of this journey together.
Slavery and the results thereof are a continual topic of discussion. The tension it causes is often times best measured as off the charts and I must wonder sometimes what the value is. It’s not like we can change history. The race most associated with slavery is the African American. It is inadvertently suggested that the Africans were the only ones sold into slavery and there can be nothing farther from the truth. History states otherwise. And by history I mean true history, not the re-written version. Africans sold Africans into slavery, the English sold the Irish into slavery, Greeks sold the Turks, Turks sold the Greeks, Europeans sold the Africans, Africans sold Arabs, Arabs sold Africans, Africans sold Asians, Asians sold Asians, Vikings sold anyone they could get their hands on—the list can go on and on. You can start the phrase with any race or nationality and end the phrase with any race or nationality. If you have the courage to drill down you will discover it seldom had anything to do with race or nationality but everything to do with who was weak and who was strong. The real truth here is that human trafficking is still prevalent today but more emphasis is placed on ancient history than the plight of present day atrocities—how sad is that?
Short side note here: Little is mentioned about the slavery, herding and extermination of the Native American. In a very real sense that practice—or at least a portion thereof—is still practiced today. If you don’t believe that then go visit Pine Ridge.
Virtually every race has sold others into slavery and virtually every race has purchased and used slaves. This fact is irrefutable but not the topic of discussion. I believe the topic goes deeper.
It is good to know and understand history—both good and bad. If we ignore it, or as others attempt to do, re-write it, then we are doomed to relive it. What I see as a problem is when we let history, especially the bad history, define who we are. Our own personal history will define who we are but perhaps should not, unless we let it, define who we can be. If you had a horrible childhood then that history can make you an angry person but there is no requirement that states you must remain angry. Lingering anger is a personal choice. History that happened generations ago should have no quarter in defining who we are. If you fail at everything you do and you claim the fact that your ancestors 150 years ago were slaves then I would submit you would fail at everything regardless of what happened 150 years ago. You have failed yourself.
If we read the history of slavery and grow angry over it then I do not see that as a bad thing. If we read the history of slavery and feel that knowledge should empower us to be indigent then we are wrong and are perpetrating our own status in society—again, you failed yourself.
Some will take history and use it as a crutch. Others will acknowledge history and use that insight to make things better.
You are solely responsible for who you are and what you do. Whether you accept that fact or not is irrelevant. It’s still a fact.
I’ll let the reader decide if I made a point here.
Short note here: Every paragraph above can be elaborated on and go from a 100 word paragraph to a 5000 word article; but I didn’t go there. Why, because very few will read a 5000 word article that challenges them and requires a through process. See “Bumper Sticker Epidemic”
