Othopedic Thuesday

So, today after a month of waiting since an MRI, I finally got to see an Orthopedic Doctor, for my shoulder. All things considered, with VA and veterans health care issues, I guess that is really not so bad.

Anyone that knows me, knows there is not much that I despise worse than Doctor's offices. I don't like cheerful receptionists, that ask how are you today? Hell, if you were doing great, you wouldn't be in a doctor's office. Then there is the dozen odd pieces of paper work, were you have to sign your life away, before you are even allowed to enter into the inner sanctum of examination rooms.

Then there is the waiting, I spent 32 years in the Navy, where events that are designated to occur at a given time, will occur at that time. No so in the modern doctor's world. After waiting for half hour or so in the main waiting area, where I might add they have a bad home improvement show on the television provided for your entertainment, you get to move through the magical door to the second waiting area, in a hallway full of even more magical doors leading to examination rooms. Here is where I get to sit and watch the other patients come and go. Some seem happy, they, I gather are the success stories, the ones who's treatment worked, but oh, the others who look like they might expire at any moment worry me much more. Some do not seem happy, period, I'll leave that right there.
Now, an hour and a half past appointment time, I move into a room, where I get to wait longer. At least in the examination room, I get to explore all the drawers and play with the computer that has pictures of my shoulder on it. Think about that next time you are stuck waiting in an examination room, maybe the person waiting before you may have rambled through all the drawers and cabinets. I also enjoy the ambiance of the decor, break-down diagrams of knee and hip replacements. I, being fairly mechanically blessed, studied these pictures, at length, for over another thirty minutes, and I am now sure that I could replace either joint, so if you want a discount job done, let me know.

Once I finally meet the doc, he is a nice young man, who seems to know what's going on, lets me know that my MRI is inconclusive, and he would like to have another one done with dye. Oh boy, got to wait on insurance to approve that, I'll see how long a wait that will be. Also, he over-loads me with talk of supraspinatus and infraspinatus tendons, spurs, tendonitis capsulitis, and possible tears. We also talk about ice and no heat, physical therapy, and steroid injections, and did I happen to tell you it is now after 1600 (4 o'clock pm ), and I am in Riverside. Luckily I know the back roads to a great eatery, and they have cold beer and wonderful food;  that makes it much easier to wait out rush hour.

Ok, so not a great hunting or fishing report, but happy to say I am safe, back in the shack  between the swamp and the sea. Once again, waiting, at least this time, I control the television.

Old Captain Sends.
 

Rainy Monday And Memories of Hong Kong

It is a rainy dreary Monday here between the swamp and the sea, no hunting, fishing, or yard work. I watched the news until I was saturated by information, as much as the rain.

I was watching the clips of the protesters in Hong Kong, desperately trying to hang on to their little outpost of democracy in the country of China. All my time spent on the island of Hong Kong was prior to the return of the island from British rule to that of China. Makes me wonder now if the citizens of Hong Kong still think that was such a great idea.

Hong Kong means "Fragrant Harbor", and it is indeed fragrant with all the smell of Asia, both pleasing and not so much ones. I first saw Hong Kong from the flight deck of the USS Midway, sometime in the mid 1980s, the exact date now evades my memory as so many things do, I can still imagine the smells and the sights.

The following text comes from some notes I found that I made after a night of standing duty on the Midway in Hong Kong harbor.

The steam of burning grease rising from the tracks of the catapults on the flight deck combined with the rank damp smell of the harbor water, burned my nostrils like the inhalation of an acid. Looking starboard I see the flashing spectrum of lights detailing the unmistakable shore line of the city that is Hong Kong.  I remember how much I wanted to be amongst those lights, but having watch the first night in port, that was not to be.

The scene from the deck house known as flight deck control is breath-taking. Small floating craft of every description; junks under sail, ferries running to and fro, container ships, and walla walla boats bobbing up and down, sail and scurry around while being dwarfed by our mighty war ship. I think I could almost walk to shore across the decks of all those vessels, stepping deck to deck. In this great harbor which at one point in history was filled with massive creaking Chinese Junks and Portuguese sailing ships making there way slowly under sail plying their trade, in and out of one of the busiest cities of the silk road trade routes. Today space age hydrofoils and jet boats scream through the squalid, cluttered water way in route to the glittering casinos of Macau.

The great carrier moans, as she shifts heavily against the anchor holding us solidly to the muddy harbor bottom. A cold damp wind blows suddenly from the north, off the mainland of China. I shiver against the wind, and tighten the collar of my foul weather jacket, closer against my neck. Making rounds, crossing the flight deck, our aircraft sit chained and silent like dinosaur bones in a museum. As I glance to port, I see the Star Ferry crossing the harbor from Kowloon side to Hong Kong side, the clanging of her bell sounding clearly against the horns and bells of all the other assorted craft. The Star Ferry makes this trip every half hour, steadily moving passengers back and forth.

Time seems to always pass more slowly, when you have the watch at night in a great liberty port, and I grow tired. If only I did not have the duty, I know that I would be full of vigor, and be readily running the streets of Wan Chi, and the world of Suzy Wong.

Now days I wish I could stand those watches still and smell the smells of exotic ports of call in person, but at least I have the memories.

Old Captain sends.

  

Gold Star Mother's Day

Today is Gold Star Mother's Day.

Gold Star Mothers are those who have lost a son or daughter while in service to their country while as a member of the United States armed forces.

The origin of the Gold Stare Mother's organization dates back to the first world war and a lady by the name of Grace Darling Seibold. Her son George , volunteered, requesting assignment in aviation. He was sent to Canada where he trained to fly British planes, since the United States had neither an air force nor planes. He was deployed to England, and assigned to British Royal Flying Corps 148th Aero Squadron. George did his best to keep up correspondence with his family while engaged in combat over France, but one day the letters stopped. On October 11, 1918, George's wife in Chicago received a box marked "Effects of deceased Officer 1st Lt. George Vaughn Seibold".

George's body was never identified.

Grace Seibold, realizing that self-contained grief is self-destructive, devoted her time and efforts to not only volunteer in military hospitals, but to extend a hand of friendship to other mothers whose sons had lost their lives in military service.

Grace organized a group consisting solely of these special mothers, with the purpose of not only comforting each other, but to giving loving care to hospitalized veterans confined to government hospitals far from home.

The organization was named after the gold star that families hung in their windows in honor of the deceased veteran.

A proclamation by the President of the United States was approved by congress on June 23, 1936, designating the last Sunday in September as "Gold Star Mother's Day".

I remember and am thankful for our fallen comrades every single day, but to day is the day to honor the Mothers of all the fallen. I pray is that their ranks do not have to swell, but bear in mind, as a nation still at war, our sons and daughters are today and every day in harms way. God Bless Them All!

Old Captain sends

Coast Guard, Marines, Nation remember Signalman 1st Class Douglas Munro

Douglas Albert Munro, was born in Vancouver Canada of American parents on 11 October 1919, but spent his entire life before enlistment in South Cle Elum Washington. He enlisted in the United States Coast Guard in 1939. He had an outstanding service record as an enlisted man, and was promoted rapidly through the ranks to Signalman First Class.

On September 27, 1942, Munro was acting Officer in Charge of ten Higgins boats that landed Marines on a beach head on the south Pacific island of Guadalcanal. Once landed the Marines were met by an unanticipated large enemy force, and faced certain annihilation.

Petty Officer Munro volunteered to lead the boats back to the beach to evacuate the Marine force who were facing over whelming enemy fire. While in command of the boats Munro brought them back onto the beach under heavy enemy fire, and proceeded to load the Marines back into the boats. After the majority were loaded, Munro noticed that the rear guard of Marines, who had been providing cover fire for the evacuation , were having trouble getting out. Petty Officer Munro maneuvered himself and his boats into a position to cover the last group of men as they headed to the boats. In doing so, he exposed himself to greater enemy fire and suffered a fatal wound. In his last moments of life he uttered the the now famous words "Did they get off"? It also should be mentioned that one of the Marines evacuated from this situation was Marine Corp hero and icon, then, Lt Col Lewis "Chesty" Puller.

For His heroic and selfless actions in the completion of this rescue mission Petty Officer Munro was posthumously awarded the Medal Of Honor.

I only recently learned the story of Petty Officer Munro, but now having a stronger connection to the Coast Guard and after 32 years of Naval service, I have a new found respect for their accomplishments. James Michener is quoted in his book "Bridges at Toko Ri", "Where do we find such men"? The answer in short is that they walk among us the 3 percent, that are out there right now, doing what they do best. Keeping us safe and making it look easy.

Semper Paratus, Old Captain sends

 
Coast Guard, Marines, Nation remember Signalman 1st Class Douglas Munro

Gram Parsons and EmmyLou Harris: Return of the Grievous Angel

The Grievous Angel

It has been a busy week here between the swamp and the sea.

It is hard to hunt the swamps when we have had so much rain. The mosquitoes are vicious, and are giving the old therma cell a run for its money. Thus far, my meager attempts at bow hunting have provided no fresh venison.

We ventured out on the salt this week and brought home a few redfish, that were mighty good blackened up with grits. We also battled some of the largest sting rays I have ever caught on rod and reel. The best news to report here is, I can feel a coolness in air on these mornings, and I know fall is coming, and better days ahead on the water and in the field.

The United States Air Force turned 67 years old this week, happy birthday to our youngest service. Guitar legend  Jimi Hendrix left us on September 18, 1970, far too young and too soon. Scotland voted this week to remain a part of  Great Briton, with a monumental turn out of voters.

On this day back in 1973, a soft spoken man from right up the road in Waycross Georgia also left this world way to soon. Born Cecil Ingram Connor III, the world knew this young man as Gram Parson. You may not have heard him, but I can guarantee you have heard his songs. In his short carrier he was a member of several prominent bands of the time including the Byrds and The Flying Burrito Brothers. He also introduced to the world a red dirt girl from Birmingham Alabama, as his back up singer named Emmylou Harris. He brought pure country music into the rock and roll world of the time, and even played gospel music with electric guitars and drums. His rendition of the old gospel standard "Farther Along" was one of Belinda's favorites, and we sang it at her memorial service. Gram taught us that "Love Hurts" and takes a lot of pain, but he also shared with us a smile and a sly look that now we can only see in pictures, he will never grow old, he will always be 27 years old. Check out his music if you haven't. It will be well worth the time.
 
Old Captain sends

Tree Sitting In A Swamp

A bed is always more comfortable a few hours before daylight. This is a hunter's dilemma, but for said hunter to succeed, he must give up; that comfort and venture forth.  

What makes a grown man with more than half a century of time walking the earth, leave the comfort of bed and hearth in the pre-dawn hours to go and sit in a tree? My guess is if you don'/t know this answer, it will be near impossible to explain it to you. I will at this time, try my best to offer somewhat of an explanation.

I will tell you this, there is nothing like being in a stand or blind and watching the world wake up. The late, great Old Duck Hunter, Gordon MacQuarrie put it this way "No sport calling for communion with the dawn can escape a certain air of romantic mystery." Most people who do not hunt or fish, will never experience this,

This morning being opening day of archery season, I trudged to a near by stand to watch the awakening of the world, and to have the opportunity to try out a new cross bow on something other than a foam target. Cool and comfortable, I settled into my seat and readied an arrow. It is always magical right at dawn, the sights and sounds consume you. The first miracles of dawn that I got to witness this morning was a flight, of historical proportions, of newly hatched mosquitoes. They came in hard and fast, and some were so large that I swear, they had USN painted on their sides. They tried to over power and remove my therm cell. Luckily they failed, but this was really something to see. All the while lightness continued to over take darkness, as the day began, and the woods came to life. Birds were moving about through the limbs, and a noisy squirrel seemed to think I had taken his perch. It was at this point I was visited by a pestilence of the deep south known as love bugs, thus named because they spend their lives physically attached to their mates. Therma cells obviously have no effect on love bugs.

With the good earth now fully awakened and the temperature rising, this quickly led to the end of my morning hunt. My arrow found no venison today, but the season has begun and I was thankful to be there for the kick off. Was it worth it? You bet it was, it is a season of new beginnings and new promises, new hopes, and chances to replenish our food stores with meat straight from the bounty of nature.

Fred Bear, renowned archer, and hunter may have said it best about tree sitting: "When a hunter is in a tree stand with high moral values and with the proper hunting ethics and richer for the experience, that hunter is, 20 feet closer to God.

Old Captain sends  

We Were Different Back Then

We were different back then.

Although not so long ago to some of us, it seems like ages to so many.  Collectively, we just didn't see it coming, yet it came.  Since then, our world has not been the same, nor will it ever be.

What it gave us was a reason to be united, yet that only lasted for a moment; oh how soon that lesson was forgotten.  How soon we return to partisan bickering.  We turn our politics into a football game, where it only matters that our team wins.  We the people have all lost because of this.

Tomorrow morning, a generation of kids will become teenagers, thirteen years old; they were born the day after 9/11 2001.  Let's let that sink in.  It's popular to post, "Never forget" on your page, and we shouldn't forget.  It is also popular to post your story of where you were on that day, and I know I remember.

Today, I choose to remember the heroes at all the sites.  I choose to remember all the innocent victims lost on that day.  I choose to think of all the brave souls we have lost since that day, who inspire us to move forward.  Last, but by no means least, I will remember the group of patriots I was with on that day, who saddled up and went looking for bad guys. I thank God for them all.

Yes, we were different back then, and now we always will be changed.  I leave it up to you to decide if that is better or worse.

Me, I'm going deer hunting, but it's always on my mind.

Old Captain sends

Debutante Ball

The debutante ball of the fall hunting season has always been the opening day dove shoot. A time to dust off the old fowling piece, and hone in on wing shooting skills for the up coming season. I had a very unique opportunity this year, and this past weekend I made a major pilgrimage back to my red dirt homeland to attend a shoot, I had last attended a quarter century before.

The field itself, lies alongside the Chattahoochee river, and has been the site of many memorable dove shoots over the past thirty years or so. As a teenager I craved a seat in that field, to be considered part of that crowd of hunters, men whom greatly admired.  I felt like I had earned that spot back then, and was blessed to be welcomed back twenty-five years later.

A lot of water has traveled past that field in twenty-five years time, but still it flows on toward the Gulf of Mexico. We have done our own share of traveling in that time as well.  Some of the original members of that cherished crowd of hunters have gone on to the happiest of hunting grounds, others now move a bit slower, have hair a bit grayer, but the smiles for the hunting season still endure. Water and Gatorade now seem to be the drinks of choice, where once it was Budweiser. Talk is of the dermatologist visits for spot checks after lives spent outdoors. and of grown children and grandchildren.

Barbecue is still prepared by the same sure hands, after all this time, and served up in the cool shade underneath the bridge. A throw back to the beginnings of this shoot, when freezers would be emptied out, and the last of the bounty from last years deer and duck harvest would be consumed.

I have learned so much from this bunch, both good and bad, most importantly to stand on my own and be accountable for my own shots in life. I have traveled the world several times over, have been to war, have been a husband, a father and a widower, and still I'm blessed to return to this old field by the river to kick off hunting season.

With trepidation and much emotion, I entered the field once again.  But all that changed to excitement when the first shot rang out and I was twenty years old again , and though I missed some shots, I made some too.  It's going to be a good season.

In my view of heaven there is a red dirt field by a river with lots of doves and my prayer is that the greatest Huntmaster grants me a seat on that field, close to my Dad and my other old bird shooting buddies, who already drew their spots.

For John, Old Captain sends.

Farewell Pete

We as the human race, lost a great friend this last week. Peter "Pete" Seeger transitioned out of this world at age 94.

Pete was a life long activist and singer, who made great contributions, by singing and telling tales. Pete and I would be worlds apart on political stance, but he gains all my respect on the way he addressed causes with a smile and a strumming banjo. Here was a man who sang with Woody Guthrie, and marched with protesters for civil rights. He protested the Viet Nam war, while being a life long VFW member, having served in the Army in the Pacific during World War Two. He loved the Hudson river and sailing on it's waters and fought for its water quality, and clean up. And he continued performing and singing into his 90s, despite having been black listed during the McCarthy era. Because of being black listed, he was never allowed to perform on television and radio during the peak of his career.

Pete taught us that even though we may disagree with on another, we could do so peacefully and with a smile. He shared his songs freely, and loved nothing better than to have people singing along. Pete could touch people's hearts in way very few can. Written in a circular pattern around the head skin of his trusty banjo are these words, "this machine surrounds hate and forces it to surrender". I think that sums up best what I may be trying to say about the man, and it is the lesson he left us all, to be kind and love each other.

Pete, you left the world a better place because you were here. You will be missed, and I will never forget your songs. I leave you with the words to one of Bob Dylan's songs, that Pete always loved to sing. "May God bless and keep you, may your wishes all come true. May you always do for others, and let others do for you. May you build a ladder to the stars, and climb up every rung, and may you stay Forever Young"

May you stay Forever Young.
Old Captain sends.


  

Andalusia

Andalusia farm sits nestled into the rolling hills of middle Georgia. A living testament to a diminutive young lady who, in the middle of the last century, waged a battle against a terminal illness, while creating some of the most memorable characters in southern literature.

Andalusia, named for an autonomous region of southern Spain. Why? No idea at this point, but a very beautiful name, none the less. This was the lair and writing desk of Flannery O'Conner. Her dark stories captured so very well the people and characters of the rural south in the 1940s and 1950s. Because of crumbling hips due to lupus, she was confined to the first floor of this farm house, and in a converted parlor room, to the left of the front door, she composed the majority of her writings. If you have never read Ms O'Conner, I highly encourage you to do so.

The farm is a genuine pearl, that truly deserves to be maintained and saved against the on rushing herds of strip mall building yuppies, moving away from Atlanta. Did I mention that there is good waterfowl hunting and fishing close by if you can gain access. So, if you ever find yourself around Milledgeville Georgia, Andalusia is just off Highway 441. Check it out.

Old Rambling Captain sends.

Chia Si, Just Stopping By

A Christmas gift of a Chia Si, now resides on the work bench in the man room. Now some say, Si and the intrepid Captain are a lot a like. Now I can't say for sure if that is the truth or not, but I guess one could be do worse than to be compared to Uncle Si.

We both made careers of the military, but differing branch's and differing wars. We both posses gray whiskers, we both have to wear glasses these days. We both pull our long hair back into pony tails, and almost always wear a hunting cap.

I was a Duck Commander fan long before the hoopla and fanfare of the current television show, we used to have to see the duck men on DVD or, catch them on the Outdoor channel to see them whacking and stacking ducks. I have a signed Phil Robertson duck call from many years ago, and I was a member of an organization called Duckaholics Anonymous founded by the Duck Commander himself.

It has been gray and cold here in the frozen north lands of Florida, at the shack between the swamp and the sea. Lots of gray days, not the best days for the old captain. The hunting is winding down a bit and the northeast winds have made fishing a challenge. But today as I re-positioned Chia Si to the man room, I had to smile. Just maybe I do have the strength and faith of my fellow duck man, and Chia Si and I but have a liberal amount of good red southern dirt in us, and maybe that is what enables us to endure the gray days. Say your prayers and think of our brave shipmates lost at sea yesterday, and also the ones still facing challenges ahead.

God Bless, Old Captain Sends