Evreux - West of Paris

The Flight

The Hercules C-130 rapidly lost altitude as it approached Paris.  It was on a brief detour from its destination to Evreux France, some 60 miles to the West North West.  It was on two missions. The first was to drop off and pick up patients as part of its aeromedical evacuation duties.  The second was to take advantage of the spectacular views and unrestricted flight corridors that existed over Paris on that beautiful day in 1966.

I was on duty that day as an airman with the U.S. Air Force Medical Service.  My initial job was to escort patients from our small hospital at Lajes Field in the Azores to a larger hospital in Wiesbaden, Germany for more complicated medical services. 

Actually, I was just responsible for carrying the patient’s medical records. I was invited to make the trip as a reward for doing some decent work as a public health specialist at the Lajes hospital.  All I had to do was turn over the records when we arrived at Wiesbaden then return to the Azores.  The bonus was that on the way back I was allowed to catch a plane on a trip to Evreux to visit a buddy of mine for a couple of days.

As we neared Evreux the pilot asked me if I wanted to join the crew up front to see the sights. That day we flew within what seemed like a few hundred feet of the Arc de Triomphe and the Eiffel Tower.  It was exciting just to be in the cockpit to see the sweeping view the crew had and the sights of Paris were frosting on the cake.

Minutes later we landed at Evreux and my extraordinary adventure began. I soon located my old pal from Cannon Air Force Base New Mexico, William K. Smith.  Bill was originally from somewhere near Ashville North Carolina I believe.   We had struck up a friendship while partying and generally raising cain in Clovis New Mexico, the town near Cannon.  Bill was a tall, albino type and somewhat prone to pulling crazy stunts, a trait that would turn up some serious dividends, or perhaps I say deficits, during my visit to Evreux.

It was during my first of two nights there.  Bill was off work and we collected a pal of his from West Virginia (equally as crazy) whose full first name was actually initials, something like “AC”.

The Carnival

Next, we headed for the neighboring French town of Evreux and attended a local carnival.  We were all around 20 years old and loaded with energy. The rides and carnival games were cheap so we really got into things.  The French, I remember were pretty sedate in comparison.  As a consequence, we had a tendency to terrorize other drivers on the bumper car rides (our favorite). We also discovered some variations of skill games that could win bottles of champagne as opposed to the traditional stuffed animals you typically see. 

One game in particular seemed very easy to us.  The attendant would hand us a pellet-style gun and our job was to break a piece of chalk swinging at the end of a string maybe four or five feet away.  In the end, we won, and drank way too much champagne.  So our behavior went from enthusiastic to obnoxious I would say. I am not even sure any of us had tried champagne before.  Yup, we were definitely three “Ugly Americans” bound for trouble.

The time came for the carnival to shut down for the night but we three were still aiming to party so we lingered while the booths shut down.  Then, we decided we were hungry so we went to the last source there, a concession that was in the process of closing.  We did a little yelling when we found out they weren’t going to serve us as they were determined to head home.  The three Frenchman working there climbed in their van and prepared to drive off.  Just as the driver put the van in gear and began moving, Bill punched one of its rear split windows.  It didn’t break, just fell inside the van after separating from the rubber grommet holding it in place.

The Chase

The van kept moving toward a right turn that would take it out of the park where the carnival was being held.  Bill, AC and I crossed a small field diagonally to intercept it and found ourselves standing directly in front of it as it approached.  For no particular reason, I happened to be in front of the other two.  The van stopped and, as the three Frenchmen began to climb out I noticed they were holding what looked like a tire iron, part of a jack and something else.  I yelled, “Bill, they have weapons!” and glanced back. There was no one there.  Bill and AC were gone.

I took off, backtracking into the carnival area and trying to figure what to do as they chased me.  I was already out of gas probably because of all the adrenaline, running and booze so I was pretty sure they would catch me soon. I came up on one concession that had some aluminum poles laying around, probably to hold up shade tarps or something.  I picked one up and turned to face the group.  They were there immediately so I began swinging the pole back and forth to try and hold them off.  After just a few passes my arms had no strength left to swing that pole so I dropped it and began running again.

It was pretty dark and somehow I got a little distance on them but I was quickly tiring.  I noticed a little ditch off to the side of the area I was on so I dove into it and tried to make myself still and quiet.  A few seconds later, they were there motioning me to get up (so much for my hiding place…) and using a few words of broken English for emphasis.  They marched me back to their van and we stood there for a little while.  They wanted money from me and I told them all I had was marks from my earlier trip to Germany.  Actually I had just a little of everything, dollars, marks and francs.  The most agitated among the three seemed to calm down after a while and they finally told me to go.

I headed down a sidewalk with absolutely no idea where I was at.  By that time it was pretty late so there were no vehicles, no pedestrians and basically no signs of life there.  I walked a couple of blocks when the three Frenchmen with the van returned and invited me to get in.  I didn’t take that as a good sign so I started running again.  I didn’t go far when I saw a path veering away from the sidewalk I was on.  I hit that path full blast and didn’t take many steps when I was in the air and falling into a stream.  It was only 2-3 feet deep and I followed it under a bridge where I crouched while planning my next move.  After a few minutes, I had heard absolutely no sound so I peeked out and the coast seemed clear.

Gendarme!

I was back on the street but I was soaking wet and again, there was no one around.  I finally came to an area with street lights and walked a couple of more blocks when I was approached by a gendarme who asked me a bunch of questions I could not understand.  He motioned me to come with him and I figured that was a pretty safe option so I went gratefully.  We came to a very small little police substation of sorts and went in.  An older gendarme came out and asked me a few questions in French… just about all I could get across was that someone had tried to rob me.  (In fact, I suspect the irate Frenchman from the van was just seeking retribution for their knocked out window.).

They let me hang around a while and treated me very well with coffee and a place to sit.  It wasn’t long before morning arrived and they showed me where to catch a bus to the base.  I tracked down Bill at his room.  He told me he and AC just hauled out of there before I even yelled and spent the night hidden between a couple of houses.

Other than the obvious “Ugly (and dumb) American” lesson here there is another just as important.  When you think your buddies have your back look there first to make sure they are hanging around to assist.

In partial defense of all of us, I should also point out that we spent the next day as fairly regular, well-behaved tourists in Joan of Arc's old hangout, the town of Rouen France.  At my age I was not into culture at all but I did get to purchase a french hot dog from a street vendor. It was served on a small, fresh baguette and loaded with french mustard.  It was, and remains to this day, the best hot dog I have had in my life. 

Andrea's Rose

This photo taken today

It's been almost 20 years since our friends

Andrea and Don Palen left Sacramento for San Antonio

Andrea left us this rose then

Nurtured by Julieann

It has flourished in our back yard

A remembrance of friendship

That has endured with this flower

Over the years

The thorns endure too

That's in remembrance of Andrea's husband, Don

Struck...by a Tree

Not in the literal sense:

As in having one ripped out by the roots

And smacking me where I deserve

“Take THAT you pitiful reprobate!”

But in the figurative sense:

As in gawking at our old oak tree

It is Western or “Cork” oak

It sits in the far back of our yard

Noticed mainly at times of the year

When small leaves make a mess out of

Molly’s Own Personal Swimming Pool

And when it’s branches grow too close

To the power lines

So that the utility company has to

Give it kind of a brutal trim

With little or no thought to esthetics

I happened to be back there

At the right time for beautiful morning shadows

And noticed she has grown somewhat stately

In the twenty plus years we have been here

She is probably about 30 years old.

So I wanted to give her credit for being there for us.

Indian Giver!

You are likely aware of the term "Indian-giver". I had always assumed it was a pretty straight reference to giving something to someone and then changing your mind and taking it back. But then I queried one of the Gods... the Google God, for an interpretation and found out it is associated with all the pitiful agreements our nation forced on Indians. One example is the famous "10 cent treaty of the late 1800's" where the US "bought" most of North Dakota from my (yes, my) and my brother's tribe for 10 cents an acre. Oh yes and they didn't pay for over a hundred years.

Anyway, the Indians knew they had been screwed but couldn't complain at first because they they were sure they would soon be residing on the head (yes, the head) of a pin (ironically it turned out to be the head of a nickel) if they did. This a purely academic reference to their rapidly shrinking lands. Finally, they would discover they could complain without fear of retribution (this was probably right around the time the ACLU was born) so they would demand that predatory treaties be revoked and their land be returned. Later references to this shocking behavior were developed by Washington's pioneering "spin doctors" ... hence the term "Indian givers".

So, for the moment let's set aside the fact that I want Minot back. Instead, let's take a look at all the US property fire sales that the Japanese, Chinese, Kuwaitis, Russians and others have done in the US over the years. Then, let's invoke the "Indian giver" clause and take it all back. Then, we can sell it again or in some way use it to reinvigorate our national economy. Voila!

I'm TomC and, as 1 of 30,000 enrolled members of the Turtle Mountain Band of the Chippewa Tribe, I approve this message.

P.S. Doesn't it tickle you how the current presidential candidates feel compelled to place this sort of reverse disclaimer at the end of their television ads?... "I'm Joe Blow from Kokomo and I approve this message" . There you go. He approved it. What a relief!

It is just as endearing when politicians use the stubby tip of their thumbs and closed fists to 'point at people. Okay now. I know he really wanted to point his finger. This is just his way of doing it without doing it 'knowwhatImean? You might call it "Pointus Interruptus".

Yeah, I probably need to back off the wine swilling a little too... right after I put post this rant on my blog.

First, Do No Harm

There sure are a lot of broadsides being fired by both parties in reference to the unfolding of the war in Iraq. This includes video links to political leaders who looked the camera square in the eye and, before the war began said something like, "I know Saddam is developing weapons of mass destruction".

I think there is hell of a lot more to this than first meets the eye. For example, I worked in Air Force Intelligence as an enlisted man in the late 60's and early 70's. Part of that time I helped train air crews in weapons recognition and current intelligence. I remember once having this old major who prepared and presented "Combat Intelligence" briefings to Wing stand up meetings and air crews on alert. He would take reports we were fed from various US agencies, CIA, NSA, FBI, etc. and "summarize" them. The man had a very vivid imagination and a penchant for the dramatic. As a result, he had folks thinking "the enemy" was doing things when there was no proof otherwise. Stuff like, "satellites the size of a basketball that could read a Russian's name tag from outer space" (probably not a distortion now but certainly one back then).

The truth was mixed with fiction and, since everything was "classified", no one really talked about it they just believed it or not. Point is he had most folks believing it and, if permitted and encouraged, they would have probably dropped some of the same statements with 'certainty' that both parties did on Saddam and WMD. I believe someone got overzealous, others picked up the ball and ran with it (including most of the American public) and we ended up with thousands of our son's dead and what, a trillion dollars in the hole?

So we need more of the 'nurse' or 'Missouri' mentality if we are going to save this great country. What I mean is we need to be like the nurse doing a JCAHO inspection on a hospital who says, "Great, so you are holding regular infection committee meetings. Could you please show me the minutes for the past two years? And could you assist me on tracking the paper trail on action items from those meetings? And could I meet with two of your committee members for a couple of minutes?"

Of course, the biggest problem for all of us in doing this is time. Most of us have so much going on we feel forced to accept much of what we hear on faith and, as Hillary, Nancy, Joe and most others would probably say, "That is an extremely shaky, often dangerous approach to things." So rather than "lies and hyprocisy" as stated by many writers and representatives from both parties, I would call it a rush to judgement and would say most of us are guilty of it.

This also makes me reflect on one of the most well known credos of medicine, derived from Hippocrates, "First, do no harm." This should be integrated into the oath of office for all our elected officials and also be something we all keep engraved on our most prominent refrigerator magnets. This won't make us perfect but it sure could make us better.

We are all guilty.

Julieann Marie

It was late November or early December I believe,  right about the year 2000.  Part of the memory you don’t exactly try to cling to.  Julieann was terribly sick, laying in intensive care at Sutter Hospital, Roseville California.  I was standing by her hospital bed.

We got there largely through a selfless act on Julie’s part.  She was feeling pretty sick with, as I recollect, flu-like symptoms a couple of days earlier. She had a pretty rough night but had insisted on going to work.  “I have to.”  “There is no one else.”  It was about patients and taking care of someone else and so she went over my objections.

That night, she had awful chills.  At one time, I had her covered with several blankets and coats; probably 8 or 9 layers.  She looked very tiny under all that stuff.  We wondered together about whether we should head for the emergency room but decided against it.

The next morning, we headed for our primary care doctor.  He checked her out and was very concerned.  He offered to call an ambulance then and there but Julie and I figured we would get to the hospital easier if I just drove.

We found out Julieann was toxic with a serious bacterial infection. All of her vital signs were way out of whack.

They were ready for us when we arrived.  They rushed her to a bed and began quickly setting up IVs and monitoring devices while I tried to stay out of the way. She was clearly in critical condition.

Things settled down a little after a while and so there I was, standing by her hospital bed, trying to talk to her. But she was a little incoherent.  We were working together to help her breathe.  The toxic effect also was causing her to puff and hold her breath, I think as she was trying to force more oxygen into her lungs.

And then, in the middle of all that, She looked at me then lifted her hands and made a writing motion.  I searched around and found a pencil and paper, then maneuvered the bed tray in front of her so she could write. 

She started in and made motions to write but had to keep pausing to struggle for breath each time she tried.  Finally, I asked her what she wanted to write down.  She said she wanted to work on her Christmas list for Ty and Sam.

It was the most selfless act I have ever witnessed in my life.

My hero; Julieann Marie.

Molly Phelps-Torres Campbell

Yes, Molly has earned the right to share her name with these famous Olympians. Here’s why.

Since she was a few weeks old, Molly (Famous Golden Retriever) has spent most of her waking hours in our backyard… this has made it more hers than any other member of our family.  As you may recall it is the site of her notorious “Cereal Killer” escapades in an earlier post to this blog.  Also, since Samantha and Tyler have grown, Molly has taken over the swimming pool – exercising a territorial imperative that cannot be rightfully contested.

As a Retriever, she is naturally drawn to water and more so anything that is thrown in it.  In the past few years Molly has developed her affinity for retrieval into a game called Mollyball.  Along the way, she has developed a certain set of rules as well. 

This is basically how it works…  I sit in a chair on the patio approximately 30 feet from the pool.  Molly brings me her tennis ball and insists (with single barks of authority spaced about ten seconds apart) that I toss the ball in the pool so she can retrieve it.  Sounds normal enough until you become aware of some of the rules that accompany this scene…

The Rule of Thirds:  I try to bounce the ball off the pool apron so it pretty much stays where it lands in the water.  I toss it to land in the deep end so Molly will get more exercise once the ball is retrieved by having to swim to the shallow end where the exit steps are.  Once in a while, she forgets her own preference and swims to the single pool step at the deep end. The deep end has a high rise step and she hates to crawl out from there – she will, in fact, whine pitifully when she does this and realizes her mistake.  

Anyway the catch here is that the ball must land somewhere within a third and midway across the pool so she can make a graceful jump and grab the ball off the surface in one motion.  She really doesn't like to jump in and flop around trying to get the ball.  It’s not cool.

If the ball lands too short, she will pull up at the last second and watch the ball until it floats far enough out to make her jump… or floats far enough to grab from the opposite edge without going in. While watching for this, she will glance back once in a while to make sure I haven’t run out of patience and quit the game entirely. If the ball bounces past the midpoint or closer to two-thirds of the way across the pool she will also pull up short, then run around to the other side to watch the ball for indications she can make her jump or wait for it to come in.

That is the "Rule of Thirds."  If you don’t know it, you will never be remotely successful at Mollyball.

Center Stymies:  This happens when I accidentally land the ball right in the center of the pool.  Then, Molly will typically pull up and wait for the ball to make the next move.  Sometimes it doesn't move far enough either way for her to make the graceful jump decision, it just moves toward either end.  Then she just watches it for a very long time until it gets within muzzle-pool edge range. Of course, this makes her Mollyball partner crazy with impatience.

Fair drop – Foul drop: A “fair drop” is when Molly returns to the chair I am in and drops with ball a foot or so in front of me.  At that point, I can reach over, grab it and launch it again.  A “foul drop” is when she misses and it rolls out of arm's reach.  When that happens she indulges me and retrieves it for another attempt at a “fair drop.”  When we are playing dry Mollyball just on the lawn (usually in cool mornings and during cooler months) and she is not jumping in and out of the pool she returns the ball and waits until I take it out of her muzzle.

The Thoughtful Shake (Nice):  Upon exiting the pool, Molly has somehow figured out that she should drop the ball, do her water shake, pick up the ball and then head for her partner.  She has figured out keeping her partner fairly dry during a game makes the game last longer.

The Not-so Thoughtful Shake (Not-so nice): Once in a while, Molly can’t resist a second shake while standing next to me as I reach down to fetch a ball and relaunch it.  This not so thoughtful unless it is a really hot day then it is okay.  She doesn't know the difference so the occurrence is a crap-shoot.

Interruptions:  Molly permits game interruptions of three kinds. First, if she spots a squirrel, she will go after it immediately and it doesn't matter whether it is out of her reach as they typically are.  Second, a call of nature must be answered immediately although she is thoughtful enough to answer it outside of the field of play.  Third, during each game she will elect to practice her “Stop, drop and roll” technique two or three times.  She will stop, drop the ball, drop herself to the ground, roll around on her back, execute a couple of satisfied grunts then get up, grab the ball and return to the game.  Her partner has thus far resisted the impulse to follow her example (it’s the getting up part that would be difficult for me).

End Game: The game is over when the first one quits.  The one who quits is the loser. The game has been known to last as many as fifty ball retrievals before her partner (usually me) runs completely out of gas.

This brings me to the “Phelps-Torres” moniker.  Molly will be 10 years old next week.  I think that is seventy in dog years yet she can spent the entire day in the pool.  She has the stamina of Dana Torres.  In addition, according to her rules Molly has won every game of Mollyball she has ever played… thus the Michael Phelps connection. You read it here first…