About Mom...

After Mom passed away in 2004 I wrote an obituary followed by a note to inquiring friends about my last moments with her. This is how the note went...

"Thank you Tim and Linda.  That is an interesting thought you brought up.  Mom's is certainly an extraordinary generation, the one Tom Brokaw calls "The Greatest."  I mean, they fought and won the biggest war the world has ever seen and they had a hell of a lot of babies.  They were truly lovers and fighters. You have to figure they took in life in huge portions.

Circa 1949
Martha Alice Gladue - Campbell

I hope when all is said and done, the historians will figure we did the same, or at least we were ready, willing and able to do the same. They set a remarkable example for us and generations to follow.

For now, I just think of running a brush through Mom's beautiful platinum hair as she laid in the hospital last weekend.

Of carefully applying a cool cloth to her forehead and cheeks, of slowly giving her water with a small sponge on a popsicle stick when we had to be extremely careful to be sure she didn't aspirate.

Of hearing her struggle to regain some speech and hearing her first words include, "I Love You."

1980's

Of seeing the joy in her face when she was able to kiss her 11 month old grandson Dakota.

Of witnessing her sense of fulfillment when she used her only good hand to point to my brother and I and say, "My boys."

Of seeing her stick her tongue out at no one in particular (the situation?) and beam when my brother joked with her, and seeing her beam when I joked with her.

Of Julieann holding back, across the room, knowing it was our time to say goodbye.

And finally, of kissing her cheek and lips last Sunday morning, and holding her hand to say "goodbye" without actually saying the word, both of us crying at once, each of believing it was time.

It was the most tender moment of my life and I will be eternally grateful for it. Grateful to my Mother for being who she was and to my wife, Julieann for being who she is.  My life is filled with extraordinary women; my Mother, my wife and my daughter.  My son Tyler is an amazing person too; generous, loyal, smart, talented and more.  I am a huge lottery winner Tim and I didn't even have to buy a ticket.

I wish I would have spent more time with her, and would have thought to ask more about her childhood, about her being raised on a Montana homestead in a family of 13.

You got me going on this one Tim.  Thanks.  I appreciated sitting here reflecting on these events and sharing them with you."

I am thinking of you today my Chippewa Princess. You are in Heaven and it was made for you...

B-B-B-Beards and Bootstraps

It was 1972, five years after the "Summer of Love." He was finishing college while on the Air Force Bootstrap* education program (now with a more formal title; Air Force Educational Leave of Absence Program). If you were an enlisted person within one year (now two) of graduation you could apply to attend school full-time to graduate. At the same time you could collect VA financial support for tuition along with your normal active duty pay - a hell of a deal to be certain. Your payback for this support was and still is 3-1. That is, you owed three months of service for every one month you were away.

Chapman University in Orange, California offered extension classes at a lot of military bases. They were eight-week terms year round so a person could knock off a lot of semester hours fast. His turned out to be 54 semester hours in a span of 10 months spread between courses at Norton Air Force Base in San Bernardino, CA and March Air Force Base in Riverside, CA. It was a busy schedule but not too difficult for most.

He was really intrigued by the idea that he wouldn't be wearing a uniform while in school as he had the previous seven years when he enlisted at age 17. That also meant he wouldn't be observed for compliance with Air Force grooming standards. So right off the bat he began letting his hair and beard grow. Julieann, his wife of some four years at the time, tolerated the little kid in him as always.

Hey...it was 1972-73!
Gotta' have hair and lots of it right?!

As he neared the end of his bootstrap time, he was approached by a fellow student at one of his night accounting classes at Norton Air Force Base. The "fellow student" turned out to be an Air Force Major who asked him if he was on active duty. He answered "yes." The Major nodded his head and then moved away.

There was a weird look in that Major's eye that made the bootstrapper* pretty uneasy. He was afraid he would get zapped for growing all that hair against regulations so he devised a plot to escape. He called his accounting professor, a fairly senior enlisted man who was teaching part-time, and told him the story. He then asked the professor if he could skip the second to last accounting class and take the final exam separate from the class. Much to his surprise, his professor agreed and that was that...he never saw the mysterious Major again.

He had a great ten-month beard and bootstrap journey. In the end, he had his degree in hand and returned to duty clean shaven.  Just over a year later he was commissioned** a second lieutenant in the Medical Service Corps...an act that would put his beard growing days on hold until post-retirement in the late '80's.

*The term "bootstrap" in the military sense typically refers to self-help or...pulling yourself up the career ladder by your own bootstraps. In his case it was actually his wife, Julieann. Julieann was the one doing all the pulling although she probably didn't realize it at the time but yup, she was the motivation all right.

**In a serious touch of irony, he went from NCO on Dec 31st 1974 to to 2nd Lt, on Jan 1st 1975...overnight, while driving from Luke AFB, AZ to Mountain Home AFB, ID.  His first assignment, Hospital Squadron Commander where one of his primary responsibilities was to enforce the grooming standards of Air Force Regulation 35-10. 

Work - Getchu Summa That!!!

“Work is about a search for daily meaning as well as daily bread, for recognition as well as cash, for astonishment rather than torpor; in short, for a sort of life rather than a Monday through Friday sort of dying.” 
― Studs Terkel

I was outside Sacramento's Capital Casino last Friday taking a short walk while on a break from a poker tournament.  Across the side street, they have demolished an old decrepit furniture store and are replacing it with a large parking lot that covers, I would guess, at least two square blocks. They have been working on it for at least a couple of months and must be spending at least a couple million bucks it. When complete, it will accommodate casino patrons and employees. At least, that's the plan.

Right now, we are parking all over the place and Friday, I was parked right near the construction.  So...on my walk I happened to glance at my old Red Sled to check if everything was in order. Right behind, I noticed this mason carefully finishing the top of a brick foundation for one of the many light posts that will be in the lot.  He was using a rectangular trowel and was applying finishing touches slowly with what appeared to be practiced precision.

I decided to walk away but then turned and took a picture of the man at work...

He's there, in the middle, yellow hard hat
with a cloth to shade his neck.  See him?!

Here's the thing...the top of that foundation has to be six and a half to seven feet high.  That means for a hundred(s?) years they will likely be there, it is very possible that no one will ever see the results of his careful work on the top of those light posts.  Yet there he was,  taking care to be sure the finished product was of high quality.

In those moments I was pretty damn impressed, as you can see here.  That, I thought, is something I too could have done for my working life and been pretty satisfied.

Work.  Craftsmanship.  Pride.  Put them all together and in my book (or in this case, in my blog) you have a winner.

A Pot To Piss In

In the curious world of word spinning
There is an idiom that most often concerns being poor
As in having, "a pot to piss in"
If you do, you are okay
If you don't you are broke

That is not what this story is about exactly

No sir this one's about a job
A gathering of like minded folks
Who tried to do right by a bunch of other folks....

And of course...it's about the pot

He was a young Air Force Hospital Administrator
Fairly fresh out of grad school*
But with a lot of experience in hospital trenches
Having roamed the halls of several before
As an Air Force enlisted preventive medicine technician
And three years as junior officer/administrator

Shortly after he and his family arrived at the Montana missile base, he found out one wing of the World War II cantonment style hospital was completely closed.  It had been a 10 bed maternity ward closed a couple years earlier because of a shortage of Air Force OB docs.  He didn't like the idea of Air Force families relying on the small local community hospital for delivery services. It was pretty expensive for the government and it placed the services an unnecessary distance from the husbands and children of the moms-to-be.  His idea was to reopen the suite, staff it with Air Force nurses and technicians and bring in local OB docs on contract as needed.

He successfully campaigned with Strategic Air Command headquarters staff (including Gottlieb, Morgan, Fant, Coleman, Cerha and Geiger) for assistance (read permission) and he was on his way. First, with the kind support of the Chief Nurse, Fred McDowell at another SAC base, he was loaned a young nurse with solid OB background to serve as project manager. Captain Ann White would keep everyone on track for preparing the hospital facilities to once again accept expectant moms.

Right out of the gate, he could tell Ann was detail oriented, energetic and knew exactly what needed to be done.  He pulled together a main team consisting of the hospital plant manager; Morris Davis, the logistics or supply MSC; Richard Rognehough, Ann and himself.  The team would be augmented by the hospital chief medical officer and nurse as needed.

Ann prepared the "to-do" list for the team, they planned regular status meetings and they were off and running. Activities ran the gamut from painting walls, sterilizing and ordering equipment to arranging staff.  On one occasion, Ann even had the entire team sharing vacuum duties in the ward ventilator shafts..."Its gotta' be done in order to limit the risk of contamination guys so get your heads in there (literally) and get it done.  And don't forget to wear face masks." He didn't forget. The team, dressed in grubbies, gathered at the hospital on a Saturday morning and got the job done.

There were some contentious sessions at their team meetings though. In fact, as time wore on, he began calling it "the pissing contest." It was a terrific team but they didn't all have the same ideas about how to get from point A to point B. At the end of their meetings, he took to closing with; "Okay, next pissing contest will be on ___day at 8 right here in my office.  Be there or be square."

Engraved vintage Vollrath (maybe) 89150 Stainless Steel
Military Issue Male Urinal w/ Handle

In the end they were successful and sometime later, Ann collaborated with the team to present him with an old stainless steel container, a relic from the pre-plastic disposable days.  Yes folks, it was a male urinal engraved with these precious words; "Captain Tom Campbell, Pissing Contest Today, Be There or Be Square."

Today, over 30 years later, that pot holds a place of honor in his office as a reminder of great days with great people.  It also guarantees he will forever have a "pot to piss in" in the classic sense of the phrase.

Epilogue: Ann was the real driver on this once she got into it.  We all just ended up standing back and obeying orders.  She later left the Air Force and attended Columbia University where she got her PhD. I still hear from her once in a while and about her latest adventures.  She is one of my heros.

*See "Grad School Kicked His Ass"

Between Heaven and Earth

Early morning in the Black Hills. A little coffee and maybe a sweet roll in the belly and you are ready to ride.

Your choices for the day are many. The stark beauty of the Badlands is waiting. The close up, three dimensional views (and yes, if there is a fourth dimension it has to exist right there) of Mount Rushmore are waiting too. Listen... it doesn’t matter how many photos you take or have seen... if you haven’t panned the granite presidents with your own eyes you have not really seen them.

Or you can head for Spearfish canyon, Devils Tower, Custer National Park and the famous Needles rock formations. You can also visit Crazy Horse monument (literally the biggest Native American of all time). Plus, don’t forget the mother of them all… the Sturgis motorcycle rally for a take on crowd gathering at its finest. They are all day rides and they are all great rides... filled with the beauty of the land and enough curves to keep you alert.

Before the day is over you will steer the iron pony toward every degree and every cardinal point on the compass. You will wonder at the feel of the grips in your hands, the feel of torque that comes on the instant you twist that grip. It will happen hundreds of times on a day trip and, if you are lucky, millions of times during your life of riding.

To begin: You check for the neutral light and then thumb the switch.

"Crank!" It’s the gears of the starter, immediately launching itself at the heart of the big bagger’s engine.

"Thump!" It’s the first explosion of air and fuel in protest to the starter’s sudden shot of energy.

"Crank… Thump… Rumble!!" The bike fires up faster than you can read these words and settles into the classic, “potato, potato” sound that gives the icon much of it's mystique.

You pause to wait for the oil to begin circulating from the engine’s crankcase to the outer reaches of the its casings.  The thick, dark amber fluid warms as the mass of iron, chrome, leather and rubber prepares for a full day of torque and horsepower responses. During the pause you work through the routine of donning gloves, sunglasses, zippers and maybe a do-rag. Then you climb on.

You throw a leg over the iron horse and simultaneously lean your weight from left to right as you wrestle it up from an awkward incline against the kickstand. Then you have her upright and balanced but she is still clumsy.  She is waiting for the centrifugal effect of wheels turning to make her the graceful blend of form and function that she is.

Your left hand squeezes the clutch while a practiced left foot finds and presses the linkage to check... yes, she is in first gear. A smooth, deliberate release of the clutch with just the right combination of right hand turning the throttle and she is in motion. The air in front of you reluctantly gives way as you slice through it, creating turbulence most noticeable in your hair, your shirtsleeves and your pant legs.

Crisp. Early morning in the Black Hills.

Crisp. The air is perfect and taking huge gulps of it is the best way to enjoy the route to wherever you are going.

Crisp. The air is also crystal clear and the views of everything are striking in panorama. 

Yes folks, no special 3D glasses required.

You will never be as close to God as you are when you are riding a motorcycle on the edge.... right at the precise center of heaven and earth. It is up to you to define the edge but it is really anywhere from zero to infinity in terms of miles an hour.

At zero; you can be gone instantly if you are paused at a stoplight and the driver behind you doesn’t stop.

Toward infinity; you can be gone instantly if you tire on a long stretch of Interstate and forget to counter steer when on the exit ramp turn.

In between; you can be gone instantly if that cage driver in the opposite lane approaching suddenly decides to make a left turn in front of you.

In any event, you are right there at His or Her doorstep, waving as you pass by. He, or She says, “Today is your day so enjoy. The time will come when I will call you home but for now, enjoy that earthly pleasure. By the way, what kind of pipes do you have on that Hog?”

I am grateful all right. Yes, I am grateful. Thanks to my amazing wife Julieann who is the Earth Angel always on my shoulder and thanks to God for another day.

The "Sand Pit" - Cam Ranh Bay

Cam Ranh Bay, "The Sand Pit" was a major US naval base and airfield during the war in Vietnam.  It is regarded as the finest deepwater shelter in Southeast Asia.  Over the years, it has been occupied by the French, the United States, North Viet Nam, Russia and then again Viet Nam.  Currently it supposedly serves as a ship repair facility available to foreign warships and is supported by Russian consultants.

Cam Ranh Base - 1970

During the war, one of the base's major functions was to serve as an Army convalescent center where wounded US soldiers could be treated, recuperate, then returned to duty.  It was also a drug abuse treatment center. Heroin addiction was an epidemic and many addicts were evacuated to the United States for more intense treatment. The preferred method for transportation was Aeromedical Air Evacuation "air evac", a function performed by the Unites States Air Force. 

The base was known for sand; lots of shifting sand that required boardwalks to help troops move among buildings.  The area also featured large rats, snakes, palm and banana trees, Vietnamese thatched huts and, the occasional sapper. 

In 1971, my former Air Force Medical Service Corps colleague and pal, Tom McDougall was a First Lieutenant stationed at Clark Air Force Base in the Philippines.  While there Tom pulled a six week assignment at the Sand Pit to set up an air evac detachment. The purpose, to ship heroin addicts home as patients.  This is Tom's story:

"Drugs were a huge problem in Viet Nam.  We didn't even mess around with those smoking pot, just the ones who were hooked on heroin. This situation set the stage for my arrival at Cam Ranh Bay, which was a large sand dune in the South China Sea abutting the mainland. The base was the size of a small city and handled a lot of cargo and supplies. 

When I got there, I met up with 2 enlisted guys and we comprised the air evac detachment. The motor pool gave us a crappy old pickup truck we had to push start to get going each morning. I negotiated with the transportation guy and had a quart of brandy and two cases of San Miguel bottles delivered on one of my incoming air evac planes (you could only get canned beer in country). I traded this for a relatively new 6 passenger pick up. We were in the process of "Vietnamization" at the time which meant the Vietnamese received all the new trucks arriving, so the transportation guy broke some major rules to imbibe of the "supplies" I offered. 

Patients would be rehabilitated for about 2 weeks at an Army hospital and then delivered to our Aeromedical Staging Facility located at the Air Force hospital.  It was a large quonset hut surrounded by barbed wire fences and staffed with security police as well as medical personnel.  We would receive about 70 patients a day (do the math for a year and you can see we had a serious heroin problem) and they would immediately be strip searched and finger waved.  The med techs drew straws every day to see who had the honor of serving as "Goldfinger." 

Heroin caps

We also drug tested them about 2 hours after arrival. One or two always failed and were shipped back. They were kept in locked wards at the Army hospital, but would obtain caps of heroin from the Vietnamese hospital workers who would trade them for money or a watch. We could not figure out how they were smuggling the heroin into our Aeromedical Staging Facility until one enterprising med tech noticed most of the smugglers were black.  When we started combing out their hair we found out that was where they were hiding it.

There was an auxiliary Army Officer's Club about 5 miles away that was run by an Army Sergeant who wanted to be a restaurateur when he got home so the place looked like an Italian restaurant.  My two guys and I would change into civilian clothes so they could get in (they were enlisted) and go there for dinner every night.  We would skip lunch and order 2 dinners apiece.  You could get a filet mignon, salad, and a baked potato for $2.50, or a lobster tail instead of the filet.  We usually drank about 4 or more bottles of Rose Mateus or other Portuguese wine that the club manager managed to keep in stock.  I think the wine was $2 a bottle.  I may be the only guy sent to Viet Nam who gained weight while he was there.  

One night coming home from dinner we stopped and picked up 3 filthy grunts who had just come out of the bush.  They wanted to go to the NCO club on base, but we were stopped at the main gate by the security police.  They informed me that the base commander did not allow any Army enlisted guys on base after dark because they had torn up the club a few times.  I made him tell our passengers.  I could not believe that the base CO was such an asshole.  No wonder a lot of those grunts turned to dope.  

Another time returning from dinner (maybe 6 bottles that night) we were taking a short cut to an AF barracks where there was a party when I hit a bunch of 50 gallon drums full of sand that blocked the road. Luckily there was not too much damage to the truck although the collision sounded like a bomb going off.  We took another road to the party and found everyone outside worrying that an attack was coming because of the loud noise.  They had closed the road earlier in the day because of supposed enemy activity.  We had a pretty good laugh over that one.

We worked 7 days a week (flight every day), but we had a little time to go to the beach and catch some sun.  You had to be careful when swimming because the crazy Army helicopter pilots would skim the deck at about 2 feet.  The first time one went over that close it scared the crap out me.  

The base was saturated with outside speakers, a system that was called "Giant Voice."  It would come on 2 or 3 times a day and announce the weather (hotter than hell) and the current security condition.  This was giving in military terms, like DEFCON 3 (safe), DEFCON 2 (suspected enemy activity), and DEFCON 1 (haul ass to the weapons storage area because we were about to be overrun). They didn't allow AF guys to carry weapons...this was another bright rule. 

The guys who spoke on Giant Voice all had great radio or possibly singing voices and sounded really smooth in their daily deliveries. One afternoon the guy said we were on DEFCON 2 and further stated they expected enemy activity that night.  The Vietnamese all left the base before 3 PM which made us even more convinced we were going to be hit. 

Each day, we needed to report to work very early because our flights usually arrived at 7 AM.  I was sitting there hung over at 6 AM, pleased that we had not been attacked the night before, when there was a huge explosion that blew out the 2 doors on the building and raised the metal shutters on all the widows. The lights went out and I found myself fighting for space under my desk with a nurse (equal opportunity in war).  

The first explosion was followed by another about a minute later. The lights were out and all the drug patients were under their beds where one asshole was doing a whistle imitating an incoming missile.  Several of his bunk mates threatened to kill him, but were too scared to move. After a couple of more explosions, good old Giant Voice came on, but he sounded like he was scared to death. He was stuttering and stammering and saying "DEFCON, uh DEFCON uh 2."  Well that was helpful since we had already figured we were under attack.  We kept waiting for the big one, but it didn't come.  

Giant Voice finally explained that an enemy sapper had blown up a good part of the ammo dump up on the hill.  After that explanation there were a lot of idiots out on roofs taking pictures of the bombs and missiles exploding.  When the missiles went they took off into the air so it was not real safe outside for a few hours.  

About 3 hours after the last of the explosions went off they opened the runway and the first plane in was a contract carrier full of newbies.  When the pilot was in final approach a missile went off from the ammo dump and came close to the airplane. The pilot pulled the stick like he was driving an F-16 and hauled the hell out of there. I am sure he exceeded all the tolerances for that airplane, but he was not waiting around.  They diverted to Saigon and came back about 3 hours later.  Everyone went down to the tarmac to greet the newbies and see if any of them had brown stains on their butts.

Later, I got on the phone to my boss in the Philippines and told him I thought I should leave on the plane coming in that day.  He said I had to wait until my permanent replacement came in about 2 weeks.  

I was a little nervous around loud noises after that and was not real pleased with our security.  We expected them to come and we couldn't stop one guy from getting to the ammo dump (gee, you think that might be a target?)

I left 2 weeks later when a beaming 2nd Lt stepped off an airplane carrying a golf bag.  That idiot's name was John Oleson and he probably has better war stories than I do.  He was famous for sitting in high stakes poker games in Saigon and cleaning out a bunch of senior officers. 

Anyway that is my short war experience.  The 20 minutes while the bombs were going off  (we did not know what it was) were terrifying.  It greatly increased my appreciation for the grunts who lived with that shit daily.

About ten years ago I ran into a guy who had been assigned to Cam Ranh when I had been there.  We were telling war stories when he mentioned it was a good thing the enemy sapper didn't get at the 15,000 pound bombs.  I was not aware there had been any at the base and he informed me that if they had blown we would not be there talking. Ignorance is bliss."

(Thanks for the story Tom.  Tom served a full career with the Air Force Medical Service Corps is now recently retired from a senior position with the University of Texas health system.  He resides somewhere on the gulf coast.  He remains busy sipping fine wine or scotch or both and smokes mighty fine stogies. If you find any mistakes in his story here or any blame to place, I made them and blame me.)

A Social Virus

Son Tyler's band, Arden Park Roots has had an unpaid manager, Josh Dickel, for around four years.  That is how it goes in this business...bands struggle for bookings and once in a while an avid, tenacious fan pops up and asks to take point.  Josh is that way.  He is perhaps the band's greatest fan, maybe only next to a certain really senior groupie.  

Josh is also tenacious. He has booked the gang all over the United States and now actually manages several bands the same way.....for free, for zip, for nada.  

A few months ago he started posting inspirational notes like the one you see here. He would get a couple hundred likes and figured it was working well.  I, in my infinite wisdom, was thinking he was driving away just as many fans as he was bringing in. I mean, if you are following a band for their music and they drop one of these things on you every few days it can be downright annoying right?  Well, maybe not.

Consider the sociology and social media implications of a post Josh put up just ten days ago. Over 4 million people reached...over 32 thousand shares and it has caused over 1,000 fans to sign up for more stuff. The first few days it was hitting almost a million reaches a day and it has finally leveled off. 

Arden Park Roots fires a introspective note and strikes a chord.

Here is what I am thinking on the sociology angle: the widespread reaction to the message to free yourself from wifi for a while (This is my interpretation but it can't be far off right Vern?). These folks are mostly in their 30's and they seem to be concerned about that right?! I, for one am damn glad they are recognizing it.

As far as social media goes there are a ton of considerations. First, the "viral" thing; it's crazy isn't it?!  This is hundreds of thousands of times more reaction than any of Josh's posts have ever got. All those shares too...people have to be impressed to share something and every time it happens all their friends see the post too right? As for the 1,000+ "likes", the band has been stuck at around 25,000 for well over a year and all of a sudden this jump. It all says something about persistence and, of course luck...the Lady's got to visit you once in a while if you keep rolling the dice right?  Yes Vern, it's the old marketing law of large numbers that goes something like this; make a thousand calls, if one says "Yes"... bingo!

Well done Josh.  Well done.

PS - Took another  look in mid March and this is how it stacks up:
Almost 5 million reached, 12 thousands likes and over 37 thousand shares.  Pretty cool.

Captain HRS___, MD

I want to tell you a story about an Air Force Doctor. His name was HRS. (Name withheld to protect the not so innocent.)

In the early 60's, I was a brand-new, naive 18-year-,old at my first military assignment, Cannon Air Force Base, New Mexico. I was a public health specialist, a one-striper airman.

HRS was a fresh MD and a Captain. He was assigned to the Flight Surgeon's office. His prime duty was to see to the health care needs of the pilots stationed at Cannon. His secondary duty was to serve as Public Health officer or as we called it at the time; "Military Public Health" and later, "Environmental Medicine."

That made HRS my boss...not directly though. My primary boss was a fine Technical Sergeant named J. A. Clark. JA was not around for any of the interactions between Harvey and I.  He was out doing environmental health inspections or goofing off, or both.

TSgt J.A. Clark and Yours Truly
TAC Mobility Hosp exercise
Cannon AFB, NM - 1964

HRS was what was known at the time as a "Berry Planner." These were physicians who had been drafted but received a deferment to complete medical training. They were then required to serve two years on active duty. Many of them were a problem as they had bad attitudes about having to serve. Many also believed (correctly) they could carry their bad attitudes openly because physicians were in extremely short supply, thus making their superiors reluctant to take disciplinary action when indicated.

HRS caught on to me being naive and vulnerable right away. I saw his as unpredictable, and maybe unstable plus I was afraid he would get me in trouble based on a whim if he wanted.  I was still learning how survive in a military environment.

One day he asked me to wash his car and offered to pay.  I thought nothing of it and was actually happy to do it as it was a Corvette and I had never driven one.  That worked well.  Sometime after that I did something, or failed to do something I don't recall which...but I do recall that I was wrong. HRS was not happy and decided to punish me by ordering me to go to the Base Exchange and buy him a roll of toilet paper.  My thought was that it was preferable to other forms of formal punishment so I agreed and did just that.

One day he wrote a prescription for me and told me to fill it, then give the results to him.  It was for what were then called "go pills" at the time or what is formally known as Dexedrine.* They had just recently became controlled substances. I did it and then wrestled with what in the hell to do.  Finally, I just guessed.  Somehow, I had enough presence of mind to figure it wouldn't stop at that. The next day I went to our Squadron Commander and reported the incident.

*Some may recall back then flight surgeons would give pilots tongue depressors with pill bottles taped to them.  One end would be colored red and labelled "Go."  These would contain dexedrine.  The other end would be colored blue and labelled "Stop." I forgot what medication was in there but the meaning was obvious. They were intended to help pilots stay alert and conversely decompress on and after long haul flights.

The solution was to have me work in the Hospital Eye Clinic a few months, out of HRS's chain of command, until my time came to leave for my next assignment to the Azores.

Nothing happened to HRS as a result of the incident. He didn't ask me to "fill" any more prescriptions either.

At first, I was totally intimidated by HRS but he taught me how to deal with it so I owe him for that.

A while back, out of curiosity I tried to track HRS down.  I found him or at least I am pretty sure I found him, middle initial and all. A Tulane grad, about 79 years old...it all fit.  Turns out in the late 80's he was convicted for filing fraudulent tax returns and in the late 90's the DEA revoked his license because he was not authorized to handle controlled substances in California.  I found that out in two formal documents on Google.  Google knows everything right?!  Poetic justice for that quirky sonofabitch.

Someone asked me to point out the "see something, say something" lesson here but you probably hear that all the time. Instead, I will add, just as in any experience with an emergency or crisis of conscience, you really don't know how you will react until you actually experience it. You can talk about it all day but you really don't know.  When it happens to you, and I am pretty certain it will if it hasn't already, I wish you luck in doing whatever lets you sleep well at night.

Sincerely,

Airman Third Class Thomas R. Campbell

AF19773665

Addendum - Note To Younger Self*

Contributions from Tyler, Sam, Amber and Cody on Christmas Eve, 2015

• Don't do drugs - curiosity and peer pressure will take you there. Don't stay.
• Don't play stereo on the Watt bridge - try to stay in the moment - you will get so excited about something you will find it hard to focus on things that require immediate attention so...you will make mistakes. It happens to most everyone so don't beat yourself up too much about it.
• Fear of missing out  - you will worry about other things you could do or want to be doing. This is a feeling you share with your father, especially in his early teen years. It will pass but it will cause extreme frustration at first. Later, you will channel it into activities that will be productive.
• Don't worry so much about getting every thing done you should be doing...spend more time with things you enjoy, seek balance. Remember though, there are basic structural things in society and within yourself you must give due attention too.  
• Trust your instincts - there will be times when you don't (Jamaica). It's okay as you can learn from the experience.
• Never make friends in second grade then keep them for 20 years...them puppies may come back to haunt you.
• Be nicer to your Mother - you will look back on this and wish you had. She will understand though. She always does.
• Narrow your focus on your interests so you can excel - don't try to be good with everything. There is a time-worn adage by author Malcolm Gladwell that sheds  little light on this...it takes 10,000 hours of practice to master something. If you are lucky, you will stumble across something that you love enough to do this.
• Don't be afraid of change. It attacks every generation. It will attack yours. Count on it.  
• Further your education and don't focus too much on music. Maybe, if you are lucky you will find something that combines the two. Or...you can find ways to do both.
• Enjoy the simple things in life...you don't have to be constantly connected.
• Pursue your passion...if it excites you when you are ten it will likely excite you when you are old enough to seriously pursue it.
• Expand your comfort zone by getting outside your peer group.
• Give everyone at least a first chance.

*Embellishment provided by The Meddler

Note To (Younger) Self

"I am he, as you are he, as you are me, and we are all together..." I Am The Walrus - The Beatles.  This line of lyrics occurred to me as I began to think about a letter from my elder self to my much younger self...

Dear "Thomas T. Tatamous."

Yes, that is the name our Mother will confer on us in our pre-teen years before our despicable brother David Claud William was born and stole a huge chunk of our home turf.  Yeah he even got four names to our three and what the hell was that about?!

Thomas T. Tatamous

You and I will receive many gifts at birth. A silver spoon will not be one of them. Later in life you will come to regard this as perhaps your greatest blessing for it will inspire you to work hard, to not take things for granted and to really appreciate a damn good bologna sandwich - preferably fried and always "with ketchup please."

Tatamous, you will not appreciate your gifts as you should and this will slow your progress - but you will crank up the gears a few times and in the process, to your great delight and surprise, witness your potential. You will find some comfort in coming close and in some critical instances, you will nail it.

As a child raised mostly in North Dakota, you will cultivate a naiveté you will carry throughout your life. As a poor child, you will also cultivate a sense of imposter syndrome. Don't let either worry you too much though as neither is necessarily a bad thing.  The first will give you an extra measure of happiness and the second will keep you humble.

At the foot of the Black Hills of South Dakota, you will find your bride.  She will show you the meaning of beauty in body, mind and spirit. She will teach you about tenacity and loyalty. She will love and inspire you for more than 50 years.

In western Washington, she will give you a son.  He will teach us about stature; in his remarkable athleticism at baseball and soccer, in his intelligence, and in his courage to face performance anxiety through hundreds of stage performances.  He will write poetic lyrics to songs that will touch the hearts of young and old alike. His fine character will include attributes of loyalty, thoughtfulness and generosity. He will struggle to find his place in an increasingly complex world.

In northern California, your wife will give you a daughter of striking beauty and intelligence.  She too will be blessed with athleticism. She will also demonstrate extraordinary mechanical ability.  She will discover a sense of composure in stressful, emergent conditions.  She will show fine artistic and organizational skills. Her character will shine with humor, loyalty and compassion for others.  Her spirit will prove a contemporary match for her Mother's.  She too will struggle in dealing with the cultural extremes that are at every young person's fingertips today.

As fate would have it, both your son and daughter will also be lefties like you. That will make them squirrelly, unpredictable, and easily distracted daydreamers... just like you.

Along the way you and I will learn many things... as do others.  You will stack them up in your mind as you go, until you reach age 70. Then, you will be filled with wonder at the serendipitous way you got where you are. As your bride will testify on more than one occasion, you will live "a charmed life."

Now, after that lengthy freakin' preliminary let's get to it.  In keeping with the precedent set by others for this type of note to self, what have we learned along the way and what can you use to become a better person than you are at 70?

1. Beware of peer pressure - While it can be good, it will get you in trouble more than often than not.
2. Be careful who you hang out with -  See #1.
3. Indulge your curiosity - It will take you where you love to be and if you stay with it long enough it will sustain you.
4. "Write like a Motherfucker" - Cheryl Strayed.  In other words learn from lessons shared by others and, of course write... just write.
5. Be true to those who love you - This is not easy.  Repeat.  This is not easy.
6. Inanimate things will break too - Don't let your leftie disposition get the best of you when this happens.
7. You will witness remarkable advances in technology and remarkable declines in civilization. Try not to take either too seriously; it won't help anything.
8. Being judgmental is not a good thing - try to do a better job of avoiding it than your much older self. In the end, you will make much better decisions.
9. Cultivate those endorphins - You will do good, you can do better.

On the other hand... you will end up who you are at 70 won't you?! So there's no sense in regrets about the past.  Just take comfort in the knowledge that people generally tend to remember the good things and if you can, spend more time with that thought.

Life will be nothing more than your best guess and you are going to be lucky kid... you are going to be really lucky.  

(I was recently inspired to write this by a post from Amy Jo Martin: Her's was a terrific letter to her younger self and I shared it with my son and daughter in hopes they too would reflect on their journey thus far.  I thought it would be fun to do the same...)

Profiles in Poker

This week I wrote a tribute to one of my fellow Texas Hold'em tournament players. He had what was, to my way of thinking, a monumental birthday...his 95th.  I sent the tribute to some of my pals as I knew they would all get off on any story that includes the word, "donuts."

They all seemed impressed with my description of my poker pal's character and intellectual vitality.  One of them even suggested (you know who you are) I write my next book and fill it with descriptions of this gentleman and others perhaps like him...suggested title; "Profiles in Poker."

Well, I have been thinking about another book but don't think I have enough gumption to find and fill it with descriptions as interesting as the one I have written. Nonetheless, here is an edited version of the first, and probably last one I have written:

December 3, 2015 - This morning I stopped at a donut shop on the way in to the Capital Casino poker tournament.  It was my second time, having been sent originally by someone who rightfully claimed they make the best in Sacramento.  I bought two glazed and a small coffee to work on while I waited for the lady to box a couple of dozen to take with me.

It was just the lady working the counter and me inside.  The shop is located near Interstate 80 on Watt Avenue here.  This can be a pretty nasty location as not so many years ago some robbers executed a guy and girl working at a pizza joint in the same strip mall.  As I sat there I thought, “Damn, what if someone just walked in here and started spraying the place with bullets just because of a bad donut or maybe a “too hot” cup of coffee? I mean hey…look what happened in San Bernardino just yesterday right?  Plus there have been more mass shootings in the US than days in the year so far. 

Then I thought, “Good  location for it but bad bang for the buck as with just two of us there wouldn’t be much “spraying” necessary. Nah, they would probably go for a bigger location with a lot more potential victims so then I relaxed and turned to better thoughts.

I was buying the donuts for one of my poker pals, "Ritz" to celebrate the occasion of his birthday today.  He is 95 and still sharp enough to play competitive poker and play it well.  He is big man, with a large frame and stands tall at around six feet even at his age.  His son, who is about my age, accompanies him 3-4 times a week to play the tournaments. This gentleman is a fine character who immigrated from Italy when he was little.  He was orphaned and lived alone, surviving in a Sacramento basement for more than a year before he was a teenager. Later, he married (lasted almost 70 years before she passed) and served a “duration of the war” hitch in the Navy.  To make extra dough to send home, he ironed clothes for his shipmates.

L-R Ritz Naygrow and Alphonso Ford
(Alphonso is a former silicon valley exec who 
played football at UCLA, but that's another story...) 

With the money he saved, he later bought a water bottling firm, and went to work.  He was successful and as time passed he bought other water companies that eventually included several states. His forte’ was integrating the new companies and making them profitable.  In 1979, a company in France paid Ritz over $60 million for his companies.

I know this because I have a copy of Ritz’s biography right here on my desk.

Ritz is 95 today and here is why I think so highly of him.  He is every bit the consummate gentleman our pal and former Air Force Colonel Bill Grinstaff (RIP) was.  An example…we were on a tournament break a couple of years ago and I noticed a bathroom habit of Ritz'…yup, a bathroom. I was waiting behind him for a sink and saw him turn after washing his hands to pull a paper towel from the dispenser. There are two dispensers side-by-side and he took one towel, dried his hands then advanced both machines so there would be towels handy for the next person.  I have since copied that move and once told his son Tom that I call it the "Ritz Naygrow Memorial Towel Move.” Yes there could be a better title and there are likely many more and better examples but you get my drift I think.  This was before I read his bio so I already had a hunch about the man I would find in his book.

A few weeks ago on impulse I gave Ritz a copy of “Badass” in return for the copy of his biography he had graciously sent.  He later told me my book was full of “Goddamn vivid descriptions” and it should be in “Every Harley shop in the United States.” (I didn’t tell him that most Harley riders can’t read and those few who can won’t....just kidding.) This proves Ritz is an expert bullshitter too, just like all of us.  

I got the donuts safely to the Casino without eating more and the pit boss helped me set them up for crew and players who were so inclined.  I used a big Sharpie and wrote on the boxes; ‘Happy Birthday Ritz!" We gave him the pick of the first one and I got a big hug from a good friend.  I am a happy camper.

(I recall old friend Paul Murrell telling me he spent some time working in a donut shop in his youth. I think it was his father’s. Years later, Paul and I equipped a contract proposal War Room in Baton Rouge with 2 dozen Crispy Kreme donuts a day to help team members wrestle with their writing anxiety. So here we have yet another good donut story or two eh Paul?!)