It's like no one knows him...

I knew him, won't forget him...
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It was as if like no one ever knew him. Once the story got around, no one could quite place him. I tried to describe him, all of a sudden, no one knew who he was.

He was a cool guy. Always smiling, always waving from where ever. He liked the ladies too. Good looking, smooth talker.

I called him my favorite master gardener. Told him I appreciated the fact that he brightened up this old factory with pretty flowers all over the place. Seems like after they hired him, he went right to work. Not to say that his company didn't place a few nice flowers here and there before, but when he went to work, the place really started to glow.

You know, I never learned his last name. I spoke to him many times. I even spoke to him the day before. He walked by me and as usual, smiled broadly and waved to me, chatted a minute before going on about his business.

Business. I also told him once that the place had never looked better. Those he hired were not only easy on the eyes, but seemed to work harder and do much better than ever during my time here. Before we had to ask for certain services, no more. All the way around, things improved greatly.

I hate to start, but I know there are those convinced that anyone that commits suicide goes straight to hell. The only unforgivable sin. THE God, creator of all. The one and only, the epitome of love and forgiveness. Of absolute compassion and caring. This icon of all that is right with the galaxy. Would allow such a travesty. At the darkest moment of someones life. The very moment, when someone realizes what has happened. The true moment, when a person knows there is no turning back. Perhaps the last conscience thought. The millisecond before the spirit leaves the body. What does that person experience? The horror of knowing. The flash of a lifetime. Regret? Fear? Is it truly the most anguish filled heartbeat. Or....is it the moment when the entity that you say gave his son for our forgiveness, grabs his hand, seeing the torture already endured. Witnessing the process, knowing what this person went through in order to make the choice to end it all. And to actually feel so discouraged about their place in life that this person would go through the how and the when. Not to encourage such behavior, but I want to believe that an angel comforted our Angel. And that this heavenly being wiped away all that was and is now caring for him in a way that those of us that would never feel such darkness cannot comprehend.

Yes, there are those that went on the attack. Their lives have been rough and they have known heartache and despair, but....they are still here. Struggling to make the best of it. Somehow, above all that, would never think of it. Cowards way out. Can't believe he would do that to his family.

Sorry, it's like many other things we discover. When it hits close to you, you have to look at it. And I refuse to think of this man, this good, friendly, smiling through it all, way too young to be gone, man, as having to suffer even more and being punished for not being able to find another way.

Regardless of how others look at him and what he has done, I will always consider him my friend and wonder if maybe I could have said or done something.......

Sorry ladies, this one's for men only

I know, we talked about this last year.....
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Last year, a niece of mine sent out a call for everyone to wear purple on the 20th of October. It was a way for us to show our support for those who are being bullied. The idea was to show the youth that are being picked on for having sexual identity issues that there are those that care about them. Way too many of them are committing suicide. Think about when you were young, we were only allowed to have one sexual identity. It was decided at birth. Many young people committed suicide then as well, maybe it was the absolute denial and the extreme prejudice and oppression of the time. I joked at work one day about a young man who's distant ancestors must have really lost it when my distant ancestors ran into that cave with fire to show them for the first time.

I know about being picked on for being different. At the moment, I am perceived as being older, short, overweight, bald and I prefer to wear my whiskers longer than is socially acceptable. I have, of course, always been shorter than most people and have had the tendency to carry a few extra pounds. When I started losing my hair, in high school, I felt I was treated like someone with a communicable disease, like others were afraid they'd catch "IT".

With the getting older thing and after coming to terms with another reason for others to tease, I decided to try to jump a very large hurdle. There are members of my family, including myself that have had trouble with needles, trouble you won't understand. I've had doctors that got spooked when I "kissed" the floor. But I decided I would take the plunge and give blood. A little more background, there was once a family member that may have needed surgery. I was asked, just in case, if I would be willing to donate blood....I declined. A decision that I have and will always regret. Well, there I went, gathered up all my courage (?) and went in. Even though I tried to tell them how much it took for me to go it there, because of surgery I had less than one year previously, they kicked me to the curb. Not long after that they returned and once again I pulled it together and went in. When I came to I was packed like a fish in ice. I was surrounded by every nurse in the place, one was holding a box fan at my feet, the one on my right was unplugging me and the one on my left was freaking because my blood pressure had spiked and she thought I was going to "stroke out". Oh yeah, what is probably the biggest head that ever ducked a door in the place I work was standing over me with a big smile on his face.....teasing. I know without reservation that this man cares for me, as he does everyone he knows. From his big feet to his big head, he has the biggest heart of anyone I know, but he has no idea what he has just done.

Where this came from is from me reading about a young man that was writing about the fact that he feels a need to "come out" to the check out person at the grocery store. He really enjoys flowers, everything about them and he buys them regularly. And when the checks out he routinely hears, "Oh, she's gonna love those!" A simple statement, no harm meant, none taken. But, they are for his partner, him. He knows there are many people around today that claim that they don't care. He, on the other hand, would love to hear of more people that do care.

Also, a co-worker of mine just gave me a gift. It was something I had jokingly told her when I saw her wearing it that I just HAD to have. She presented it to me right before a meeting we have at work just before we start in the mornings. She walked up to me and smiled and handed me that iridescent, incredibly pink, bandanna. I immediately wrapped it around my head. She stroked my long whiskers and grinned and said, "It really makes that silver shine!" After the meeting, on the way to my work station, I joked to another co-worker, "the things I do for women." He replied, "do you mean the masculine ones?"

Teasing.....I know.....and I care.

Postscript
The next visit to the Lawton Blood Bank and I will hit my original goal of one gallon.

Saw one of my brothers yesterday...

We were doing pretty much the same thing when our paths crossed..
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I was headed east, out of Lawton, on one of those roads Oklahoma is loaded with. You know, you cross over a road and the one you are on gets a bit rougher and goes from a named road into county road #....well, you know.

I was easing along, leaving the harried and hurried, in their quest to meet with him or her about this and that.

We were both just going about the business of no business. No rush, no where to be and no certain time to be there. Both enjoying one of those special Oklahoma mornings. Where the warm, late summer sun meets the cool early autumn breeze.

We stopped and checked each other out. Exchanged pleasantries and with one of those three finger waves, followed with a customary Oklahoma nod of the head, we moved on. Me to the east, on two wheels, him to the south, on four legs. Minding our own.

Just about then, I was thinking, there are many I know that could use this. All you have to do is ride out...or sit behind me. I will take you somewhere without a thing worth remembering....that you will never forget.

I've been known to ask, "Why did those folks stop here in the first place?" I bet on a horse, it would take forever to cross these hot dry plains. Ha, especially if you weren't in any kind of hurry. Think I figured it out.

My two cents......

We are all gonna be talking about it..
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Was thinking about that ol' tasteless joke. I wanna die like my dear old grandpa, peaceful, in my sleep. Not like those guys screaming and yelling in the back seat.

I know.

We all die ya know. We don't want to talk about it, but we think about it. That is the one thing we humans share for sure. Different ways, different times, but it's coming. You'd think we would've learned to deal with it by now.

I've had many tell me what happens, but you know, you really don't get two of them to agree. And the reason for being here, well, it's the same. I've heard too many different stories to really believe one.

There are those that leave this world straight from the womb. They grow these little wings and take flight before those little feet ever touch this distressful world of ours. That is one story that I insist on believing. Others manage to hang around almost as long as a tree.

People will leave you. About the time you get used to them, start to love them, get to know them, they are gone. I've lost three mother's in law, all good, uncharacteristically strong women. Don't think you want to let me marry your daughter.

I'm thinking about that day. You know. THAT day. I had helped start a small business. After a short hiatus, it was agreed that I should return. I was taking a week before going back. You know. Taking some time in between, to gather my thoughts and plan my plans.

That morning I got up and poured myself some coffee and turned on the news. Are you kidding? This can't be real! I called my wife, who was at work...What the hell?

It was so surreal. It couldn't be happening! One of those huge trade tower buildings, the ones in New York was burning! And as I watched and mumbled to my wife, the other one was hit! What the hell? And as I watched the event unfold in front of my eyes, as people were filmed leaping from those buildings in fits of madness, first one then the other collapsed. Surely it was a bad dream. You know, a book you can't put down, a movie you can't even take a potty break for.

All those people. In the planes, the buildings. The twin towers, the Pentagon, those valiant heroes over Pennsylvania. Oh My God!

Is this where we are...as a nation? Can we be victimized in such a manner?

It disgusted me. All the commercial use...songs...books...movies. Vultures that made money off of the bodies of all those that died.

Yes, people will leave you. After getting back to work, I asked a young lady how her husband was. She started crying. I learned that I too knew someone who died in that attack.

We will all remember where we were and what we were doing. May we never forget. We can't hold those peaceful members of a different society, lifestyle captive...to blame...

We are all members of this world. There are those that seek to make this a better world, there are those that wish to merely watch it burn.

Ma told me repeatedly...it's not what others do, it's what you do that matters.

"that was rough...."

It's difficult when it's one of your own.
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That's what he said when he came out. "that was a rough one"
He was talking about the funeral of Vietnam vet, Sgt. Kenneth Thompson. One of us. Many of those that would ride with him, one last time, had ridden with him before, had attended the service.

His wife had passed in January and he hung on, best he could. I will say it, his son told us that it was the Patriot Guard that kept him going. After she passed, he, like most men, didn't talk much. But some of the finest women, true unsung heroes, I know, are involved in the Patriot Guard. They kept him talking.

After he lost his wife, Ken became a member of the Patriot Guard. He was a true brother to many that served in Vietnam during the mid to late '60s. He was always there. He rode every mission he could make during the last months of his life. Always giving, instead of grieving. He missed her, but kept busy. He was a regular at the Tri-City Gun Club and at the American Legion hall. As if he wasn't busy enough with 11 grandchildren.

It seemed fitting.... that along with us.... on Kens last ride.... rode his son. He lives on.......

68 years and counti.......

You know they had "the" talk.
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You know "the" talk. Maybe one would say, "You know you can't go first, I simply couldn't make it without you." Then the other might reply, "Well, you know I couldn't find my hat without you to help."

They were born one year apart, to the day. They met and married in 1943 and he left later to serve with the U.S.Army in Germany until the end of World War 2.

The good Private First Class and his bride were then reunited and spent the remainder of their lives in the Oklahoma City area.

They were together for 68 years. Lived a fruitful life, sharing a pair of sons, one that was lost some time back. They also shared a business and were active at the country club. Up until health issues slowed them down, they were very active in the community as well.

Their lives were tragically taken by someone who had no life of his own. An accident, a harmless prank copied from a movie, that went worse than wrong. But we won't dwell on that.

Just know, they went together, as most long-term couples would prefer. At home, no drawn out affair at a nursing home. Not for these two. Loved and appreciated by so many. I hope they are aware that along with the 30 or so Patriot Guard Riders escorting these wonderful people, there was, the local EMT bus, a fire engine and several representatives of the local Police Department and the Sheriffs Office.

We will all die, someday. Does it really matter how? Do you think it's just better....to leave this world with the love and admiration of those related and others that knew you, lying beside your life-long best friend?

"gonna mosey around"

That's what Cats mom used to say.
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So we decided to take a walk. Down to the post office, on down the street to the corner. Crossed the road, went into the bank. Back up the road into the "bling" store and as we started to enter another shop and do some more local yakking....I saw him. A solitary soul standing under the canopy, behind the hearse, holding a flag. ?????

I told him I checked the web often and had seen nothing, but "you see the backend of that silver sporttrac there? I just live right there, be right back." And that's what I did. Went and got the bike and a few other things, sunblock, bottle of water and back to the funeral home. A PGR ride in my own town and I knew nothing of it.

He says his wife had gone back to their house to pick up a few things and would be back soon. It was a last minute posting and he was a new ride captain and wished for some others to show and for a little experience to show and things would be fine.

Never happened, oh his wife did come back.

So it was us three. So be it. Airman First Class James Leo Stowers would get the sendoff his family desired.

It was a little different, as usual. Three bikes followed by a hearse. Heading through the Oklahoma countryside out toward the National Cemetery on Mr. Stowers' last ride. Four ways flashing. No law enforcement, no long procession, just us. It's just what the family ordered. New ride captain up front with that big flag whipping in the wind, might as well been a hundred of us.

We did what we do at the cemetery. Stood quietly in our short flag line as our hero was honored for his service both in and out of the military. Our new captain went about the business of making the presentation in the behalf of the Patriot Guard Riders and did a fine job, especially for a first time.

Once it was all said and done, the preacher said it was concluded and all could visit with the family, we were about to excuse ourselves when this little girl, hair of gold and small bottom lip protruded, walked up to that beautiful spray of eye-popping red roses and plucked one and walked over to reach high up and lay it on top of that casket, thus truly concluding the service with her last goodbye to her paw paw.

We walked away from the family and went over to the bikes to chat a bit before we went our separate ways. The hero's daughter walked up and took my hand and told us how much he would have appreciated what we had done and while she was talking, that little girl walked up behind my motorcycle. She never said anything, just stood there with her mom and looked up with those sad little eyes wrapped with that sweet cherubic face. Made me realize that I will continue to do this as long as I can.

As I was looking at that adorable child, her mom mentioned that she needed a ride to Rush Springs. The moment was broken when I told mom, "I'll drop her off at the post office." And that little girl threw up her hands and made a sound that told me it WAS NOT GONNA HAPPEN !

Always different, always the same.

Mom's Memorial, 2011, part 2

The destination...
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As I said, I was set to head toward Canada, then with the weather staying cool, hmm, maybe Tuscan, Az. But then, once again I was hit with the images. The ones of SSgt. Tim Chambers. Standing at attention, for hours. Saluting almost a half million bikes, veterans, adoring associates. It was time, it IS the year.

As usual, no money for such a trip. This time there would be motels involved. Before there was only gas and of course a bit of TLC for the bike pre-trip. I have slept in the iron butt motel, last year. Quaint, but not somewhere you'd want to spend a week or so. I ended up with 70 hours overtime in a two week period. Not that much money after taxes, but lets go.

A few items of note. I was at the corner of 23rd Street and Constitution Avenue at a place called Thunder Alley. I was talking to a gentleman and mentioned that I had heard that as many as 4,000 bikes were expected to show for the 24th Annual Rolling Thunder Demonstration supporting our many POW/MIA soldiers. He laughed and said, "that is 400,000 give or take."

The next morning at five am, I got up and headed for the pre-staging area I was told I could meet some others at by 6 am. I rode in closer to 6:30 and as I rode in I was going to mention that maybe I would need to gas up before the big show and before I could say a word, this guys shouts, "two minutes!" man...

We started up and I have no idea how many there were of us, in that parking lot across from the Holiday Inn, 1,000 or so maybe.

We followed the motions through streets onto the highway and back through the streets, of those road captains. Parked alongside the roadway, waving us on. Several places there were Law Officers, standing and saluting as we rode by. Before seven am on a Sunday morning and there were people in groups here and there, waving flags and saluting and cheering as we were joined along the way by others, headed to our official staging area. When the road opened up, in we rode into the largest parking lot I had ever seen. I didn't know it at the time, but it is the parking lot for the Pentagon, the biggest building I have ever seen. From the ground, you couldn't tell what it was, just a huge, huge building.

Again, following the motions of the road captains, we streamed in. When the bike in front of you stopped, so did you and at once there were bikes moving in line next to you. If you needed gas, you had an issue. Within minutes I was buried in motorcycles. Row after row, a multitude of bikes, people and still they came.

I did manage to talk to someone about my issue, there were people that kept us going. A few bikes back, they almost tore down this man's bike. Had pieces on the asphalt all around. Never saw them, when I looked back, the bike was together and running. Well...cross your fingers.

I did walk up onto a hill and when I looked back....it was a sea of motorcycles. Bikes, trikes. Some with trailers behind, some with sidecars, all with people. All these people, here for one reason and one reason only. I was told that the estimate this year was 430,000. I was also told that the most violent city in the country had a distinct drop in crime while all those people were there.

It was almost noon, we had been there about 4 to 5 hours, drinking our water, eating, buying, taking pics, getting to know each other, when those four jets came over. Flying low in formation, fast, loud and cool. Someone yelled, "5 minutes!" When the first rows started, we could only get anxious and watch as they rolled out. Row by row, as they came in they went out. Recently affixed flags furling against the wind. The sound as more and more bikes came to life and moved out of the staging area into the streets of our beloved nations capital. As we went out, the shouts went up. The spectators also came to life. Waving flags and slapping hands and whistling and shouting and saluting. We crossed the Arlington Memorial Bridge and the Potomac River, wound around to Constitution Avenue, pass the Lincoln Memorial and there he is. The Lone Marine, a big reason for coming, Marine Staff Sargent Tim Chambers. Full dress, in the heat, saluting every bike that comes by. Standing at attention, holding that salute for up to 4 hours.

They asked how it feels to ride by this man, honoring those who show up to spend their time and money to help search for those forgotten, those left behind in our wars. Those that didn't make it home.

Well...the way I see it.... I'm thinking...maybe it's like going to Vatican Square. Twenty-third and Constitution. There are people crying, some are shouting, some are speachless. They salute back, they rev those loud engines, blow their horns. It's not just a man, the Pope, the Marine. It is what he represents. Sure he takes his time and spends it on us. But in honoring us with his blessing, salute, even though I feel very undeserving of it, he also is providing a monumental lesson in humility. Thus producing an extremely spiritual and emotional moment that I can't wait to experience again.

Once passed, we turn right and move along beyond thousands of others, there to honor and support...us... as we support those who can't speak for themselves.

I was glad I could share that moment with my mom and with those whose names are sewn onto the back of my denim jacket and I hope they somehow realized that we had done this together.

Oh and by the way, somehow, I made that entire route with that gas light shining. Hmm... I wonder?

Mom's Memorial Ride, 2011

Different....this time...
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I will have to do this in two parts I think. The first part will about the ride itself.

As you know, it's not the destination but the journey that people tend to agree as the important part of life. I also believe.

This journey, different than the past three, did have quite the destination. But that will come later.

Riding along, leaving out as usual before daylight, barely, the usual. Watching the sun come up from anywhere I've been in Oklahoma has almost always been fabulous. It had been cool, cool enough to stop me from my desire to go to Canada this year. I had made my mind up to head south and west. To Tuscan, Arizona.

But then my mind was changed again and I ended up heading due east toward Washington, D.C. Anyway, it is always a pleasure riding out through eastern Oklahoma. The cool morning air with the sun inching up almost seems routine after living here for seven years. Typical spring morning.

Once again cruising through Arkansas, still with the rolling hills and the cool air. Seems like I say the same things over and over, but really, this is a great part of the country to ride a motorcycle. The scenery and the people, as long as you miss the spring and summer storms which had recently been deadly. Almost to the point where I cancelled my trip. Deadly storms that barely missed us, that destroyed lives all to the south and to the north of us. Then continuing east across the country, you bet, I was close to taking a pass on the whole thing.

Then I find that at my destination, it was said there would be storms each day for the weekend I would be there. I was urged to forgo the trip and hang with the guys, work the weekend, go...next...time.

There was the issue of my beloved Patriot Guard Riders. There were no less than three funerals coming up, local, VietNam Vets. Special to me.

I was distracted. Some would say, "Someone is trying to tell you not to go." But then others, "Someone is testing your resolve."

But I did go and as I rode up on the second leg of my journey through those hills leaving Nashville and continued up, up from Crossville towards Knoxville. And pushed further up into eastern Tennessee and into Virginia, I realized how long it had been since I had been here. I found myself looking ahead and saying to myself, if I was in Oklahoma I would be noticing that it was raining up there and moving closer. Then it hit me that what I was looking at, the reason for these hills being named as such, was the morning fog, mist....smoke. After last evenings rain, the heavy morning mist was rising ever so slowly up those hills. There were points where the ever loyal sun seemed to be trying to get under the fog, trying to get those clouds to rise up from their slumber. They lay sleepily atop those old pines and oaks and rocks and were in no hurry to wake up just now. These hills are old and slow to wake. There were spots where the sun was winning, actually getting in between the hills and the clouds, shining and pushing, get up, get up, it's time for a new day. I too felt the lack of ambition, even though I had had a long day yesterday and was in for a long day today, I was soaking in all those Smoky Mountains and their splendor. It is there where man had come, with machine and explosives to brutally carve a path for others to pass smoothly. And it was there that nature had been slowly, almost imperceptibly, been making a comeback. Where those rocks had been blown away, in a fashion making large steps, back into the mountain, the tops of those steps had caught small trees and other foliage. Taking back what was lost. Everyone should make that trip some time. See the old man, see, hear, smell, feel, taste all he has to offer. I'm feeling mom liked it here too.

The trip back was just as fine. Riding highway 50 from Washington, D.C. west into Virginia, you pass through many small villages, not towns, villages. Old, colonial villages. With the huge houses and golf course looking lawns stretching across the acres. The old trees, standing guard since before the British were escorted to the shore. Once again, everyone should do this, see this.

One of those side glance situations, I did get the glimpse of a roadside cross, our mother taking over. With no one to keep it clear, some type of vine was covering it up. Like she had taken over care, wrapping green arms around it.

This years journey was different. No time constraint here, but still, me and the elements and a long trip. Plenty of us time. Me and mom and the 17 names on my back.

Watch your back, Pappy.

This kid may be tracking you...
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We use many terms to describe those heroes we help lay to rest. All good words such as honor, fortitude, dignity, integrity.

When is the last time you said that about a sixteen year old?

Today.

Before we got started, pre-meeting yak time, up walks the step-son and grandson of our reason for being here today. I say it over and over, these ceremonies tend to be all the same, but totally different.

Stress, despair and sorrow do things to your head. You will be prone to say or do things that you wouldn't normally do or say. These gentlemen were wanting to know about becoming members of the Patriot Guard. Not surprising, they both have bikes, they both planned on being part of the escort. Being related to Cpl. Jones might be part of that. Totally expected, encouraged and appreciated.

But this kid, he kicked it up to another level. After the flag ceremony at the cemetery, the Patriot Guard will present the family with a plaque. It is a way for us to show our thanks to their soldier for serving our country. Right after that, there is an invocation read and given to the family also. It is not something, to this point I have ever desired to do. I can usually make it fine, up to the delivery of the flag and then I get shaky. By the time we get to that invocation......well, I can see it would be something very difficult for me to do. To read that to a grieving family......man.....I don't know. But this sixteen year old asks if he can read it. People, under stress, react differently. This is not something that many grown men will volunteer to do for a total stranger. To want to do it for your grandfather, one that is obviously very much loved and already badly missed....I wouldn't have thought anything if he hadn't been able to do it when the time came.

Not this one. This young man showed the integrity of one much older and (more?) mature. He taught me a great deal in a very short time. He took that invocation in his hand and knelt on one knee in front of his distraught grandmother. With the first word his voice broke along with all our hearts. He struggled. He wept openly and he read and presented that invocation to his grandmother. The fortitude he showed, he didn't care that all these people heard and saw him at what some would have thought of as a weak moment. He did what he said he would do.

I learned so much from that experience. I do not know if I will ever be able to do this at the funeral of a stranger. But, there are those that I may have the opportunity and honor of reading for someday. I only hope and pray that I will have this young man's strength and love to do so.

Thank you son and I really hope to see you take Pappy's job as State Captain some day.

"Who are those people?"

We've been here before...
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She came out of the side doors of the funeral home. Slight, stooped, beautiful head full of white hair. She paused her walker and raised her head and shook, startled at what she saw. Almost two dozen Patriot Guard Riders standing, about half standing perpendicular to the hearse going back about fifteen feet then lined up behind and reaching the building itself.

She saw leather adorned with many different sized and shaped and colored pins and patches. Gray hair, beards some long, some short. Some without either. Some with leather faces. Strangers mostly. Only a couple knew the man that would soon exit those doors.

I couldn't see, but I'm assuming she jumped again when as that flag-draped coffin was rolled out the door and our Road Captain firmly called us to attention and ordered "Present arms!"

I was hoping that then she was starting to see just who these people are. Veterans, mostly, combat soldiers, mostly. Men and women that refuse to allow a soldier to go on their last ride without an escort. Glad to spend time and resources to watch as a total stranger is laid to rest.

Most of the ones I've spoken and rode with seem to be loners. Only in a group when they have the opportunity permits. They come in from all over Oklahoma. Usually alone or maybe in small groups. Those folks from Texas will always be represented. Some with club patches, most without.

"Can you call me back?...I'm burying my ex-husband?"

That's what she said, for real.
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And that's what she did.

Last summer I went to the funeral of someone that had been killed in VietNam and only been returned after years of being in an unmarked grave. There were over 400 motorcycles and many many cages involved in that escort. I've been to several of these funerals and as I've stated before, they are all the same, but all different.

Some, like that one last summer, that are very big and some, well maybe not so big. It has been almost addictive to watch and listen to the honor guards and to taps and to hear those that knew that soldier talking in hushed tones. And to have the honor of being a part of their last ride.

I take a lot from there and I actually give very little. So I take off from work and get to ride my bike. Not much sacrifice there. Sometimes it is hot, cold, rainy, but then I ride in all that anyway.

But this one, yea, this one is different. It was a small family group, couple of friends and us....maybe a dozen Patriot Guard Riders. Due to a military snafu, an acronym created by the military, there would be no honor guard, no taps, no flag folding ceremony. No sharp uniforms with stiff endlessly practiced movements. No quiet commands, soldiers marching on grass. No one meticulously going through the motions of sending this man off with his much deserved military honor. Not even a 21 gun salute.

When that hearse pulled up and they opened that back door, there it was...a cold looking grey box, with the remains of our hero inside. Half a dozen PGR guys jumped and went over to remove the undraped coffin. Then as best they could, they carried him over to his final resting place. Though there was no flag on the coffin, there were acutally more flags waving around that family than there were people. The funeral home director said a few words, had a short prayer and was gone. We pulled the flags and put them back in the truck and were talking among ourselves, as usual. Then one of the boys, who just happened to be a worker at the cemetary took off toward the office. He came running back a couple of minutes later with a box. Out of that box came the flag that hadn't been on the coffin. With the rest of us standing at attention, a 1/2 dozen PGR members gripped that flag against the Oklahoma driving wind and began to fold. Not as easy as it looks, especially in that wind. Once that flag was properly folded, we all turned as one of our guys gently and reverently handed it over. Back to the young man that had run off to get it, the son of our hero, U.S. Army Sgt. Kenneth Burns Hughes II.

It was the best one ever. Never have I been prouder to stand with those folks.

I say "God bless the American soldier" and God bless the PGR. And thanks, for letting me tag along.

A Valentine's Gift

Well......sort of...
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It occurred to me this morning on my way to work that seems someone somewhere not too long ago, let it be known that they thought that a muffin was nothing more than an ugly cupcake. Of course, being the contrary individual I am, I.....disagree.

It has been my experience that a muffin is truly real.

It is warm.....
Throughout. It is offered up as a special treat, fresh out of the oven. Offered as is without pretension, without being covered with a thin, shallow layer of....why do you think they call it "icing"?

It is sweet....
Throughout. It comes to you as is, once again without the shallow covering. A sad attempt to draw away from what is truly there. The last bite will be just as sweet as the first. Never changing, always the same.

It is soft....
And yet again, it is the covering of a cupcake that usually sells it. A false presentation of what you should expect. A firm coating that is only skin deep. Once and for the last time, what you see is what you get with a muffin.

You either like them or you don't.

And so it is that on this Valentine's Day, I should rejoice and let everyone know, I have a muffin that I adore. She IS warm....and soft...and sweet. Unpretentious. What you see on the outside is exactly what is on the inside and I can not and have no desire to, know what my life would be without her.

Thank you for what you have done and what you do for me and I look forward to many more years of what the past few have been, exactly what I need.

Ya think?

Now what was she thinkin........?
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Yea, yea, everybody had a big day today...right?
Let me share a piece of mine.
Was heading to work first thing, whiteout conditions, in Oklahoma. What the hell? Thought about turning around and going back home. The road didn't seem all that bad, at least during those times when I could see it.
My new cell phone goes off. Yes, I stopped in the middle of the road, I mean who the hell else is out here, to see what was up. My wonderful, beautiful child has texted me. Seems that my baby's baby is having a baby.....now. No words for that one.
Get to work, wound up after driving while wearing a white blindfold for about 45 minutes. Turned on concerning the birth of my great-grand baby, still weirded out about Ma's birthday yesterday. I'm told that I will be starting my new position on Monday, kind of a cush job, working Friday, Saturday, and Sunday with a raise (noticeable).
And while I'm there they start this timing thing, luckily I'm on a machine I can do well on. And it really sinks in that yesterday I jumped in the pond with the biggest fish in the pond.
Filed papers to run for city council against someone I probably shouldn't have. But then, what should I do? Bail out, crossed my mind. But hey, I'm in there now. Damn the torpedoes. Bring it big guy. I might get kicked, but I will be dogging you.
And I walk in the door after work and she says, "Hey, you been drinkin'?"

Now.....who was this guy?

He had a nice face.
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While standing in the respect line, holding my flag, watching the family make their way into the funeral home. That is where my thoughts start to formulate the story that I hope someone will read. I'm normally putting together the information I gather from my few sources and adding my own personal feelings to help you understand what is going on.

This day, last Wednesday, I had nothing to go on, well, not very much. I was standing there, hanging on tightly, that cold Canadian wind that has nothing to even slow it down until it hits the Gulf of Mexico, keeping those flags standing straight out. What I did think was that this hero, while in VietNam must have had many days where he was uncomfortable. Maybe because of the weather, the duty couldn't have been easy. I'm sure he was hungry at times, tired beyond my comprehension and still he served, honorably.

There were, among family and friends, members of, his choice of riding companions, the Downed Bikers Association. Which tells me that he did concern himself with the fate of others and issues which effect us all that spend much of our lives on two wheels.

Spec4 Patrick Lee Creekmore. Well he did have the rank that the Marine Corps gives to "reward personnel with higher degrees of experience and technical knowledge." That was during the VietNam War, so it tells me he was an above average soldier in a very difficult situation.

At the cemetery, I was trying to put more thoughts together out of the limited knowledge I had of the man and it hit me. As I stood there watching the ceremony and looking on the faces of the ones that knew him best, I realized...it didn't matter. I didn't have to know any more about him than I knew already.

He was a son, brother, father, grandfather and honorable soldier during time of war. He cared for others and what really hit me........as that solitary tear worked its way out of my left eye, was that he would be remembered. In the memories of those present that knew him and on the patches sewn onto the vests and jackets of those that stood with them as he was slowly, respectfully lowered into the sun drenched soil that I hoped would warm him as he moved on to the next journey.

And......I thought.....he had a really nice face.

....graduated in '65, moved to California to start college..

spent the next three years in the Army, most of that in VietNam...
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I can't tell you how many stories I've heard in my life that started out similar to that one. All different, all the same. Love those stories, sorry sometimes that I don't have one. I told him that associating with those guys was extra special to me because I was not a combat soldier. As much as I was honored to be a part of taking the last ride with the man inside, I was honored to be standing with these folks. I thought, man, somebody should be writing this stuff down. It is history, like we studied in school, only this was people in my world, some older, some younger....heroes.

I looked at what was a most beautiful child. Mom was holding her, maybe twenty feet from me. Her little body wrapped with a black knit cap with an oversized lace rose on the side. A nice black velour dress, white stockings and tiny black patent leather shoes. Almost totally covered with a warm looking pink blanket. When she looked over in my direction, I saw her cherubic cheeks were pink because of the chilly Oklahoma breeze. She didn't squirm around and get fussy...at all. She did spend a good part of the graveside service singing that song that happy babies sing. I thought, I guess I'm here as much for her as for Sgt. Tucker.

They both had recently started a new journey. Hers, into this world, everything new and fasinating. Wide-eyed and curious, nothing escaped her gaze. His...how can we be sure? He was meeting up now with many others of his kind, including the man that raised my wife. A man I surely wish I would've known. Perhaps the others who have been laid to rest here were crowding around, getting to know the new guy.

Impressive new guy too. World War 2 Veteran. One of the first to engage the Japanese. He served with the 164th Infantry Division reinforcing the First Marine Division during landing assualts on Guadalcanal. The Secretary of the Navy authorized the troops of the U.S. Army 164th Infantry Regiment to wear the 1st Marine shoulder patch due to their service in the South Pacific. That is only the beginning. Among his awards and medals were the Purple Heart, Asiatic Pacific Service Ribbon, 4 Bronze Stars, American Defense Service Ribbon, Presidential Unit Citation, 5 Overseas Bars, and the Prestigious Navy Presidential Citation issued by Major General Alexander Vandergrift.

It crossed my mind that there were 14 bikes and maybe double that in cages, but it didn't matter......no matter how many showed up, this guy was bigger than all of us put together.