Those rodeos were just about it for entertainment but somehow we seemed to keep ourselves amused and out of trouble - well out of trouble where the sheriff would get involved. Glad you enjoyed the story Dave. :-D

I can see where naming an animal that will one day wind up on the dinner table would be problematic. I'm over 72 now and still haven't lived down that day. Seems when my wife and I go back to see Mother or to a reunion that darn story will surface at least once and I never come out looking good. :oops: :oops:

Glad you enjoyed it Mike, those old memories seem to be really good these days. I'll bet it didn't take more than one or two of those bull encounters before you learned to turn around quicker. :-)

Will

That’s not a sheep


Back in the 1940’s at the very advanced age of seven, I along with several of my closest friends and partners in minor local disturbances considered yours truly to be the greatest bull rider east of the Arkansas River and west of oh say Charleston, which is also in Arkansas. That must cover at least 20 miles.

I had obtained this distinction as the world’s greatest bull rider by successfully riding our two milk cows not once, but several times over the course of that summer. Milk cows may not be Brahma bulls but it was the only substitute I could come up with and riding those two cows was a dangerous undertaking. It wasn’t exactly dangerous because of the cow’s disposition. There probably weren’t any two more docile animals in the world. It was more a matter of dad telling me to stay off the cows. They were, after all, milk cows and riding them did something to the milk production. At least that’s the lecture I got several times over the course of my short life to that point and according to dad, if I kept doing some of the things I’d been doing he was going to make sure I didn’t get to see the ripe old age of eight.

In the small Arkansas town where I grew up one of the basic forms of entertainment was the quarterly town rodeo. Now in a town of about 1,200 souls counting dogs, cats, and the occasional white tail deer that wondered into town, a rodeo held once every three month was a big deal. Picnic lunches were brought as well as a barbeque that seemed to be ever present at any town function. I’ve forgotten who did the barbeque but it was probably the VFW since my dad seemed to be one of the main cooks at the thing. The men of course had their adult beverages served in a quasi-inconspicuous manner since our town was supposed to be dry or at least that’s what the various churches had ordained. It was funny though, the same men preaching the evils of demon rum on Sunday were the same fellows slipping into the shed where bootleg booze was sold by of all people, our town sheriff. To someone reading this and not from a small southern town it may sound goofy but the process worked in a way. The procedure kept the town free of dirt floor saloons and the various evils that go along with them and the men could go to church on Sunday with a clear conscience even if some had a bit of a hangover. Yes sir and they could boast that unlike some of the towns to our north and west, our town was “dry.”

The stock for the rodeo was simply rounded up from the numerous farms and ranches in the area and was nothing more than some of the wilder animals. Most of the stock was really wild but, some were so old the glue factory was their next stop. Participants of the human kind came from the local townsfolk, but it was usually the same guys every time. There were always broken bones or dislocated shoulders, knees, backs, etc., etc. at these events but that didn’t seem to stop or even slow the frequency of participation by the same guy’s rodeo after rodeo.

There was one part of the rodeo that everyone seemed to enjoy more than any other and that was the kid’s event. The kid event was for guys in the seven to ten year old group and it usually involved riding sheep with an occasional bull calf thrown in when there weren’t enough sheep to go around. There was a five dollar prize for the kid with the longest ride unless the sheep or calf just walked out into the ring and then made a circle or two around with the kid trying to get it to do something. In the case of that happening the judges gave the kid a chance to pick another ride or just call it quits. Usually you got to select the sheep or calf you wanted to ride by going to the stock pen and pointing out the one you wanted.

I had watched a few of the rodeos without riding while I analyzed the whole thing. I wasn’t the brightest penny in the roll, my dad along with half the town plus my third grade teacher had told me that, but I wasn’t stupid either. There might be a chance of getting killed so caution was in order when it came to animals other than our two cows. I wasn’t exactly a coward either and to illustrate let me relate one of the games me and the gang had invented.

There was a creek about a quarter of a mile from the house and we would select a tree that looked big enough to hold one of us in the top but small enough that we could tie a rope on and pull it down like a bow. The object was to get in the top of the tree with it pulled backwards and tied off. Once we were ready we gave the signal and one of the guys cut the rope and hopefully we would be flung across the creek into an open area. Sometimes it worked and sometimes it didn’t but it worked often enough to make it worth the risk and so far no one had been killed or even maimed for life. Most of the families had several other children anyway so we were – well not exactly throw a ways but we were probably expendable. As far as I was concerned our family did have one throw a way even if there was only two of us. I had this human hairball of a brother who I thought would make a perfect cannon ball but I could never find the right tree for him to ride. The tree I was looking for was one that would fling that cow patty clear out of the county or into the Arkansas River, whichever was further. At nearly four years old he was becoming a real pain and I was sure as he grew older, if he managed to survive that long, he was going to get even worse. He hadn’t actually acquired the nick name “cow patty” at this point; he picked up that name the following summer when he became a moving target.

We had a pasture where we kept our two cows and a neighbor kept three cows there also. Cows do a couple of things really well. They give lots of milk while eating tons of grass and they deposit large quantities of cow manure in the form of disks that look sort of like a flying saucer.

In the hot sun of an Arkansas summer these manure piles bake a hard crust on the outside but remain soft on the inside. You can sail the heck out of them, which me and the guys had learned to do with great accuracy. You have to remember, this is Arkansas in the 40’s and there simply wasn’t a lot going on for kids to do so the sport of slinging cow manure seemed a good way to stay out of trouble – well sort of.

One day me and the guys were slinging cow patties at a large bolder in the pasture when the human hairball and his only friend, “String Bean Foley” made an appearance at the north end of the pasture and began walking toward our end. I don’t remember if I sailed the first cow patty at them or maybe String Bean’s brother, Wayne, did or it could have been Sam or Larry Paul but someone chunked one and it nearly hit the Bean. The hairball and String Bean began running across in front of us and the game was on. As I said before, we had developed some proficiency and accuracy with those cow patties and it wasn’t long before the hairball and String Bean were pretty well covered in wet, sticky, smelly cow manure.

It was quite a game and was a lot of fun until I got home a few hours later. Apparently, mom and dad didn’t think the game was all that great accuracy or no accuracy. By the time dad finished with me if it had been Christmas Santa could have used my behind to guide his sleigh and Rudolph could have stayed home. So that’s how the cow patty got his nickname and I got to sleep on my stomach for a couple of nights.

Now let’s get back to the rodeo and my decision to become a sports legend.

Having determined that with my experience as the greatest bull rider east of the Arkansas River and west of Charleston, I should be able to handle any critter with fuzzy hair. I mean after all, what the heck was a sheep to the greatest bull rider east of the Arkansas River and west of Charleston.

So with great conviction I told my dad I had decided to ride that Saturday. I watched as my dad’s chest visibly expanded about three sizes. I had heard that in his day he had been quite a bare back bronc rider but all those years in the coal mines and the fact that he was well into his forty’s by then, the rodeo was out for him, but here I was about to take up where my old pop had left off. The pride on dad’s face was all I needed to dispel any further qualms I had about becoming the next world’s champion sheep rider. I marched off to see Mr. Johnson to register and pick out my furry ride.

At the stock pen I looked over a really small assortment of sheep and calves plus this one monster of a bull calf and decided on a small sheep that looked like I could probably pick it up and carry it off under my arm. I figured if things didn’t turn out as I planned when we came out of the chute I could just put my feet down and let the sheep run out from under me. A little embarrassing for sure but I’d still be alive and have all my teeth. Mr. Johnson kept pointing out that large bull calf that looked like a young version of Mr. Lewis’ prize bull. He wanted me to ride it and seemed to think because no one had picked that beast I should be the kid to get killed by it. Well that wasn’t going to happen and I let Mr. Johnson know which of the furry little critters I had decided on being my ride into the history books. With my selection made I wondered back to join up with the guys, let them know I was about to become the world’s greatest wild animal rider, and watch some more rodeo.

In Virginia and probably any other civilized state in the union there is a certain riding attire worn when you crawl on the back of some animal, usually a horse. However, in my little town in northwest Arkansas, when you’re seven years old your riding attire consist of a pair of blue jean overalls with the legs cut off about thigh high. The overalls don’t come cut off thigh high they get that way because you’ve worn the knees out once and the patches over the holes twice so mom finally gives up and just cuts them off thigh high. The fanciest things on those overalls were the wire buckles on the shoulder straps. Boots may be the fashion footwear of the Virginia set but a pair of US Keds tennis shoes with holes nearly worn completely through the bottoms are what pass for the footwear of a seven year old sports legend in Arkansas. Today I suppose a kid would be required by some federal or state law to wear an OSHA approved helmet with wire face guard, knee and elbow pads, steel toed shoes, and a chest protector capable of stopping a .357 magnum round from twenty paces. Maybe kids today are just worth more as a standard deduction on the income tax form than we were back then.

So I was definitely dressed for my ride into the history books and the announcer had just called for the kids to assemble for our event. I was not the least bit apprehensive (that’s grown up talk for scared enough to cause a dark spot in the front of my cut off overalls) because I’ve picked out the smallest sheep in the pen. I watch three kids who must have been from some other town because I didn’t know who they were ride and only one managed to stay on for the full eight seconds. Suddenly I heard Mr. Johnson calling my name and I headed to the chute and my ride into history. When I got there I noticed to my horror, “that isn’t a sheep” that’s that damned calf that looks like a miniature bull and not that miniature either. There must have been a dozen or more people standing around and as they saw me walking toward the chute they begin applauding and who is in the front leading the cheering mob but my own father. A number of thoughts ran through my mind with the leading candidate being that it is only a little over a mile to my house and if I take off at a dead run I can probably make it there before anyone catches me, crawl under the house, and not come out until I’m a little older - - - like maybe 35. If only dad wasn’t there but he is and I’ve got to go through with this. I’ll bet this is dad’s way of getting back at me for the milking incident but I was only four then and surely he hasn’t held a grudge for three years – or has he?

I climbed up the side of the chute and threw one leg over the beast from hell’s back. He didn’t move but he did look around and I got the distinct feeling the look in his blood shot eyes was saying, “I’m going to stomp a mud hole in you kid.” One of the town toughs, a fellow about twenty or so was holding up the end of the rope that went around the calf’s belly and he was asking me which hand I wanted to use. I wanted to use both hands and I didn’t want to hold a rope either, I wanted something like a nail gun to put me permanently on that calf’s back. I finally decided I could probably do without my left hand and arm since I’m right handed and I think I said I’d use my left hand. Or I may have just held up my left hand since I had no saliva in my mouth, bailed cotton has more moisture in it than I had in my mouth about then so there wasn’t a lot of talking being done by me.

Now this fellow leans down by my ear and whispers, “How bad do you want to stay on this calf kid?” I wanted to scream, “I don’t want to be on the damned thing at all!!!” but with dad still there I told him I wanted it pretty badly. Instead of handing me the end of the rope he pushed my hand under the rope, pulled the rope as tight as he could pull it across the palm of my hand and then wound the rope twice under my hand but on top of the calf’s back. I later learned this is called a suicide wrap. I am now locked on the back of this bull calf for what I suppose is the rest of my life. Mr. Johnson looks down at me and asked if I was ready. I must have made some kind of body movement that told him I was ready, I know I didn’t say anything because I still had an almost terminal case of dry mouth.

The next thing I saw was the gate of the chute swing open and the calf takes off at a dead run headed for the far end of the arena. There was no bucking we were just whizzing by the spectators lined along the wire fence. Hey, this isn’t such a bad ride after all. Just as I finish that thought and probably no more than thirty or forty yards from the chute the calf planted his front hoofs in the dirt and slid to a very abrupt stop. I kept going or at least as far as the lose skin on the calf’s back would let me and just as I get to the end of my short slide the beast decides to get rid of me and begins bucking. I lasted for exactly one buck. The suicide wrap only partially worked. It kept me attached to the calf but it let me slide off his back and underneath where all the legs are located. The calf is still bucking frantically because he remembers that he is going to try and stomp a mud hole in me and I can’t turn lose of the rope. Well I’ve turned loose of it but with it wrapped the way it was I’m locked onto the calf. With all the jumping around the calf is doing he somehow managed to get one of his back legs down the front of my overalls but he is still thrashing away with the three free ones. It has now turned into a real free for all underneath that calf with his three free legs going a hundred miles an hour, the one in my overalls trying to get free, and me trying to get lose from the rope. I somehow managed to stagger to my feet but the maneuver throws me and the calf to the ground with him still kicking to beat the band. He and I roll around in the dirt for what seems like an eternity until some men get to us and get us untangled. I couldn’t see all that well but I did aim a punch at the calf as he loped off to the far end of the arena and what I hoped would be to the slaughter house. I was bleeding from both sides of my nose, my lower lip was split, I had two black eyes forming with my left eye nearly shut from a cut over it, but as I began walking back toward the arena’s gate people began throwing nickels, dimes, quarters, and even a couple of half dollars. I was running around like some kind of idiot picking through the horse apples and cow patties to retrieve as much loot as possible. I made exactly three dollars for a ride that lasted probably three seconds. Man oh man, think of it, a dollar a second and once I healed up I might just try this rodeo thing again. I could become rich at a dollar a second. On later reflection and the amount of time it took me to heal however I decided maybe I needed to consider another profession. But I was three dollars richer and with the three dollars I’d made as a bull rider combined with my previous savings, I now had a grand total of three dollars and fourteen cents. Not bad money for the greatest bull rider east of the Arkansas River and west of Charleston.

Well to be honest, yes and no. Several years ago a real author and I were corresponding through emails and we were sending stories to one another. At some point he said he would like to cobble the stories together in book form and I said ok. He asked what I wanted to do with the royalties and I told him when it hit $5,000 to send me $1,000. There have been no royalty checks. I think the book sold less than 150 on Amazon. :roll:

Since you and Penny MG said you liked the story I'll send you another one back channel that isn't in the book.

Well not exactly morning sex but here goes a "war story anyway"

Homecoming

The other night my wife and I were setting on the couch, I'm watching television and she's looking at some magazine. She folds the magazine over to a page and shoves it under my nose. The page is actually a three quarter page, full color advertisement for satin sheets. What a flash back those satin sheets evoke!

December 28, 1971 and I'm leaving Vietnam for the third time and what I hope will be my last combat tour. In order to make this a memorable homecoming I've diligently shopped the Army & Air Force Exchange System (AAFES) catalog to come up with just the right stuff. In this case, the right stuff is a set of satin sheets and pillowcases for our king size bed, which I had mail ordered home two months before. Not only have I sent the sheets and pillowcases ahead, I've also ordered a white silk nightgown for my wife and a pair of red silk pajamas for myself.

Now to really dazzle my young farm girl when I get home, I've raided every PX in I Corps within flying radius of Phu Bai for pearls. I bought so many pearls Mikimoto had to put their oysters on a third shift and overtime to keep up with my demand.

Getting out of country was simply a pain in the ass of paperwork and standing around in line for everything that had to be done. I don't remember much about the flight home except it was long and I got the distinct impression the pilot needed practice with his landing skills. It seemed like every time he put that bucket of bolts on a runway (we refueled in Japan and Alaska plus the final landing in Seattle) he tried to bury the wheels in the asphalt. Maybe I was just being a little too sensitive about maybe dying before I could get home. The plane trips to St. Louis and then on to Louisville, Kentucky seemed like they would never end.

Karin was waiting for me at the airport along with our two boys. Rick, my youngest, was 19 months old and a bundle of energy. I'd forgotten what it was like to hold a little one like that. He had my left side stripped of Captain's bars, unit crest; flight wings and jump wings before I could react. So much for those quick combat reflexes I'd developed. With hand speed like his someday he'd make a great scout pilot or pick pocket. Well, I guess that's the same thing, but he was fast. Karin said she had standing orders to call our parents as soon as we got home and they would take care of notifying the rest of the clan. That was fine with me because I really had other things on my mind and I sure hoped she did too.

Slipping behind the wheel of the station wagon felt as easy and natural as if I had been driving a car every day for the past year instead of an aircraft. It was easy and natural until I hit the Watterson Expressway traffic. God, what I would have given for a little gun cover out there. Vietnam was a snap this driving in rush hour traffic was dangerous.

We managed to make it home without incident but I got a couple of disapproving looks from Karin about my language. When Mike, my six year old, piped up and repeated a couple of the words I'd used, I knew I had probably stepped over the line. Well, with a B-4 bag loaded with pearls and seven months since I'd been home on R&R, I figured since there was no blood on the floor I wasn’t hit too badly and I should be able to recover. Boy the house looked great, Bedford stone, a shingle roof instead of a tent, hot and cold running water, indoor plumbing, and not a bunker, barbed wire, or machine gun emplacement in sight. Yes sir, life just doesn’t get much better or at least not until we get the kids to bed.

Getting the children to bed turned out to take a little longer than I'd planned. They were really excited with the toys I'd brought them and it seemed to take forever before they began to nod off. After we got the boys tucked in, Karin said she was off to take a shower and for me to turn down the bed.

When I turned the bedspread back, there were the satin sheets. They looked good; cool, soft, and shinny. There wasn't a wrinkle anywhere, not even on the pillowcases. I found out later Karin had actually ironed them before putting them on the bed. The bottom fitted sheet was jet black. The top sheet was solid cherry red with a pencil thin, black accent stripe about four inches from the top. The two king size pillow cases were also cherry red except for a pencil thin black accent stripe about three inches from the opening. Looking back on it I guess the bed pretty much resembled something you'd find in a "whore house." I'm only supposing here mind you since I've never been in one of those places, but I have heard the big boys talk about them. Man oh man did I turn back the covers! I pulled everything back and laid it over the cedar chest at the foot of the bed. I folded and tucked and smoothed so there was nothing but flat surface on that big old king size bed. I figured it was a good idea to get the extra material out of the way. If we did this right we were going to use all the available flat surface and maybe some of the rounded parts too with the floor as an option.

When Karin showed up at the bedroom door she looked gorgeous. The short, white silk nightgown showed just enough leg to get the remainder of my blood pumping furiously. I said “what the heck” I really didn't need a shower. After all, I'd showered some 30 odd hours earlier, so by Vietnam standards I was squeaky clean. I got the wave off and told to hit the shower. I was not about to argue at this point and risk bringing on a headache, so off to the shower. Karin had laid out my silk pajamas on one of the towel racks. It was nice to know that I had practically unlimited hot water after a year of taking cold showers if we got a shower at all, but I've got to admit, I didn't waste a lot of time standing there soaking. I took a little longer shaving as there was no need risking cutting my throat at this point. Finally, I slipped on the pajamas. Wow, that silk felt cool but I didn't plan to have them on that long.

A quick check across the hall and Mike is sound asleep. Tiptoe into the baby's room and Rick is sound asleep too. When I reached the bedroom door it was the scene I'd played out in my mind a thousand times during the past year. Karin was seated with the pillows pulled up behind her and leaning against the headboard. She was sitting with one leg pulled up under her and she'd let her hair down. She'd dropped one shoulder strap and let the nightgown fall a little to reveal just a hint of........

She looked up and crooked her finger in the "come here" gesture. Ah yes, the little girl's in a playful mood and so am I. I backed up about four steps into the hallway and made a running approach to the bed. About a step away from the bed I did my best imitation of a rocket attack, bunker entrance dive. The moment I hit the bed I realized I'd made a terrible tactical blunder but it was too late. When those silk pajamas hit the satin sheets I discover what slick was all about. An ice cube dropped on a brand new Teflon frying pan isn't even close to the slick of silk sliding across satin. There just isn't any friction. Mag Lev trains my ass, if they want something frictionless they need to investigate the silk and satin combination. I caught a momentary glimpse of surprise on Karin's face as I whizzed by. As I went speeding across the bed I also discovered, there was absolutely nothing to grab hold of. That damned fitted bottom sheet was as tight as a banjo string and I'd done such a thorough job of clearing the decks there was nothing but an unobstructed path across the bed. Yep, I'm about to set the world's land speed record. I probably would have if the bed had been a tad bit wider and the opposite wall and night stand not so close. I had no idea the human body would crumple like aluminum foil, but it will when slammed into a solid object with enough force.

I’ve been shot down twice and made better crash landing than that! I staggered upright, did a quick body check for form and function and found most of my parts still attached and operational. My jaw was a little tender from smacking into the nightstand so I wobbled it from side to side to make sure it was still hinged. When I brought my hand away it was bloody. I'd opened a gash that required a trip to Ireland Army Hospital and four stitches to close. When we finally got back to the house it was almost four in the morning. Nick and Ellie, our next door neighbors, who we woke up to watch the kids, were dying of curiosity. After telling them what happened I couldn't get Nick, an old retired soldier of W.W.II and Korean War vintage to stop laughing. Karin took the sheets off the bed that night, put them back in the boxes, and we didn't take them out again for twelve years. When we did take them out again it was to give them to a Captain and his wife along with a few words of caution. Here it is over forty years later and I still have no idea what it is like to sleep on satin sheets and don't really care if I ever learn.

There is an old Army saying about war stories that goes, “if you don’t have pictures---then it didn’t happen.” Well, I don't have any pictures but I still have the scar on my chin and the knowledge that I probably missed the best..................well you know what I missed that night.

As of now Europe has no legal authority to intervene. If, however, Ukraine asked for membership in NATO and was accepted there would be. Talk about getting Putin's shorts in a bunch. :!: :x

Are you describing your situation or a hypothetical?

:-D :-D :-D

First let Europe know the United States will supply all the natural gas in the form of liquid natural gas they can use (we have the capability to both produce and transport) and western Europe can stop buying natural gas from Russia. Big financial squeeze on Russia as the majority of their foreign trade is in natural gas and oil.

Get our oil reserves from all sources going on the open market driving down prices. Again squeezing Russia because they need oil above $80.00 a barrel to be competitive. If their capital begins to dry up they will have a hard time buying food which they have proven year over year they cannot produce in quantities to feed the population.

Restart building the missile shield Poland and the Czech Republic want and Russia is dead set against. It will force Russia to expend lots of money to try and build something that is capable of penetrating the shield.

Certainly there are other things but I doubt if we will do anything other than shake a finger and draw another line.

Maybe one of our leaders will go to Russia and come back with a piece of paper he/she can wave and declare "Peace in our time."

As a famous man once said, "Now that's funny I don't care who you are."

:thumbup: :thumbup: :thumbup:

I had mentioned this on another forum of trying to take pictures during a Hollywood parachute jump. It was winter and we were jumping from 800'. I had smuggled an old Kodak Brownie camera with me and by the time the chute opened, I got stabilized, and the camera out, my hands were so cold I couldn't even get off one picture. Would love to have had a GOPRO back then but that was about fifty years before their time.

As for military service giving people the patriotic high ground ---no one has to give them the high ground they earned it with their service as you did. I might even say especially you since 42 years makes you a very rare breed.

When you say you are a progressive what does that mean? What exactly makes one a progressive?

Have carried since I was 18. At times I carried big time consisting of 14 rockets with 18 lb. warheads and thousands of rounds of 7.62 flex pack machine gun rounds (before the mini guns). Today my wife and I pack whenever it is legal. We both have CC permits and go to the local range at least once a month for practice. She carries a .380 Walther PPK and I carry a 9mm Walther PPS. I hope we never have to use either of them but we are prepared if the situation ever makes it an absolute necessity with necessity meaning all other options have been exhausted.

The Catskill area may be nice in the summer but go further northwest up around Watertown in the winter and it just plain sucks. Had to make a parachute jump outside Watertown in January 1960 with ninety something inches of snow on the ground. I had smuggled an old Kodak Brownie camera with me on a Hollywood jump to take some pictures. We were jumping at 800' and by the time I got the camera out my hands were so cold I couldn't even take one picture. I thought I would never get on the ground. Seemed like I hung under that canopy forever.

Well I guess that wasn't even close to being on topic just an ancient memory of an old man.

We could make the battleships and tanks and planes just as we did during WWII if we had the time but that is the problem now. During WWII we had two oceans protecting our country but that won't be the case in the technological world we live in now.

If we get into a BIG shooting war there will not be time to ramp up. Drawing down the military to pre WWII levels is a sign to those who don't like us that we are vulnerable.