Who Do You Talk To?

Today while wandering around my Facebook feed I came across a post from a friend who was asking if it is normal for him to want to speak with his deceased father.

That is an interesting, and very human question. I have never really felt that particular urge although I do on occasion give more than a little thought to my father who, the great raconteur Joseph has been gone now for thirteen years.

His impact on me has been great, but perhaps not on the level that he would have preferred. Most of the the lessons that I learned from him were less a result of his teaching and more a result of my critically observing.

He was human, as am I. His flaws were his, and mine are mine.

One night I was sitting in his home in Manchester, New Hampshire and he was deep in sleep on his couch as I watched the Red Sox on the television. At the time he was suffering from diabetic neuropathy. He would sometimes twitch suddenly and yelp whether he was awake or asleep as a result of sharp pains that would shoot from his feet and up his legs.

On this afternoon however, his sharp yelps were in absentia. He was deep in the arms of Morpheus and in full REM. In sleep, on this one day he was given relief from his earthly pains. This relief may have been the result of his own sub-concious, or of something else altogether. I will leave that to the beliefs or hopes of you who is reading this self-serving stream of consciousness that I call a blog.

He was yammering away in a guttural form of the New Brunswick version of the French-Canadien language. It was loud enough to hear, and just about clear enough to understand, at least most of it. Mixed with a few English words and terms it came quickly and without guile. Joseph was speaking to "Ma". In his life there was only one that he called that, and she had been gone at the time for just about 25 years.

He never really moved. His arms twitched a bit but he stayed in position on the couch for maybe ten minutes, speaking in French the whole time. The conversation was one-sided, but you could tell that there was someone on the other end. He asked questions and responded to questions.

All I did was sit there and listen, trying to understand exactly what it was, or who it was that he was speaking with in his dreams.

Then it stopped. No goodbye, no clean cut. The conversation ended and over the next ten to twelve minutes he slowly stirred form his slumber and sat up. I walked to the kitchen and poured him a glass of water.

He drank a little water and noticed me staring. 

"You were dreaming", I said.

"No I wasn't." he responded without a second of thought. "I was talking to your Memere." 

This led to a memorable conversation. Over the years I had heard that he spoke French in his sleep once in a while. His wife said these occurrences were quite frequent. In his daily life he was capable of a smattering of French, but I would never have considered him fluent. When I was in New Brunswick with him he could hold his own, and the longer he was there the better he became. He was never though, to my memory, a seamless speaker of the language.

In his dreams it would seem he was fluent.

He explained to me that he "spoke with his "Ma" frequently, and always about his current life and circumstances. They had long and detailed conversations and he was convinced that these talks were not dreams at all, but visits from his Mother.

The mind is a wonderful and mysterious creation.

Who do you speak with in your dreams?

Cold War Memories - Malmstrom, Minuteman Missiles and the Apocalypse

 Back in the days of yore when many telephones still had dials and every roof had a TV antenna we all had a very simple vision of how the world would end.

Without a doubt those Soviet type Russians over there on the other side would push a button and the apocalypse would begin. We would respond heroically of course with our own weapons. Land and sea-based ICBM's and of course with the old Air Force war horse, the classic B-52 also known as BUFF or Big Ugly Fat Fucker.

Terror and destruction would rain down from the skies as the United Kingdom, France, China, India, and Israel responded to all of the madness.

The post apocalyptic society would the evolve from theory into reality as survivors crawled out from beneath the rubble and wreckage of the remains of civilization.

My view of this possibility was different than most. The year was 1983 and I was in the United States Air Force as a Security Policeman. These days the Air Force calls them Security Forces, but the duties then and the duties now are basically the same.

The 341st Air base Wing at Malstrom Air Force Base (AFB) sits just outside of Great Falls, Montana and was my home. Great Falls is in the northwest corner of Montana with the great plains to the east and the continental divide to the west. Shortly after arriving I decided that barracks life was not for me and rented a house in the city with a Technical Sergeant named Gary Foster. He was an Arizona guy, a little older than me with a penchant bordering on fetish for firearms and explosives. He is worth a few blogs all by himself but that is for another time.                                                      

The 564th Missile Security Squadron provided missile security for all of the Minuteman III ICBM's located north of Great Falls and Malstrom AFB. This area covered the ground from the little town of Dutton all the way up to Shelby which is near the Canadian border.

Four flights constituted the squadron,  the phonetically named Papa, Quebec, Tango, and Sierra.

As a Staff Sergeant I was the Crew Chief for the squad at Papa-0 (P-0) Launch Control Facility located threes miles east of the farming town of Conrad. You can see a photo of an LCF above. These sites were secure, fenced locations where the the security teams and the missile crews were based. We, the security guys would spend three days there providing response to security situations at 10 missile sites sited at various locations in a 20 mile arc  to the north and west.

40 or so feet underground, in the center of the LCF sat the capsule. The capsule or Launch Control center (LCC) was a big pill shaped re-enforced bunker that sat on  top of big springs in a large cavern carved out of rock for just that purpose. In theory this capsule could survive a nuclear strike. The Missile Control Crew, which consisted of two officers, usually Lieutenants but also the occasional Captain manned this LCC. It was  their job to monitor the electronic security systems of the missiles, notify security of these situations, and to execute a launch order when and if the time came. Their tours of duty were 24 hours.

Each LCF had a Facilities Manager who took care of the place, sometimes using security personnel to assist. There was also a cook assigned, after all everybody has to eat and we were locked in to the place unless a security situation required a response.

Maintenance troops would come and go as required but no one entered without some simple but thorough and effective security procedures that are blog worthy all by themselves.

The LCF could sleep and feed about 25 people when required. Office space, kitchen, day room and dining area, a full bathroom with showers, and five rooms for sleeping were standard issue.

The very thought of these missiles was not comforting to me. One Minuteman III contained three warheads, each programmed separately for a target. Our 10 missiles could theoretically destroy 30 separate cities or military bases. That is a lot of destruction.

Our crew consisted of me and five other troops. They varied a bit over the two years I was there but the ones that I recall are Sellner, Reed, Morales, Green, Standish, McRae, and Bell. Earl Bell was another Sergeant who I outranked even though he was older and had more time in service. He and I had problems that in hindsight were a result of each of our insecurities. These problems manifested themselves into what was the only race-based issue I ever personally encountered. That is also a story for another blog.

We were divided into two three-man teams. One for the 12-hour day shift and one for the 12-hour night shift. The senior team member was the Flight Security Controller (FSC) while the other two comprised the Alarm Response Team (ART). The ART would leave the LCF to respond to any security situation in a security vehicle, usually a Chevy Blazer or a Dodge Ram. The off duty shift was the Security Response Team (SRT) which would be utilized only if things got serious.

The FSC manned the phones, the radio, directed the ART and SRT responses and deployments, and controlled access to the LCF and the missile sites known as Launch Facilities (LF).

When we left Malstrom in our Air Force Blue Chevy Suburban we had all of our personal gear, an M-16 A1 with 220 rounds if ammunition, and all of our required code materials. Once we got to the LCF we assumed control of two M-60 machine guns

with 2,200 rounds of 7.62 ammunition, two M-203 grenade launchers with 18 rounds of 40mm grenades, and an Armored Response Vehicle (ARV) which was a Cadillac Gage Ranger armored truck with a turret for the M-60. See the photo above on the right. We were ready to fight if need be.

The FSC was also equipped with a Smith & Wesson K-38 Combat Masterpiece Revolver Model 15 with 18 rounds of ball ammunition.

For such a small force, we were well armed.

 That's all for now. We can cover more later.

Remembering the Cold War - Young Men and Miniuteman Missiles in Montana

Once There Was A Young Runner - Now There Is Not

Once I was a young and could run with the wind.

When I was wee sprite it was very easy for me to get where I was going. Very little planning was needed. Everywhere that I went, I ran. There was no jogging, no trotting, no easy loping stride. I ran and I ran hard, as fast as I could. Winter or Spring, Summer or Fall it did not matter at all.

Running was always easy and natural for me. A bicycle was always an option, but given my druthers running was always the first choice.

My first foray into organized racing was the original Salem Heritage Days Race in 1973 which was a classic 10K, a distance which is now beginning to come back onto the road racing scene. I ran that race every year until 1978.

In high school, discretion being the better part of valor I decided not to play freshman football. I had played organized football for a few years in a kids league and had some talent, but soaking wet I may have weighed in the vicinity of 115 pounds. Somehow I heard of this thing called Cross-Country Racing which seemed more suited to me.

The next four years found me running hither and yon with one of the finest groups of young schoolboy runners ever gathered in New England. That is no exaggeration. J. Hogan, Thompson, Lockard, Cooney, T. Hogan, Swiniuch, Dionne, Michaud, Nunn, and yes Legault are all names that echo in Salem distance running history.

Undefeated in dual meets for four consecutive years, 4 conference titles, 4 Division titles, A State Championship, a Mass-Conn Title, two State runners-up the second of which was a hairs breadth away from a first place finish. That was the us.

On a personal level I captained the 1978 Cross-Country team and the 1978-79 Winter Track Team. I ran a sub 4:40 mile, a sub 10:00 two mile,  2:35  for the 1,000 yards, and once clocked a 57 second quarter mile as a last minute substitution as the anchor leg in the 1-Mile Relay.

In the Air Force I continued to run on my own. In Japan I developed a rivalry with  a guy by the name of Guttierrez who was of Mexican and Apache heritage. He could fly and no matter how much I trained I could never beat him. He would seemingly be there for me beat no matter the distance, and then in end he would crush me over the final quarter mile. Never did I acknowledge his superior ability and I ended up losing a lot of beer and Jack Daniels bets.

Later on when I was in the Army, yes I switched from one to the other my casual running continued. When I got to Fort Carson In Colorado however I made a minor mistake in approach that resulted n my racing again in a more formal setting.

My arrival at Fort Carson coincided with the annual PT Test for my new unit. There was a young medic there that was considered the big dog of the 2-mile run, Ben Johnson. He was whippet thin and quite confident. I was in good condition but out-weighed the little bastard by 30 pounds and at 26 years to his 19 was considered an old man. The night before I may have talked a little shite and before I knew it we ended up betting a keg of beer on who would beat who on the following morning.

Well, I beat him by half a nose as we both clocked 9:49. The victory was pyrrhic. The Sergeant-Major, the real big dog of the battalion decided that I was going to run on the post track team. My objection to and argument against this plan meant nothing to him. What a Sergeant-Major wants, a Sergeant-Major gets. I was again a distance running track star.

For the next two years I trained for and ran in both cross-country and track races. This was when I ran some of he best times of my life.  One day, on the indoor track at the U. S. Air Force Academy I ran a 4:32 mile. Another day on an outdoor high school track I clocked a 9:39 two-mile.

This is also when I began to incur painful lower leg issues that I would just "run through".

Later on my return to civilian life I continued to do road work and to run various races. One day in Salem N. H. I ran a five-miler that Doug Flutie also ran. I ran a good time that day but he beat me.

I continued to run into my late 30's and into my early 40's but it became more difficult and then it became painful.

My last race was the was the 2010 Wild Turkey 5-Miler on Thanksgiving morning which I hobbled through in 56:11 with bone on bone arthritis in both of my knees. That was no fun, I shuffled more than I ran.

Once I was young and could run with the wind.

Wie spat ist es?

Germany in mid to late 1980's was a fascinating place. The wall in Berlin had not yet come down. Change was in the air but no one really knew what that meant yet. Gorbachev was in power, Reagan was on the way out with and Bush Sr. in the wings as understudy.

The American Army along with the Bundeswehr were planning and preparing for a sudden invasion by the forces of the Warsaw Pact. As far as we knew the Soviet combat soldier was eight-feet tall, impervious to pain, and hungry to chew the tender meat from out delicate American bones.

A part of preparing the American soldier for combat with these behemoths was a week of instruction in the basics of the German language. There was no escaping this course. You had to attend, and attend you did.

The class I attended was taught by a small but lovely young lady with long reddish-brown hair. She was a good teacher who didn't brook nonsense and was fully capable of handling the wise-guys and lover boys that come with any group of young men.

We learned to count, einz, zwei, drei,  and so forth. The definitives were covered, Die, Der, and Das. It was interesting to learn that there was no system to assign one either of the others to a non-gender specific word.

Most everyone struggled at one level or another but for some reason I did not. German for one reason or another clicked easily in my head.

On the last day of class we walked to downtown Kitzengen as both a final test and as a social opportunity. Our assignment was to ask the local folks some basic questions  such as what time is it and where is the bakery, in German and to get the answers in German.

Once we had all done that, we would meet at a local restaurant where we would speak German to each other, order our food in German, and conduct the financial transactions in German using the German money.

As expected, the plan was good, but the actual execution did not go as expected.

I asked the first person I saw, "Wo ist die Backerie?", only to be told in accented English, "across the street young man." Sure enough, the bakery was across the street. I marked it as a win because she had understood the question.

I walked a couple of blocks to an intersection and approached an older gentleman, "Entschuldigen sie bitte, wie spat ist es?"

He looked at me with a smile, then laughed heartily and pointed to the large clock tower directly above his head. As he walked away he continued to laugh.

I do believe that both of those folks had seen this before and were having some fun at my expense.

Der salat und Schnitzel war gut, das Bier ist frisch, und das ist alles.

What Dreams May Come

"To sleep, perchance to Dream; Aye, there's the rub,
For in that sleep of death, what dreams may come."

What better way to start a blog post than with a little morbid Shakespeare?

It is said by those who profess to know that we all dream when we sleep. It is a function of the brain and perhaps natures way of aiding our mind in easing existential concerns. Maybe they reflect or ease what worries us, or are just natures way of entertaining in our slumber.

Seldom do I remember my dreams. Those who claim to understand the human mind have opinions as to why. Some say it because we choose not to remember. Others opine that the waking mind is just not programmed to remember them. Yet it seems that some people recall all or most of their dreams and others few to none of these nocturnal cinematics.

As I child I do not recall if I was an active dreamer. I spent most of adolescence under the influence of an anti-seizure medication that was basically a big-league sedative. That may have been why. My teen years were no different only without the medication. If I dreamed at all I seldom remembered details.

In my early twenties my dream life suddenly became vivid. A recurring dream introduced itself to me that to this day still affects me in odd little ways. You would never notice how, but the residue is there and seems that it always will be. This dream would cause me to wake up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat feeling desperate and lost. I would have to get up and take shower to basically wash it away and relax enough to get back to sleep. Whatever sleep I got afterwards would not be adequate.

As time passed this dream seemed to leave me, but still I would have nights where I awoke in that frantic sweat. The dream would not reveal itself completely, but small parts of it was still there.

Then one day it was gone until years later when I wrote a poem, an ode to those terrifying Nocturnal Trepidations. That poem can be found if you scroll back into the past of this blog.

Now another dream has allowed itself to find a place in my memory. It is a dream of the Salem Y, and features denizens of that facility who are no longer with us. It seems to have been a one time occurrence as I have not been allowed to visit with these memories again.

It did not have the feel of a dream at all. It was if I was taken to a place where that Salem Y, and those within it still exist. It had all of the elements of reality to include sounds and smells. I felt that I did not belong there but was welcomed by all who were in the dream as they expressed surprise at my appearance.

They all greeted me as an old friend who had not been seen in ages and did not expect to see for many more years. We shook hands, slapped backs, and there were even a few hugs. Those that did hug me laughed as they did so knowing that hugs are not my thing.

Conversations were picked up as if we had spoken yesterday. Maybe There had been another dream that I did not recall. They spoke to me of the distant past, the recent past, and of current events. Jimmy K. knew my favored locker number, Big Joe complimented my workout routine, Gordon thanked me for trying to find his wedding band in the pool's filtration system, Charlie Brown made some apologies and a young SSU intern of mine who died of a heroin overdose cried as he spoke of the people who were hurt by his death.

I went off as is my habit in a gym and started my workout as everyone else returned to their routines.

Finally I turned to no one in particular and asked if I was dreaming. Big Joe came over, put his arm around my shoulders as he walked me to the fitness center stairs.

"No Billy", he said. "This is not a dream, but you don't belong here, not yet. It was good to see you but there are things to be done and you should be where you are needed. When we are ready for you here, we'll come and get you."

"To sleep, perchance to Dream. Aye there's the rub,
For in that sleep of life, what future may come."                         

A Return To The Blog

This will be short.

Over the next few weeks I will be posting here again.

Since I left the Patch system back in January after joining the Salem City Council most of my writing has been of the "technical" kind. It is dry, boring and does absolutely nothing to keep the creative chops tight.

There will be no posts here of the local political type.

After a little bit of thought it has been decided to pick on the Red Sox.

Stay tuned.

Even The Best Are Vulnerable

Recently I ran into a friend of mine at a once favored watering hole. It was nice to see him. We said hello and then progressed into a conversation of a serious nature because that is what we do. Never in any of our conversations have we ever actually solved the worlds problems, but damn if we didn't talk as if we could do just that if motivated.

Kevin mentioned that he reads this blog which for some reason surprised me. I don't track who or how many access what I write here. I just write it, post it, and leave it for the blog historians.

"Why haven't you written on the deaths of those SEAL team members in Afghanistan", he asked.

I had no real answer for him. I have been busy, and in reality that is not the purpose of this blog. It was meant to be more personal, a way for me to put thoughts and ideas as to what my writing is or could be out there for others to see.

My earlier post about SEAL Team 6 seems to have resonated with him and a few others. Give them what they want is what entertainment is all about. If writing, even about serious issues is not entertainment then nothing is entertainment.

The military has training from the day you enlist and it never stops until the day you are separated. There are many levels of this training. At boot camp it is done at its most basic. You learn to listen as one in order to respond as a unit. Marching is the most elementary of the training methods and they march you until you don't even have to think about it any more.

As you progress in the military the training also progresses to higher levels while maintaining and re-enforcing the simple and basic. You never escape the marching, you just do less of it.

SEAL training is the peak of the training mountain. All of the Special Forces units are physically difficult and intellectually demanding. Air Force Combat Controllers, Marine Recon and the Army Special Forces demand all a warrior has to offer and more.

1-SFOD-D and the Navy Sea, Air, and Land Teams take it to another level.

A special sort of warrior is required. While physicality is desired, it is really intellect that is the difference between someone at that level and everyone else.

It's great if you can run three miles with a 40-pound rucksack over unknown terrain with nothing but a canteen, a compass, and a map. It's fantastic that you can go three days with only quick catnaps for sleep. It's wonderful that you can bring a man 40 pounds larger and six inches taller to his knees. You are a warrior of exceptional ability.

Can you emerge form the water after mile long swim, find many of your men and weapons lost, maps useless because the Navy dropped you at the wrong spot, communications cut off and still re-form what is left of your team and proceed with your mission? If you can you are that one in 100,000 that the SEALS are looking for.

The fact is you more than likely are not that guy.

The Navy spends a lot of time and money finding and training these warriors. It also spends a lot of money and effort trying to retain them. They are in high demand in the civilian world. there are many corporations that maintain quasi-military units in order to provide intelligence and security for their international business business interests.

Colonel Arthur D. "Bull" Simons is probably the modern prototype for this sort of military/civilian hybrid. He was what Blackwater looks for before Erik Prince was out of grammar school.

All of that money and when the time comes we sometimes choose to put these valuable assets (yes I called them assets) in a thin skinned, slow moving behemoth like a Chinook helicopter.

A warrior is never more vulnerable than when he, and others with him, are confined within a moving piece of metal and mechanical parts. Concerned citizens here express outrage that hum-vees and other military vehicles are without armor. Armor is wonderful in some situations but a hindrance to awareness and mobility in most situations.

While confined within a vehicle a warrior is useless. He cannot defend himself from many of the threats that he faces. All the training, toughness, and smarts in the world will not save him once that vehicle is compromised. All he has then is fate, the luck of the gods of war will either be with him or against him.

A lumbering beast like a Chinook is a death trap if they know you are coming, and it is not difficult to know that a Chinook is coming.

The Taliban either knew, or got very lucky.

I don't feel that luck had anything to do with it.

Ground Squirrels, small caliber rifles, large caliber pistols, and beer

PART 1:

It was the spring of 1983. Montana was warm and dry.

If you have never been to that part of the country it would be difficult for you to understand it, especially if your experience is in the northeastern United States. They call it "Big Sky" Country. That is no exaggeration. East of the Rockies it is all rolling or flat plains, with some buttes, mesas, valleys and small canyons. You can see for miles and miles.

I was in Great Falls, a big city by Montana standards and home to the 341st Air Base Wing at Malmstrom Air Force Base. Great Falls and Malmstrom were basically "Minuteman Missile Central" for the U. S. Air Force. North, east, and west of Great Falls sat 300 Minuteman III nuclear monsters. Each of these missiles sat in silos armed with three warheads ready to cause "the end of the world as we knew it." I should say "as we know it" because these deadly things are still there and still ready to go.

I shared a house downtown with another character, a Technical Sergeant (E-6) from Arizona. He was a bit of a gun nut as was I at the time. Gary was his name and he was a federally licensed class III arms dealer. That meant he could buy, sell and shoot just about any firearms or explosive that existed.

Gary had a little game he liked to play when watching Clint Eastwood movies. He would wear a flat, broad brimmed western hat, his serape, and smoke a thin cigar while wearing a single tied-down western holster with a .45 caliber revolver. The pistol would be loaded with what were called "hollywood" blanks. These blanks had a full powder load but were packed only with paper which would basically dissipate in the air on discharge. They were only dangerous at very close range, but you could still feel the concussive effect from the barrel ten feet away. He would, when compelled, help Clint shoot the bad guys. There were days when I was sure that Gary's elevator didn't make it to the top floor.

One day the Mormons, or maybe it was Jehovah's Witness came knocking at the door. Our house was on a corner lot where two main streets intersected. If my memory is correct it was 2nd Street North and 7th Avenue West. We did not have a lot of visitors. We were usually working, shooting, hunting, fishing or drinking. Guns and liquor went in and out on a regular basis, but we never mixed the two.

We were often seen loading and unloading his machine guns which we would fire down at Black Eagle Falls just outside of the city limits. Once a month or so we would mount his .30 caliber Browning air-cooled crew served weapon on his jeep (CJ-5) mount. Machine guns, after all like any machine need to be used. They do however, tend to make neighbors standoffish.

The Mormons knocked on the door while Gary and I were watching "For A Few Dollars More" and consuming copious amounts of cold beer. In this case I guess Gary was mixing firearms and alcohol.

I looked up from the couch and saw the dark pants, white shirts, and black ties. Gary got up to answer the door in all of his Clint Eastwood regalia. As he walked across the floor I told him who it was and he laughed a very odd laugh unlike any I had heard from him before. I sat up quickly and watched with a view that showed the Mormons through the front window, and the foyer where Gary would open the door.

I will stop and note here that Gary was a very good, nationally ranked, western quick draw competitor. He was also a multi-service pistol champion. As crazy and immature as he was, the man was exemplary with a pistol in his hand.

As he reached for the door handle, things from my seat began to move in slow motion. I saw the

Mormons look up and smile as they heard the door open. One reached out with his right hand while the other stepped back a bit and held up the good book. Gary opened the door and stood there, small cigar smoldering in his lips, a snarl on his face as reached for the .45. He  brought it up in a quick, smooth motion and pointed directly at the lead missionary.

The two Mormons froze, smiles in place and stared a look of stunned confusion. They did not comprehend what they saw. The delay was similar to what you see Wile E. Coyote do in a Warner Brothers cartoon. 

The pistol came up and roared once, sending smoke and bits of paper into the air. Two more roars followed in quick loud succession.

The poor missionary still not quite understanding what was happening, dropped their books and turned to flee the madman who appeared trying to kill them. Bumping into each other as they turned to go down the steps of the porch, one fell flat on is face while the other banged of the bannister, stumbled and caught himself on the stairs.

Gary continued to fire his blank ammo and was now bellowing unintelligible and probably profane noises.

The prone missionary was being trampled by the one who had bounced off the bannister. The second one stomped on his partners back and streaked down the side walk to the street. The other sort of crawled and scrawled down the sidewalk while attempting to pick himself up with his buddies footprint on the back of his shirt and blood on his face and hands.

Gary by now was on the porch, with an empty, smoking pistol in his hand, laughing in a way that by itself would scare any rational human being and most of the animals of the wild.

The last I saw of the two of them were their assholes and elbows as they fled desperately across the street and disappeared into the distance.

As Gary came back in, still laughing I brought him back to reality by saying we would certainly be getting a visit from the Great Falls Police and probably the Sheriff's Department.

No one came, no police, no sheriffs. No one cared, except of course for the two poor bastards who were victimized.

To this day the two of them surely tell the story of the "Madman of 2nd Avenue North." and how God saved them from certain death and martyrdom so they could continue to spread the word.

I wonder if the one guys recounts for his listeners how he ran up his pals back on on his way down the stairs.

TO BE CONTINUED

Every year I am fortunate enough to be able to host some fundraisers for the Salem YMCA. This started six years ago when I was still tending bar and taking care of business at the Lobster Shanty. In 2006 we raised $2,000.

Every year since then, even through a change an ownership at the Shanty and a change in my employment status there ( I must again be a prick and state it was not my choice to leave) the BaldBil's YMCA Day At The Shanty has taken place. It has become a small and anticipated annual tradition.

On Friday this week, June 24, I will close out the event by turning the cash and checks over to the Salem Y. It will be slightly over $3,500. When you consider the wet, cool weather that we had on the 12th of June that is very impressive. A little bit of sunshine and I believe we would have hit the "mythical" $5,000 mark. Maybe next year.

The entertainment was again provided by one of my favorite local groups, JT and the Hounds. These guys are basically a Salem/North Shore " super group https://www.facebook.com/pages/JT-and-the-HOUNDS/24714240941. My long time friend, Ronnie Deschenes leads these guys and they were just superb as is the norm. If you haven't seen them I would suggest that you do.

The generosity of the Shanty owners, Diane and Lee Wolf cannot be over stated here. They not only allow me to basically take over their business for the day, they also donate 5% of the full days receipt's to the cause. The bar tending staff, Sara, Ed, Betty (Dave), Sarah (Flooze), and Chrissy also donate ALL of their bar tips for the entire day. The wait staff, as usual, also rocked the house not only serving the customers but hustling to sell raffle tickets.

Raffle prizes were provided by a varied group of Salem businesses. The Morning Glory Bed & Breakfast (Bob and Marcel are dedicated and valued members of the BaldBil Fundraising Brigade), Victoria Station, The Adriatic, Cafe Graziani, The Salem Theater Company, Market Place Quilts, Engine House Pizza, Howling Wolf, Pampelmouse, The Trolley Depot, and Paul O'Donnell (Red Sox tickets).

The giant lobster was again provided by an anonymous donor and was won by Chuck, a charter member of the infamous and notorious "Chardonnay gang". They all gathered a few days later to dine on a huge lobster pie.

The six years of this event have been fairly successful. We have now raised just about $20,000 total for the kid's of Salem. I am proud of the fact that people in this town, and the Shanty crowd, support this cause every year.

Next up is the 5th BaldBil's Scotch & Cigar night. stay tuned.

Thoughts on Osama bin Laden and Seal Team Six

I felt no joy on hearing of this creatures death. There have always been and there will always be members of the human race who feel the pull of evil. Over the last hundred years we have seen our share of these characters. They all eventually come to their end.

When I first heard the news skepticism was my initial reaction. I had figured he was dead long ago despite the periodic releases of his video/audio tapes.

It did not take long to realize this was real.

What did I feel if not joy? It was not satisfaction. It was not relief. At first there there was no feeling at all, just an immediate desire for information. I wanted to to know who, when, where and how.

When the who was revealed, American warriors of Seal Team Six I felt pride. Pride as an American, pride as a veteran, and pride as a man who had a few small tastes of the covert world of the secret warriors. These men are a rare and special breed. You do not know who they are even when they are standing next to you unless you are supposed to know who they are. Do not be fooled by those you meet who boast and brag of heroic deeds. They are posers and nitwits.

There are a few like Eric Haney, who write books and make TV shows, but that is rare and in my mind shameful.

The when of the operation was no surprise. A moonless night with little overcast. Dark enough to create cover and assist confusion. No ground light bouncing off of clouds and increasing visibility. These conditions are perfect for maximizing night vision apparatus advantage.

Where. Well a bit of surprise there, but after a little thought it should not have been a surprise. Hiding in plain sight is an old and dependable strategy. The Pakistani government has made a lot of money off us by "aiding" in the decade long search. We admit to giving them a billion dollars a year. Accounting for all of the additional and publicly non-existent funds that are out there I would bet it was more like five or six billion a year. Hopefully that gravy train just ran right off the tracks.

The how is the best part. For far too long we have attempted to do our dirty work without getting down onto the dirt. Smart bombs and guided missiles are wonderful tools to have in your belt. They serve a purpose and can be very useful in the right circumstances. There are times however, when you need to put the tools down and use your hands directly. This was one of those times.

The warriors of Seal Team Six, just like the men of Delta Force who took out Pablo Escobar some years ago have already passed into legend and there they shall remain. That is where they belong and where they wish to remain. They will continue to shoot millions of rounds of small arms ammo every year as they practice and hone their deadly skills.

They will not be the drunken dunderhead standing at the bar regaling you with his tales of selection, martial arts exploits, or encounters with sexy and exotic female operators.

Thank you to the secret warriors and thank you to a President who had the sense to use them.

When You Least Expect It Something Happens

A few Fridays nights ago I wandered into the Gulu-Gulu for a beer before heading home. It was after eight pm and the place was packed to the gills. There were two seats at the bar close to the kitchen so I grabbed one and ordered an IPA.

The place was buzzing, my beer was cold and the band was setting up. I opened my MacBook to check on a few things and to tweak a short story I've been writing.

A young lady approached from the left and asked if she could take up space in what may have been the only available seat in the house. I gestured for her to make herself comfortable and went back to work.

She put her Apple on the bar and said to me, "I'm glad I'm not the only geek in the place tonight." Despite my taking minor offense at being called a geek, after all I am the Great Bald One I chose to give the young lady the benefit of the doubt and not treat her to a verbal evisceration.

After a few minutes I noticed that she was looking at the Salem Patch on her screen. I mentioned to her that I had recently discovered this new online newspaper and was impressed with what I had seen. Turns out that Aubry (yes we had done introductions) is the editor.

Conversation ensued. I mentioned I did some writing. She asked what I was working on. I told her.

Next thing I know Aubry is online looking at this blog and checking out some old columns I had written for the Salem Gazette.

"I want you to write for me" she said. "

Aubry followed that with, "I will pay you to write for me."

It took a moment for me to fully digest what she had said.

Needless to say I now write for the Salem Patch through a contract with AOL. The Patch system is their baby. There are those in the newspaper industry who think the Patch is the devil that will kill the print medium. That may or may not be the case.

This Saturday the third installment of my weekly column, "A Voice In Salem" will run. I am also accepting assignments as they are offered and Patch has already run two of those. Beginning this week is a five-part series detailing how different organizations in Salem are assisting families in need over the Christmas season.

Check it out when you can and be sure to let me know what you think by either commenting on the article itself or emailing me.

http://salem.patch.com/

A Busy Turkey day, Done and Done!

Thanksgiving is always my favorite holiday. The Fourth of July is nice and I like Memorial Day but Thanksgiving is the one that gets my attention every year. It would be impossible for me to explain why I like it so much. I just do. Usually I stay busy throughout the day and this year was no different.

WILD TURKEY RUN:

Dragging my self from bed at 6:30AM for what is becoming a true Salem tradition was not a problem at all. In years past I did so to supervise the members of my early morning boot camp as they performed their pre-mashed potato penance by running this 5 mile race.

This year it was me, the BaldOne who would be the penitent. After a breakfast at home I walked down North Street to the YMCA. There I dropped my bag prior to ambling down to the Boys & Girls Club to pick up my race package. Then it was back to the Y to get changed and a quick walk to the starting line at Washington Square North and Winter Street.

The air was cool, but comfortable. At least that was my opinion. Most everyone else thought it was plain cold. The field of runners was large and the mood was actually festive. I said hello to Brandi and Steve Dion, the owners of B & S Fitness. Steve had their son in a carriage and Brandi, well she is due to deliver another child in 3 days. She was ready to run and was quite relaxed. A few of us discussed at which mile marker she would be near when her water broke.

The run itself was pleasant despite my knees protesting every step. I am unable to stride fully without them clicking, therefore I do not stride. My good friend Steve Pinto described my style as a trudge. I guess I'll have to give him that because for the most part that is what I did, albeit a 10 minute mile trudge.

In the last 1/2 mile I stretched my stride out a bit and may have found a middle ground that will allow me to run a bit more and trudge a bit less. We shall see.

The official timer had me at 56:11 but my clock said 53:09. I trust my clock more.

The Frosty Four New Years Day race is next on the agenda despite my knees protests.

SALEM-BEVERLY FOOTBALL:

My Nephew, James and his father accompanied me to Hurd Stadium where we watched the Boys from the right side of the bridge beat the boys from the wrong side of the bridge 12-7.

My preference is to stand in the end zone to watch this game. James did not seem to mind tis which was good for me. I truly do not like sitting in the stands. The end zone is a bit of the game and a bit of old home week all in one. For some reason the attendance was down this year. Why is anybody's guess. It wasn't that cold, the wind wasn't blowing and there was no rain.

We had a prime spot to see Skeffingtons' 22 yard TD run. This was after Salem failed on a 4th and 1 attempt which was nullified by a Beverly penalty.

The play was chippy throughout the game with more than a few hits and a few shoves thrown in after the fact. The zebra crew was content to let them have at it and the game seemed under control from start to finish.

ETCETERA, ETCETERA:

A good dinner with family and a few friends while watching the Patriots spank the Lions was the afternoon. We eat at 1PM every ear to accommodate the nurses in the family who work the night shift. Turkey and all the rest of course but the high was...(drum roll please),............brussel sprouts. My sister Donna, the gourmet in the group bought 40 fresh brussel sprouts at Hannaford's. These weren't ordinary sprouts seeing as she hand selected them. Her system involved sending the poor kid at the market out back twice to bring here more to inspect. She is hard core in her vegetable standards.

Dinner done, a Patriot's victory in the bag I participated in some conversation until things began to turn political. At that point I retreated to the kitchen, read some newspapers and took a short nap.

AT 6pm it was time to head downtown, but that folks is another story.

Personal Trainers.....Some are good others are not.

Over the last few weeks while availing myself of a few different fitness facilities I have made it a point of observing and even listening to the interaction between trainers and their clients. I have done this in the past also and am always fascinated by what I see and hear.

Before I get into my conclusions let me say this to you. Before choosing or even shopping for a trainer, know what you want and why you want it. What you want and why is not for the trainer to decide. You alone need to consider how your wants either meet or conflict with your actual needs. A trainer is there to help you meet those needs as realistically and safely as possible. He or she is not there to dictate your needs.

One thing I always look at when observing a trainer in action is how hard is their client working. Are they applying themselves with diligence and purpose or are they moving listlessly from exercise to exercise with no real motivation. If the latter is the case then the trainer is not earning their money. The only conversation occurring should be for the purpose of evaluation.

"How are you feeling?"

"Can you do another repetition?"

"Inhale strong and exhale stronger!"

If the conversation is of casual subjects and not exercise related the client is and the trainer are not serious in their endeavors. This means the the client is fooling himself and the trainer taking money for being a conversationalist instead of being a trainer.

At least half of the "trainers" I observed were of this type. Their clients were barely breaking a sweat in their cardiovascular routines and not being challenged in their resistance exercises. Conversation seemed to be the order of the day with the exercise, usually a dry and repetitive series of machines or weights a seeming a sideline.

These are the trainers to avoid.

Look for the trainer who keeps their client moving quickly from exercise to exercise.

Look for the trainer who leads his client in different and challenging regimens.

Look for the trainer whose clients sweat and look like they were challenged physically after every workout.

Look for the trainer who questions his clients effort and motivation in a positive and productive manner.

Look for the trainer whose clients come off the machines or put down the steel to do old school, kick-ass floor exercises.

Look for trainer whose clients show progression in weight, repetitions and attitude.

When you are finished in the gym you should be tired but refreshed at the same time. Your heart rate should have been up, sweat should be flowing and you should feel like you accomplished something. If your aren't then you aren't working hard enough.

If I see you at the gym I always ask;

"Are you working hard?"

I ask this not as conversation but to remind you that you are there for a reason.

"Work Hard or Go Home!"

A Thanksgiving Run For Me!

Years ago when I was young skinny and had a head full of red hair I was a distance runner. Those of you who did not know me back then may not know this fact. As a Salem High School student I ran on both the cross-country and indoor track teams. I ran some good times mostly as a result of good coaching (the Great Dunsky) and from competition from a great group of runners. We were a powerhouse in the distance events and especially in cross-country. I had the pleasure of training with a who's who of SHS and north shore distance runners; John Hogan, Joe Cooney, Brian Lockard (DIV III all-american at UMass), Matt Thompson, Tommy Hogan, Vince Swiniuch and more than a few others. Dunsky and these guys are the only reason I graduated.

I didn't do much running after high school except for the daily PT run until I was posted to Fort Carson in Colorado. Shortly after arriving there I made the mistake of betting a younger medic that would beat him in the 2-mile run part of the PT test. We were drinking that night so a lot of side bets were also made. Well, to keep it short I was in a lot better running shape than I thought and the kid and I finished in a stride for stride tie in 9:49. Those daily PT runs were better for me than I thought. The Sergeant-Major of the battalion was there and before I knew it I was running in competition for the battalion and the 4th Division. I didn't want to but a Sergeant-Major generally gets what he wants.

I ran on a fairly regular basis through the 90's. When I lived in Hampstead NH I even had a summer where I did 30-40 miles a week. My knees began to bother me in my early 40's and I have done no serious running since. Five or six years ago I did run the annual March cross-country 5K at the Salem Green's. With a 3/4 effort I finished in 30 minutes. My knees yelled at me for the next week.

Due to a change in footwear and a stretching routine my knees feel better than they have in years. I have begun to run a slow mile on the treadmill as exploration. No ill effects beyond the normal soreness and stiffness have manifested. I will slowly increase the distance and will loop the inside of the Salem Common once or twice next week.

The reason for all of this? Simple. Come Hell, high water or armageddon itself I am running the Wild Turkey Run on Thanksgiving morning. I've already signed up.

"Damn the torpedo's full speed ahead!"

Searing Anger

I just knocked this out after a day wandering the streets of Salem with my my usual determined purpose. My intent each day is not evil. I do what has to be done and that is all.

SEARING ANGER (or wasted energy if you prefer)

On Andrews there lives a woman

whose anger most certainly breathes.

The flames of annoyance do fuel her

and cause her emotions to seethe.

From a window she spy's something orange

that bring from her embers a spark.

She bolts to confront the transgressor

to bare yellowed fangs and to bark.

The Bald One listens in wonder

from where this vile anger was borne.

It lives in breathtaking splendor

while inviting observers to scorn.

He walks quickly in befuddled amusement

As she sputters and continues to scorch.

Her heat builds fast to enkindle

the anger she wields as a torch.

Where We've Been and Where We Are

The Salem News today stimulates my memory and causes me once again to consider where I am and where I've been over the years.

Similar to an earlier post about a very good friend who has fallen on hard times due to his own foolishness, I muse on another guy I knew when I was young.

In 1973 the public grammar school I attended closed as I completed the 7th grade. I had attended the Hawthorne School since 5th grade. It was located in the old St.Mary's School building where I had endured kindergarten through fourth grade. St. Mary's was the first parochial school in Salem closed by the archdiocese of Boston. The city rented the building as a public school for the next three years. 1974 brought me to the 8th grade in the Phillips School which was just around the corner.

A few of my friends from the Hawthorne came with me to the Phillips. It was a bit of an adjustment for all of us. We were the interlopers and the put upon at the same time. The kids at Phillips were a bit nervous about us (Hawthorne had a rough reputation) and we were unsure what to expect at Phillips.

This guy was one of the first kids I encountered. He heard how I pronounced my name, LA-GO, as opposed to LA-GALT and used the "Leggo of my Eggo" commercial to bust my balls. He would run up to me in the hallway between classes, shout it out to me and then run. I would chase him for a bit and then go to class. This went on for the entire year. He got some sort of rush from the whole thing while I kind of got tired of it. As the year went on I would chase him less and less until I didn't chase him at all. The fact is I had no interest in catching him.

High school came and he and I encountered each other very little. We ran in different circles. The one thing I noticed is he always had very good looking girl friends. He seemed personable and popular.

Fourteen years ago I returned to Salem. Eventually I asked about him. Family members, his brother in particular would change the subject quickly. I later learned he had been arrested twice in child rape charges and in between those incidents jailed twenty years for the rape of a Salem State College (now University) student. He was released a few years ago and according to police records was "homeless" in Cambridge.

It turns out he was not in Cambridge at all. He has been living at his sisters house here in Salem and working as a roofer. Today he is on the front page of the Salem News after being arrested again for rape.

I look at his picture. Hard eyes, tight tense lips, slicked back hair and try to reconcile this appearance with the smiling, personable blond kid who playfully provoked me to a chase 35 years ago. It doesn't fit. It doesn't make sense.

Look at where you are today. Look around at the people you have known for years and where they are. Realize and appreciate that whether it be by design or by circumstance we are what we have become.

A Push Up Challenge at the Salem Y!

Four years ago I began working with the young son of a friend. He was 13 and was looking for a way to build some strength and become a better athlete. He wanted to be able to throw the baseball harder and to jump higher.

I told James that I could help him with that. Specifically I promised that if he did the exercises as I taught them in a dedicated fashion he would become stronger but more importantly he would become better conditioned. At the end of the game I promised, he would still be able to run as fast and jump as high as he could at the beginning of the game. That alone would give him a huge advantage over stronger, faster opponents. James worked diligently and after four years he has come far. His fastball hops, over 80 MPH and his leg strength is superior. He also wrestles for St. John's Prep Danvers, MA and made some varsity appearances in both sports in his sophomore year of 2009-10.

This is not about all of that.

James decided that this was the year he would challenge and beat me in doing military style push ups. I teach this exercise very strictly and have yet to have a client be unhappy with the results. He challenged me at the beginning of the summer which gave both of us time to prepare. I taught James a palms on the floor version of the classic "Jack LaLanne" push up in order to help him prepare. His Dad kept me apprised of his dedication and progress and began in the last few weeks to drop hints that I was going to get whipped.

Well, not being a fool and also being a gentleman of a certain age (I was born at the end of the "I like Ike era") I took steps to insure that I also would be ready.

Today the day of the challenge arrived. James and his father Peter were waiting for me when I arrived. First we agreed to flip a coin to see who would go first. We also agreed that the basic military rest position would be allowed (ass raised to take the stress from the arms and shoulders but no contact with the ground except for hands and feet). You could assume the rest position as often as desired but only could hold it for a five count. Peter flipped the quarter, James called heads. When the coin hit the floor it rolled for about twelve feet and for a moment we thought it would stay standing on it's edge. When if fell, it was heads. James opted to let me go first. Bastard!

We then warmed up. James did some dips and a couple of pull-ups. I did 20 Jack LaLanne push-ups on my finger tips. That may have psyched him out just a little bit. There was method to my madness.

His Dad did a set first just for kicks. Peter is 54 and had never been a muscle head but keeps himself in good shape. He did 46 but I think could have done 8-10 more.

Down to the floor I went. I had rested my upper body for two full days. I pumped out 40 good strong ones before choosing to rest. Perhaps I should have gone to 50. Hindsight is 20/20. I assumed the rest position and then did 10 more. After that I did increments of five until I got to 60. From 60 to 70 it was three or two until I got to 71. There were a few left, but at 50 years old I worry about injury when fatigue reaches a certain level and decided discretion was the better part of valor.

James was up next. He also did 40 good strong reps before resting. I had to remind him to go good and low a few times but overall they were good solid push ups. He began to slow down after 45 and ended at 56. I think he could have done a few more but I am still in his head a bit.

He did very well for a 16 year old. We don't do the push ups your average high school athlete does. Ours are full range of motion, chest to the floor, elbows straight at the top, ass staying level with the shoulder push-ups. They are not for the week end superstar.

Just for the hell of it we all did a second set after a ten minute rest. Peter did 51, I did 47 and young James went to 52. He got me there. Recovery comes faster at the younger age.

I have no intention of letting him catch me next year, but think his intentions may be different.

Nocturnal Trepidations

Dreams simple and unadorned. We all have them. This was written in 1999 after almost twenty years of the same dream.

I am slowly moving uncontrolled through a dark forbidding space surrounded by numbers that exude malevolence and are too large to be counted, but I attempt to count anyway. The more I count the larger and more the numbers become. The longer the dream the more desperate and helpless I become. When I wake in the dark, alone in the room sweat is great and cold on my body, my mouth dry and sandy and my throat and chest tight as a drum.

NOCTURNAL TREPIDATIONS

The dreams began so long ago,

across a country and an ocean.

I do not know from whence they came

or what put them into motion.

They start out with the counting,

numbers that never cease.

I swim and pitch amongst them

and feel the anger of the beast.

The monster lives within me,

but to others is not there

but in nasty little glimpses

which emerge from latent fear.

My sleep is seldom steady,

as I fight with restless ghosts.

The mother of my silent screams

rules nights as loathsome host.

To wake and lie in horror,

as the night begins to creep

move the numbers ever closer

as the terror makes me weep.

A bottle calls me clearly,

as a place where I can cower.

Old Jack and number seven

give the numbers greater power.

Time is not the answer,

as the numbers still remain.

They linger in the darkness

as a subtle soaking pain.