RV Trip Highlights

Last summer my friend and I took a month-long trip in a rented RV starting in Calgary, Canada, then driving south to the northern tip of Arizona and back up again. We visited all the National Parks and many more sights along the way. I have recorded our travels on a daily basis earlier in this blog. But, two places that we visited stand out in my mind that I would like to give special recognition to. You can view the pictures associated with these two places by going to the blog entries for days 11, 12, and 29 of our Rocky Mountain trip.

Salt Lake City: Worth a Visit

As part of the RV trip through and along the Rocky Mountains my friend and I made a stop at Salt Lake City. Of course, we had heard and read about how Salt Lake City came about and that it is the world headquarters of the Church of Latter Day Saints, also known as Mormons, but had no idea what would await us there.

Right off the bat let me say that I am impressed with what the Mormons offer tourists, regardless of where they come from or what their heritage is, in Salt Lake City. First of all, there is a free shuttle bus from the airport to Temple Square and back (this bus happens to pass by the KOA campground where we stayed and it picks up and delivers anyone from there who wants to go downtown). The shuttle buses are driven by volunteer members of the Church. The aim of the free shuttle service is to enable people who have a few hours layover at the airport to spend them seeing Temple Square, the Mormon version of Rome's Saint Peter's Square.

On Temple Square there are many ushers, guides for most languages, and generally nice people willing to point things out and to assist in any way. How the Church manages to mobilize these numbers of people is beyond me: Men dressed in business suits, women in long (almost formal) dresses befitting the rules of the Mormon Church, and young people also dressed in consonance with the surroundings. I surmise that the overall aim is to put the Mormon religion in as positive a light as possible. Everything is clean, neat, and well organized. Although the references to the Church, it's leaders past and present, and the all-present thesis of the Book of Mormon are evident, no one directly proselytized or even mentioned other religions.

We were given a tour of Temple Square and some buildings by two young women, one from South Korea, the other from Mexico. They spoke in glowing terms of the achievements by the pioneers who braved many hardships in reaching this valley after being persecuted out of two different locations farther east. The Temple itself is sacred and can only be entered by members of the Church in good standing. Don't ask me exactly what 'in good standing' means, the best I could gather was that once a year every Mormon has to have an interview with a bishop who ascertains and certifies the worthiness of the member to enter the Temple.

We also visited the Museum of Family History, also known as the Genealogical Library. Again, the people were all very friendly and accommodating. The Genealogical Library is huge and like any large library has several floors, reams of books, masses of computer terminals, and a large vault with thousands of microfilms. All of it is accessible to the general public with the aid of the library staff. I really didn't make this trip to Salt Lake City to do genealogical research, but since we were there it interested me how and why they maintain such a library. The 'how' is that people (presumably Church members) go out and obtain family histories from archives around the world. This information is put into a database and shared with the world. Then if someone finds his or her ancestors and adds his or her own records, this information in turn can be added to the database to augment it. The 'why' is that the Mormon Church emphasizes the unity of families. By tracing one's roots and completing the family tree the whole world could eventually in a way be united as one big family. Mind you, I'm no expert on the Mormon religion, this is only my take on the situation.

We then wandered around a bit and had a little lunch at a cafe in the Joseph Smith Memorial Building. As we finished our lunch we strolled out into the main part of the building which looked like the lobby of a grand hotel, but without reception desk or bellmen. My friend wanted to take a picture of the richly ornamented lobby, but didn't dare because a greater-than-life statue of Joseph Smith, the founder of the Church of Latter Day Saints, kept watch over us, and many people in wedding attire moved about the lobby and the corridors. I spotted a dapper gentleman in a light gray suit and a name tag who was standing at the entrance to the hall as if ready to direct anyone who needed directing. I approached him intending to ask if it was OK to take a picture, but first I asked him what the function of this building is. That started a relationship that lasted for over an hour, got us a private guided tour of the building, and tons of information about the customs of the Mormons.

In the early 1900s the building which is now the Joseph Smith Memorial Building used to be the Utah Hotel, a grand gathering place for the rich and famous in Salt Lake City and surroundings. It is now a place where Mormon Church members can have their wedding receptions (there were nine going on at the time we were there), and where Church banquets and meetings are held. The president of the Church used to live in a private suit upstairs. There are two restaurants in addition to the cafe where we ate and viewing areas on the 10th floor where one has a wonderful view of Salt Lake City and the surrounding valley.

The gentleman opened doors for us that are usually closed to the public. Everything is of the finest quality. The drinking fountains are golden, spotless, and work well! When the ceiling in one of the main dining rooms was refurbished, only a lady from Germany knew how to do it. No expense seems too great to demonstrate the power of the Church and to extol its virtues.

After visiting another edifice or two we hopped aboard the free shuttle for a ride back to the campground in a torrential downpour. The nice man driving the bus told us that they have had twice the amount of rain that usually falls in the entire month of June in just two weeks, but that they needed it because the summers are hot and dry. He not only took us to the campground, he drove us right up to our RV so that we wouldn't get wet.

The next day being a Sunday, the Mormon Tabernacle Choir performed and we had gotten reservations to see the performance through our campground. The Tabernacle is a large theater which holds several thousand people. Because in the summertime many tourists want to see and hear the choir, the performances are moved to the Congress Center which holds more than 20,000 people. We were lucky because this was the last performance in the Tabernacle before the choir went on a 13 day tour and after that would perform in the Congress Center for the rest of the summer.

It was an impressive experience. The choir has its dress rehearsal during which time the audience is let in, then follows the performance which is taped and then broadcast by radio and television stations around the world. Everything has to be very precise, the timing, the camera shots, and the silence by the audience. The sounds produced by the orchestra and the choir are fantastic and to experience them live makes it even more enjoyable. Needless to say, there were herds of ushers and guides who helped prevent chaos when people entered and left the Tabernacle.

Again the free shuttle service transported us both ways. This concluded our most enjoyable and informative visit to Salt Lake City. "Hats off" to the nice people in Salt Lake City.

The Head-Smashed-In Buffalo Jump

Our first stop on our recent RV trip was only a few hours south of Calgary near the town of Fort Macleod in an RV Park and campground called "Buffalo Plains," a name which seemed appropriate for these wide open spaces at the foothills of the Rockies.

While reading the guidebook to see what attractions awaited us in the area we came across a curious reference to a place called "Head-Smashed-In Buffalo Jump." We first thought of a replica of a Wild West saloon where frequent brawls led to the strange name. When reading further, however, we found out that this place with the strange name had actually been designated a UNESCO World Heritage Site in 1981 and is one of the world's oldest, largest, and best preserved buffalo jumps in existence. It had been used continuously by native peoples of the plains for almost 6,000 years.

But what is a "buffalo jump" and where does that curious name "Head-Smashed-In"come from?

We soon found out when we went to the site's Interpretive Centre. A “buffalo jump” is a cliff over which the native inhabitants of the North American plains used to drive a herd of bison by stampeding them and luring them in the direction of the cliff. The bison would fall over the cliff, the first over would be killed outright while the following animals would only be injured because they fell on the dead ones below. The injured would then be killed by the natives with arrows and lances.

The way the natives got the herd to stampede was to have a young man called a “runner” drape the skin from a buffalo calf over himself as a disguise and ease up to the lead cow. She would then think this was a calf, or even that this was her own calf. Then other braves would drape wolf skins over themselves and approach the herd as if they were wolves. This caused the herd to squeeze together for protection. The crowding together would excite the animals and they would start to run. When the buffalo started to run, the brave disguised as a calf would start to run toward the cliff and the lead cow would follow, trying to protect what she thought was a calf. This was very dangerous for the runner. A man can run about 15 mph, a buffalo can make 30 mph. The stampeding herd thundered ever closer to the runner. Meanwhile, other braves would jump up from hiding places on both sides of the path to the cliffs, waving and shouting, thus directing the herd toward the cliff. If the runner survived long enough to reach the cliff, he would jump down unto a ledge and let the thundering herd fly to their death over him. To the shortsighted buffalo the edge of the cliff appeared as a dip in the prairie. Even if the buffalo at the front recognized the danger and stopped, the rest of the frenzied herd would push them to their deaths.

This all sounds cruel, but before guns and horses, this was the most efficient way for the natives to obtain food to feed their tribe and to obtain buffalo hides for their lodges and clothing. If the kill was great enough, they used the extra meat and hides as bartering materials with other tribes and later on with white traders.

As to the name, when one envisions a stampeding herd of bison plunging head-first over a cliff, it isn't hard to imagine where the name "Head-Smashed-In" came from.

The Interpretive Centre is an education in itself! The numerous exhibits, archeological artifacts, and the audio-visual presentations are of the finest. On certain days of the week native dancers and drummers put on shows. The day we were lucky enough to be there, it happened to be the 1st of July, Canada's equivalent of our 4th of July, the show was not only spectacular but also very informative. During a break in the performance of the Blackfoot dancers and drummers I had the opportunity to talk to one of the performing drummers at length. He readily discussed the heritage of their dances and chants and remarked that I was the first foreigner who had ever asked him these questions. He explained the meaning of the chants and the accompanying drum rhythms, assuring me that even though to my untrained ear it all sounded the same, there was a different message conveyed by each piece. I also learned that none of these songs and dances are written down, but are passed from one generation to another by word of mouth.

In addition to the exhibits and other activities at the Interpretive Centre, there are hiking trails to the actual buffalo jump cliff and the surrounding area where a wonderful view of the plains and the Rockies looming in the distance can be had. Food and refreshments are available at the center and my recommendation is to go there and allow at least a half day if not more to fully enjoy it.

Who would ever suspect such a spectacular place behind a name like "Head-Smashed-In Buffalo Jump?"

I get no Respect

Rodney Dangerfield used to say that he got no respect. Well, I get no respect, either. All my life I have been trying to do the right things. People don't know that I have an overpowering sense of responsibility, that is, I feel compelled to warn other people of a danger that I, and maybe just I, perceive. But instead of respecting me for it, people laugh at my actions. Well, sometimes I have to laugh too. What the heck, to keep your sanity you have to laugh at yourself sometimes, especially when, in retrospect, what you did really is funny. The two accounts here are examples of what I mean.

No Moo, Bull

One day in late summer my friend, her sister, our Boxer, and I went for a hike in the Swiss Alps. We wanted to show my friend's sister the wonderful hike we had taken once before with friends. Everything was green, mountain flowers were blooming in the lower portions of the mountains, and above the treeline at the very tops of some of the mountains there were some snowfields, which probably never totally melt away. We drove up a valley and parked our car. Our goal was to go to the top station of one of the ski lifts that serve that valley, then to walk along a ridge to a point above a man-made reservoir, descend to the dam that holds the water back, cross the dam, and then hike down the valley back to our car along the stream that originates at the dam. The ski lift in question was operating, not for skiers, but taking hikers up, and some back down, the mountain. Using the lift would have been the preferred method of completing the first leg of our journey, however, Kyra, our dog, was deathly afraid of contraptions that swayed freely in the air and no amount of persuasion could get her to sit still in the open chair lift - so we hiked up.

We started to walk up the side of the mountain on a gravel service road that leads to the upper station of the ski lift. This gravel road snakes its way up the steep mountain. After several curves I decided that during my previous ascent we had taken a shortcut diagonally up the mountain across some cow pastures rather than laboriously following the switching back and forth of the winding gravel road. We entered the cow pasture at what promised to be a path and followed it for quite some time before it became clear that the cows that had trodden the path weren't going to the ridge where we wanted to go but were just meandering across the sloping terrain. So we reversed course and tried another path. Again, it did not lead to where we wanted to go, in fact it ended at a water trough. Somewhere along the way my friend's sister tipped over (the mountain was fairly steep so when you fell toward the slope you more or less tipped over, rather than falling) and bruised the pinky on her left hand, which caused her and us enormous grief, because it hurt her, and her lamenting about it annoyed us. As the searching for the path continued, I wasn't worried that we were lost. Although we had been hiking for about an hour and a half by then due to all the zigzagging and reversing of direction, we were still within sight of our car, which was below us in the valley.

We finally managed to stumble upon the real path and reached the top of the ridge where we could not get lost - you could not stray from the path because on either side it dropped off pretty steeply. The view was gorgeous, valleys on both sides with higher mountains rising beyond the valleys and as far as the eye could see. The air was considerably cooler up there and we had to traverse several of the snowfields we had seen earlier from below. Kyra performed admirably, as long as her feet were firmly on the ground the height or the sheer drop-off on either side didn't seem to bother her. In my imagination I issued her the title of "Honorary Mountain Goat."

Somewhere along the line we passed a middle-aged couple having a little lunch at the side of the path. They were obviously French-speakers because in response to the obligatory greeting which I uttered in German, they responded with, "Bon Jour." Other than these two souls, we were all alone during the whole hike.

Well, almost alone. As we came to the point where we were to start our descent to the dam, we noticed that a herd of big, black, ferocious-looking beasts with horns occupied the meadow through which the path down to the dam led. One beast was lying plum across the path, another was standing with two legs on it, and the others were scattered around strategically, effectively blocking all avenues down to the dam. Upon examining the beasts from the distance it appeared to me that due to the lack of any visible milk-filled utters, these were not mere milk cows (as are often found on mountain meadows in the summer in the Alps), therefore they must be bulls. Ferocious-looking, probably angry bulls. Angry perhaps because of the absence of any females of their species.

I bade the ladies to stay where they were, took Kyra on a short leash, and decided to reconnoiter the scene. My heart was pounding and Kyra was shaking from excitement (the smell of the beasts rather than the sense of any danger excited her). The meadow had been cleared of most of the rocks, which were piled neatly in several piles scattered throughout the meadow. I hoped at first that the piles of stones would serve as a measure of protection, but I soon discovered that the piles were only about two feet high, hardly serving as an obstacle for a ferocious, charging bull. Furthermore, there was no way to skirt the meadow - some more rock had been piled at the sides and the natural mountain environment made it impossible to go around the meadow that way without engaging in the sport (or art) of mountain climbing. So, the only alternative was to follow the path right through the herd of beasts.

As Kyra and I approached to within about ten yards, the beast standing on the path turned its head toward us, stared at the dog and me (we having stopped dead in our tracks), and uttered a low sound that sounded like, "Humm!" Immediately all the other beasts turned their heads toward us and uttered, "Humm!" That was enough of a warning for me to gingerly retreat backwards up the mountain to where the two women were waiting. I had to practically drag Kyra with me, because she definitely wanted to make closer acquaintance with the beasts. As I got further up the mountain and away from the beasts, I dared to turn around to look at the two women who were sitting in the grass enjoying the spectacle of me and the dog inching our way toward the beasts and then retreating at first cautiously, then "post haste." Much to my irritation, I thought I perceived a touch of amusement in their faces, which was rapidly dispelled when I ordered my friend to immediately remove her red hat, because everyone knows that bulls become infuriated when they see red.

As we deliberated what to do, down from the ridge came the French-speaking couple we had passed on the trail. It was without question, I had to warn them of the danger that lay ahead. Since I knew that they spoke French, I invoked my best "Pidgin-French" and said to them, "Attention, no moo, bull," with the emphasis on the "bull," while pointing downhill at the great beasts that were still staring uphill at us. The French-speaking couple looked at me as if I had dropped in from another planet, so I tried to explain with pointing and another French word that came to mind, the word for dog, "chien," to indicate that the dog and I had tried to go past the beasts. The French-speaking man said, "Oh, chien," and then in French-accented German said, "Kommen Sie" and started down the hill toward the beasts. I took a firm grip on Kyra's leash, determined to let her go and fend for herself at the slightest sign of danger, nodded to the ladies, and followed the man. My two companions and the French-speaking lady followed. When we reached the most threatening of the beasts that was straddling the path and which seemed to be somewhat of a leader because whenever it turned its head all the others seemed to do the same, the courageous stranger leading us to what I thought was our certain doom, reached out, grabbed the bull by one of its horns, and pushed its head aside, upon which the beast uttered, "Humm," and ambled a few steps away from the path, totally ignoring the parade of humans, but keeping an eye on the dog. As the man reached for the horn with his large, weathered hand it occurred to me that he may have had some experience in handling great beasts such as these - a farmer on vacation, perhaps. It suddenly also became clear to me what he meant by, "Oh, chien." The great beasts were reacting to the dog rather than to my lowly presence when we had first approached them.

I felt a little chagrined all the way down to the dam, yet still a little apprehensive until we reached the bottom of the meadow where there was a flimsy fence that would not have stopped a charging bull, but kept the obviously docile animals in the meadow from ambling down to the reservoir and possibly falling in. Having reached the dam, we parted with the French-speaking couple without much ado. When they were out of earshot and I had regained some of my composure, I called after them: "If you ever come to Boston, I'll be glad to help you across the street, which is a heck of a lot more dangerous than the crossing we have just made!"

By the way, the big, black beasts are called "Eringer Rinder" in German and according to Wikipedia are called "Herens" in English and are a breed of cattle named after the Val d' Hérens region of Switzerland. Wikipedia also describes them as small, an opinion I cannot share - from my vantage point they looked huge!

Fire at the Dance Recital

When our oldest daughter was a teenager, she took part in a modern dance class at a dance school which taught all ages from kindergarteners to adults. As is customary, the students wanted to periodically show off what they had learned and the teachers wanted the parents to see how effectively they had spent their money and to advertise their school, therefore, a recital was scheduled.

The recital took place in a fairly large "multipurpose" hall with folding chairs and a stage with a curtain. The hall was filled to capacity with parents, grandparents, siblings, and friends of the performing students. Proud fathers had set up their cameras in the center aisle, preferably close to the stage. Other spectators were standing in the center aisle and in the two aisles at the walls. Our family was represented by mother, father, two sisters, and grandmother. The performance went as expected, small girls in costumes hopped across the stage to fairytale music, somewhat older girls in Tutus did arabesques and other ballet moves to classical music, and yet older boys and girls contorted their bodies to jazz music. Our daughter belonged to the latter group.

My interest lay mainly in seeing my daughter complete her stage appearance without any major mishaps, such as a strap or a leg breaking. The little kids weren't able to capture my full attention, therefore, my eyes wandered about the hall, observing all the people enraptured with the performance and that the exits were blocked by the audience either filming or trying to get a glimpse of their darling flitting across the stage. My eyes occasionally returned to the stage, there in the corner of the stage, half hidden by the drawn-back curtain, was what appeared to be a spotlight that was lying on the ground, presumably to provide illumination from an obtuse angle, which was emanating a small rivulet of smoke. Those spotlights get hot! That curtain was awfully close to the spotlight! My attention was aroused. I had heard stories about the Cocoanut Grove Nightclub fire in Boston where 492 people died and the circus fire in Hartford where 168 people died, in both cases partly due to the ensuing panic. My attention was aroused to the point that I had to do something, but not to cause a panic, which, as experience had shown would result in many more victims. Therefore, I decided to make darn sure that my perception was correct and then to take the appropriate steps.

I worked my way to the front, near the stage - no easy task with all the people in the aisles. As I came near the stage, I could see more smoke billowing from underneath the curtain. It was time to act! I could have stood up waving my arms and screaming, "fire," but that would have caused an immediate stampede for the exits, not allowing me to round up my family, including my daughter backstage, and ushering them outside safely. I had to notify someone in authority. I looked around, saw no figure of authority in the hall, but spied a door next to the stage, unfortunately, on the other side of the stage. I bent over so as not to block the view of the stage (after all, the performance was in full swing) and made my way to the door. The door was unlocked and led into a hallway that led unto the stage. There in the hallway, awaiting their stage entrance, was my daughter's dance troupe. I did not see my daughter, but sitting on the extension of the stage (not visible to the audience) was an adult with in tights who looked like an instructor. Since he seemed to be in charge, I revealed to him the fact that I thought that the spotlight on the stage was setting the curtain on fire. He leaned over, looked across the stage, and said, "Oh, that," and turned back to whatever he was doing before. I was stunned! Not a sign of any intention of doing anything about this imminent threat. But, I had done my duty. I tried to warn them. It wasn't my fault if the place burned down and hundreds of people were harmed. I decided to return to my seat, wait to see what would happen, and then rescue my family, including the daughter backstage, when disaster struck. And disaster would strike, I was certain - well, almost certain.

When I made it back to my seat, my daughter's modern dance started. When the curtain opened the stage was covered by fog about a foot deep. This swirling mass of vapor gave the dance a mysterious touch as the dancers seemingly floated across the stage. Could this be the smoke I saw rising from the spotlight? Was that really a hot spotlight as I imagined it, or was it a fog generator that was leaking slightly before it was called into action?

Although my family saw me making my way across the auditorium and across the front of the stage, they were too wrapped up in the performance to notice anything peculiar and I didn't mention anything at the time. All would have been well and no one would have known about my well meant quest, except that my daughter, who was in the performance, said afterward that her instructor, when critiquing the performance, mentioned that some guy (I think he used a different term which I refuse to remember) had come backstage and had pointed out to him that one of the fog machines was setting the curtain on fire, ha, ha. My daughter had an idea who that might have been and hid her face in her towel lest a family resemblance be discovered.

Waiting for Death

I'm not depressed. But, it occurred to me that I spend most of my time waiting for something: something to happen, something to begin, something to end, something to change, etc.

As a child I waited for First Grade to start. Then, as I was going to school, each day I waited for the bell that ended the school day. I waited for school to end in the summer. I waited for test results and report cards. I waited for graduation to come around. Life in the military has been described as "hurry up and wait." I spent over 20 years "hurrying up and waiting." I have waited for promotions, paydays, results of medical examinations, the day on which I would return home from an assignment, a shift to end, happy hour to start, and TGIF to roll around. I have waited for children and grandchildren to be born, for the dog to be housebroken, or the garbage collector's strike to end. I waited for the car to be serviced, the telephone or the cable man to arrive.

I waited for retirement. Now, every day I wait for the coffee to finish brewing, the mailman to come, the newspaper to be delivered, lunch and supper to be served, happy hour to start, and TGIF to roll around. Although, if you don't have to go to work, both happy hour and TGIF lose much of their meaning - during retirement it is never quitting time nor do you ever get a day off.

I'm not depressed, I'm just thinking about what all this waiting for something to happen means. If you look at it from a different level, am I not just waiting for death?

My Friend

To preclude any misunderstandings, when I refer to "my friend" I am referring to my wife of 45 years. I use the term "my friend" in a loving, tongue-in-cheek sense. I learned to refer to her that way from a former boss and friend who always referred to his wife that way. It seemed to me a more interesting way to refer to a person who is truly a friend not "just" a wife.

My friend makes friends easily. In the 45 years that we have been married we have lived in a number of places due to my military career. Everywhere we went she made friends. Some were neighbors, some were mine or her office mates and their spouses, some she met through various social activities, and some she met through sports. With some we were associated only for a relatively short period of time - a couple of years. Of course, there also were some school friends, neighbors, sports friends, and friends from work from before my friend and I ever met.

With some of the friends we have closer contact than with others. But to fit into the category of "friend" as used in this writing, at least a Christmas greeting (not just a card, but a letter - hand written, of course) is required. Some also get birthday greetings if the date has been revealed. And that for as long as an address of a friend is known and the contact has not ended because the friend hasn't responded in a long time and it is presumed that interest in the friendship, on the friend's part, has waned. With some there is more frequent contact by telephone and lately using e-mail.

There are several friends - some near, some far - who receive what I call "long distance therapy," which usually consists of lengthy telephone calls during which the friend on the other end (exclusively female) unburdens herself of all her woes - marital, medical, or otherwise - and my friend mainly just listens and occasionally interjects thoughtful questions or makes sympathetic comments of encouragement. One would think that one would become saturated with other people's problems - not my friend.

A few years ago we started spending our summers on Cape Cod. Because my friend is an avid sportswoman who loves to play tennis, among other things, she started to play tennis at the local public park where a group of tennis players our age, approximately, gathers to play every morning. Before I knew it we were invited to another tennis player's birthday party at the local yacht club, to a number of backyard parties, and were asked to join a select group of players to spend two weeks in Portugal for tennis, sight seeing, and dining.

Due to her charming personality my friend is like a magnet when it comes to making friends. Luckily I happened to get in the way of that magnet 45 years ago, that's why I call her "my friend."

Skinny Dipping

Two years ago I bought a plastic above-ground pool for the backyard of our summer cottage. It has been the best investment I ever made! Not only the grandchildren use it, but my friend and I cool off in it.

When we are alone we sometimes go "skinny dipping." One weekend some of our grandchildren visited and cooled off in the pool. When my friend told five year old Lily that we sometimes go "skinny dipping," she exclaimed: "Oh my god, I'm in skinny dipping water!"

The Captain's Car

While I was in the US Air Force I was stationed at an Army Post in Germany. One day as I was coming out of the Post Exchange, I heard a loud bang and then I saw smoke billowing out of the wheel wells of a car parked nearby. People were starting to gather around the car and a man I recognized as a captain in our unit was running toward the car. It was his car, which he had recently picked up at the seaport where it had been unloaded after being shipped from the United States. The car was not on fire, as everyone suspected at first, but it had to be towed away.

Because the captain was in our unit I was able to find out exactly what had happened. When the car was unloaded with a crane at the dock it was dropped several feet, but landed on its wheels, causing no visible damage. The unsuspecting captain picked up his car and drove it for several days until that fateful day in the Post Exchange parking lot. When the car was dropped, the suspension system received a severe strain which created cracks in the springs and broke the shock absorbers. It took a few miles of driving before everything let go at once. What looked like smoke at first, was dust and rust being knocked loose and becoming airborne when the body of the car dropped unto the axles.

The Longest Mile

As I was digging around in some old essays I wrote I came across this one that I wrote in October 1983. I never shared it with anyone until today. Here it is, for whatever it is worth...

As the crow flies, it is roughly one mile from Detachment 3, 7th Weather Squadron on the Heidelberg Army Airfield to Headquarters, 7th Weather Squadron at Campbell Barracks, Heidelberg, Germany. In the early 1960s the squadron headquarters seemed far way from Detachment 3. As it turned out in my case, it was a considerable distance. When I arrived at Headquarters 7th Weather Squadron in 1980, it had been almost 16 years since I had left the detachment at the Heidelberg Army Airfield. In that sense it was the "longest" mile I ever traveled.

Because I will be leaving Air Weather Service soon, I am tempted to do some reminiscing about what has happened to the US Air Force, Air Weather Service, and me during the last 20-odd years.

It is hard to believe that 22 years, 7 months, and 16 days will have gone by since that dreary late winter morning in 1961 on which I took the train from New London to New Haven, Connecticut, to take the oath of enlistment in the US Air Force. At the time it only seemed to be the start of another adventure, I didn't dream that that enlistment ceremony would be the start of a rewarding career in blue for me.

Visions of becoming a fighter pilot, Steve Canyon-style, danced in my head as I began my first four years in the Air Force. Those visions were quickly and rudely dispelled by the realities of basic training. The Aviation Cadet training area (although also on Lackland Air Force Base and still operating) was not "...just a hop, skip, and jump from basic training..." as the recruiter had indicated to me! There were only two ways to leave basic training: Wash out or graduate. "Hopping, skipping or jumping" over to become an aviation cadet was not one of the choices. But, as it turned out later, not getting into flying was not such a bad deal after all.

By pure coincidence I was assigned to go to weather observer technical school after basic training. My first permanent station was overseas in Heidelberg, Germany at Detachment 3, 7th Weather Squadron, at the Heidelberg Army Airfield.

A lot has happened since that day in 1961, not only to me, but to the Air Force, and Air Weather Service as well. Most of the changes were good, some of them not so good. Some changes were reversed again as time went by and when new requirements became known.

It has often been said that the world moves in cycles, and in a sense, so does the Air Force and Air Weather Service. In some respects I am reminded of a non-stop movie that plays over and over and the viewer leaves when the part that he or she has already seen comes up again

Here are some examples. In the early 1960s Air Weather Service had a lot of Representative Observation Sites (ROS). But, because of money and manpower constraints, many, if not most, of the ROSs were eliminated. Lately we have been seeing more and more ROSs being reestablished. Also, in the early 1960s the Air Force made a big splash with the 5BX physical fitness program that was modified and largely abandoned. Lately, another physical fit­ness program that strikes me as being destined to go the same way as the 5BX has been publicized.

Then we eliminated a lot of units here and there and some squadrons and wings. Some of my last actions at 7th Weather Squadron involved preparations for reactivating some of the units closed earlier. I understand that times, requirements, and the availability of resources change - nevertheless, this is where I came in.

Not all the innovations we have seen in the last 20 years have been transient. Some very good and lasting programs were initiated. One was the Airman Education and Commissioning Program, of which a lot of us availed ourselves. Also, there were the many improvements made in the living conditions and benefits for junior airmen and families. No one wants to see those changes reversed. Then there were the many improvements in the quality, style, and ease of main­tenance of the uniforms. How many remember the old 1505s? Or even the bush jacket, the pith helmet, and shorts?

But all the good programs in the world don't make a system work, people make it work. That is where Air Weather Service always seemed to have been very fortunate - with its people. Sometimes I wonder where they are now and what they're doing, those comrades from earlier assignments, especially from that first permanent assign­ment to Detachment 3, 7th Weather Squadron. Where are you Bob Holland, Brian "Abe" Severin, Harry "Honeybear" Podhora, Willy Stoddard, Doug Atkinson. Some have left Air Weather Service and some have left the Air Force. Others such as Roger Seyfert and John Taylor, whom I knew briefly then, are still around.

So, as my Air Weather Service career comes to a close, I look back with only fond memories. I started my career at the Heidelberg Army Airfield and I'm ending it at Headquarters, 7th Weather Squadron, barely a mile from where I started. But while traveling that mile, Air Weather Service and the US Air Force have been good to me. They have made me what I am, given me all that I have. They took a college dropout and gave him the opportunity to earn a bachelors degree, a commission, two masters degrees, and best of all, some lasting friendships and fond memories.

Now it is time to move on and to say "so long" to Air Weather Service and the US Air Force. It is a dreary October day in 1983, almost like the day in March 1961. It is a good time to remember...