Dream On

 I think science has convinced all of us that we dream on a nightly basis.  During the course of our slumber, we probably have numerous dreams.  Many people, like my mother, remember pretty much every dream they have and love sharing the highlights of said dreams with whoever is within listening range.

Some remember their dreams and are amused by what they dream, perhaps wondering what they ate for dinner the night before which caused such a dream.  Mushrooms perhaps?  There are also some who try to interpret every dream they have.  They go so far as to take notes as soon as they wake up, while it is still fresh on their mind.  When I wake up, the only think I want to remember is "where is the bathroom."

I'm sure I dream every night.  But I never remember my dreams.  Well, that is not exactly true, I might remember one or two dreams a month.  That's it.  In fact, it doesn't bother me at all that I don't remember my dreams.  One last thing before we got to the main point, my dream last night, as far as I can remember, I've never had a bad dream.  Ever.  My dreams are sunshine, puppies, baseball, etc.   All the things that make you feel warm and fuzzy.  I know, I'm weird.  I've known that for sixty-plus years.

Ok, on to last night's dream.  To say it was weird would be an understatement.

When you look at the ingredients of the dream, travel, baseball, TWA, kitchen appliances, cannabis and some of California's finest uniformed officers, well, let me tell you.  You have all the ingredients for an Pulitzer Prize winning dream.  Is that even possible?

As most of you know I spent 17 years working for Ozark Airlines and for Trans World Airlines (TWA).  As you also probably airline employees can pretty much fly for nothing.  Of course it is space available, but with most of us employees, it's a chance we are willing to take.

Ok, onto the dream.  I mean it this time.

I'm not sure how the dream started, I may have joined midway, I don't recall.  I just remember being in the Angels Stadium in Anaheim, California, where I and four or five guys I worked with at TWA were sitting in box seats watching the Angels play someone.  My brain fails me on the opponent.  Keep in mind I have not worked for TWA since 1999.

It is an afternoon contest and we are soaking up the southern California sun.  Trust me, we've made this trip many times, to Anaheim, San Diego or Los Angeles.  The game against the unnamed opponent was really nothing of note.  The Angels did win, but the game was unspectacular.  The sparse crowd began to file out, but the six of us just sat there, again enjoying the sun and chatting about where to go for dinner.  Our red-eye flight back to St. Louis was not until 11.30 or so, so we had plenty of time before we had to turn the rental car in.

As we were sitting there, a gentleman dressed in khakis and freshly starched pink oxford button down shirt, sat on the back of the seats two rows in front of us (Yes, I'm really dreaming all of this).  "You guys pilots?"  None of us were, but I thought, "what a strange question."  I guess we all had dumb look on our faces, because then he added, "I noticed three of you have TWA ballcaps on."  Well, he was observant.  He told us his name and that he was part of the Angels p.r. department.  

We chatted for a few minutes and I piped up and asked our host, "I noticed Mike Trout didn't play today, is he hurt?"  He looked at me like I had three heads.  "Who?" he asked.  We all kind of looked at each other.  We all knew who Mike Trout was.  Probably the best Angels player ever.  "You, know," I continued, "Mike Trout, first-round draft pick, three-time MVP, great player."  Again, he look perplexed and said, "I never heard of him."  One of my cohorts looked at the guy in the khakis and said, "what year is this?"  For a third time he looked at us dumbfounded.  "It's 1988, what year do you think it is?" At this point we all heard the Twilight Zone them playing over the stadium loudspeakers, because we knew it was a decade or two later than 1988.  

We said our goodbyes to our host who had no idea what century we were in and worked our way outside and noticed one of the guys missing.  Now we didn't think he was kidnapped or anything like that, but he had definitely disappeared.  After a few minutes he came trotting out of one the exit gates and joined us.  He was a little out of breath and said, "look what I've got."  He reached in his backpack (this is where the dream gets really bizarre) and pulled out a gallon freezer bag full of marijuana leaves.

Our poor misguided coworker was so proud of himself.  "Pretty cool, eh? (No, he wasn't Canadian) whole bag for only $50."  None of us knew if that was a good price or not.  We all knew we did not want to get busted and miss a flight and miss work and possibly get fired.  At this point he pulls an electric coffee grinder out of his backpack, mentioning the friendly Orange County cannabis dealer had thrown it in gratis so he could grind up the leaves.  Even in my dream I am thinking this is getting more bizarre by the breath.  

We keep our distance from our co-worker and start walking to the car when he yells to know one in particular, "hey, how does this thing work?"  Being the closest to him I go back to see what the problem was.  Seems our Rhodes Scholar did not realize he had to find an outlet and plug it in.  But as if dropped from the heavens, he saw one on a utility pole 20 feet away.  He gathers up his new purchases and heads over.  As he is plugging it in, I am stuffing this coffee grinder with leaves.  They fit nicely in the container.  I push my friend out of the way and prepared to show him how a coffee/Cannabis leaf grinder works.  The lid was on tight and I pressed down the button and we have electricity.  

As soon as I finish, one of the others calls my name.  I don't look at him and ask what he wants.  "We have a problem," he said.  At this point I see two Anaheim Police cars and one, two, three, no four uniformed officers. "What are you doing boys?" the oldest one said in his best Clint Eastwood voice.  Now, even in my dream, I wanted to say, "making coffee sir."  But I didn't and kept my mouth shut.  I'm thinking, I'm going to jail because this moron of a friend of mine doesn't know how to operate a coffee grinder.

After talking to all of us, five of us were cited for misdemeanor possession.  Even though we never touched it, well I did when I ground up that first batch of leaves.  I could just see myself at San Quentin with Charles Manson.  Our co-worker who chose poorly, was cited for possession and intent to distribute.

It was at this point that either nature called, or I simply woke up I was put in the back of a squad car.  I don't remember, and when I went back to sleep 15 minutes later, California was a distant memory, and I was dreaming of something else.  Don't ask me what, I don't remember.

So, how did you rest last night?

Doing what's right vs. Doing what I want

 I just finished a big, well maybe 6 oz. glass of cold orange juice.   I love OJ, I have some nearly every morning before the coffee pot starts up.  It's refreshing.  It helps me think. I guess I could use that as an excuse for having some tonight, shortly after 11 p.m. on this Monday night.  

I could say I have a dilemma, but that is not exactly right, that would be an insult to dilemmas.  I have two choices in front of me.  One is clearly, 100 percent the right thing to do.  No question, and I am confident when all this self-examination ends, the right thing is what I'll do.  But here is the kicker.  I have no desire at all to do the right thing.

Now for all of my church-going friends out there, and I know who you are, this not a question of right or wrong, sinning or not sinning.  No this is a matter involving individuals and considerable time and travel.  To tell you the truth, I'm tired and don't want to do it.  I'd rather stay home.

All of us have been in a situation like this.  Do what we want to do, or do what would be a better, more appreciative thing to do.  Again, I know the answer to the question, and so do you.

To be honest, I'm a little surprised at myself.  I have talked to M, and another close friend, hoping they would say, "you know Dalt, you're right, you really don't need to do this.  Stay home and watch some college football and grill yourself some salmon."  But they didn't say that.  Not even close.  M went so far as to remind me this was my choice, and mine alone.  Ugh, why is it so hard being a grown-up.  Why can't I just sit in my boxers and a t-shirt and watch Looney Tunes.

One reason is because I keep thinking what would Jesus do?  Yes, the old WWJD makes a comeback from the recesses of my brain.  I cannot look Jesus in the eye and say, "I'm sorry, I don't have the time or the desire to do this."  He didn't really want to go to the cross either.  No, no sympathy there.

The second reason is my dad.  My dad had been gone for 15 years, dying of cancer in 2009.  Many years ago, when I was still in grade school, maybe junior high, I did something that was wrong, very wrong, borderline illegal.  It is amazing I didn't wind up in jail.  It wasn't anything where someone was going to get hurt physically.  But quoting one the three knights from the third Indiana Jones movie, "He chose poorly."  I chose poorly.

But the thing I learned from that momentary lack of reason was my dad's reaction the following day.  When he got home from work, he came to my room to serve justice.  Or so I expected.  Instead, he just looked at me for several long seconds and finally said, "I cannot tell you how disappointed in you I am."

Some things you never ever forget.  Now, several decades later, I am an adult, a husband and a father. Those words are a daily reminder of the responsibility I carry as someone who is old enough to know better. 

Generally speaking, I have a pretty good attitude on a daily basis.  I have been blessed my whole life, and I see the positive in all things.  But for some reason, I have had a case of me.  This is not what I want.  Where is the fun in doing this?  Where is the reward?  Why do I have to be the grown-up?

The answer is simple.  So simple that several years ago Max Lucado wrote a book about the answer.  "It's Not About Me."

I know I will do what I really don't want to do.  Afterall, it's not about me.

Overgrossed? Nah, looks good to me

 First things first.  No more political posts/blogs from me.  Actually, I think I only did one.  That was one too many.  There are just too many narrow-minded folks out there who evidently have been vaccinated against common sense.  So I say here and now, no more political posts.

Ok, now that we have that out of the way what shall we talk about?  Food?  Always a good subject.  I have a lot of airplane stories and a lot of baseball stories.  I could also talk about my numerous traffic tickets, but since my mother reads this blog, I don't want her to stroke out or anything, so I'll just say I have had more than one, but less than 30.  I think that is vague enough.

Nah, I think I will go back to the land of Ozark Airlines, and a story that may make some of you never want to fly again, and others just marvel at how well these airplanes are built.  Also I feel safe recounting this story because it happened in September 1982, which was 42 years ago.  I also feel pretty confident that statute of limitations has expired.

I was hired by Ozark Airlines in April of 1981.  At the time I was spinning records and writing news and doing play-by-play for KSER AM-FM in Searcy, Ark.  I had been there a couple of years and actually like my job.  

But going back another decade, my mother had gotten a job at Ozark as a clerk in September 1971.  I was 14 at the time.  Yes the stories are true.  employees, their spouses, parents and dependent children could fly free.  Well it might as well have been free.  Because of this nice perk, by the time I was no longer considered a dependent, just a few years ago, I had been to Hawaii a couple of times and Europe a couple of times and to the Caribbean.  I liked this perk.  In other words, I was spoiled.

Well mom called me one day down in Searcy and said, "hey, Ozark is getting ready to hire some ticket agents.  Think you might be interested?"  Well, she didn't have to ask me twice, I started brushing up on my resume and learning my airport codes.  I had an interview with Ozark in St. Louis a few weeks later, and they offered me a job the following week.  So I said goodbye to Searcy and moved 300 miles north back home to St. Louis.

But the job was contingent, I had to successfully pass three weeks of Ozark U.  Where I learned everything to how to write a ticket, handle air freight, learn about restricted articles, learn about weight and balance (more on that in a few paragraphs).  You see my point.  They weren't going to hand you the job and the flying privileges, you had to earn them.  

So I survived the three weeks, making great grades, finishing fourth or fifth out of a class of 30.  Now supposedly, we were going to pick our assignment at the end of the three weeks.  Tops in class got first pick.  "I'll take Nashville."  Second then would say "I'll stay in St. Louis," you get the picture.  But a funny thing happened on the way to the employment at Ozark.  President Reagan fired the Air Traffic Controllers for striking.  Consequently, the airlines severely cut back their schedules, and since they were flying fewer flights, not as many agents were needed.  So after graduating from Ozark U., we were all laid off.

I finally was called to work in early December of 1981 and was assigned to Fort Dodge, Iowa.  I was there in December and January, and it gets cold there.  Then I was transferred to Marion, Ill, then they closed the station.  Out of work for a month, then sent to Omaha, Neb for a couple months, then sent to Big D, Dallas, Texas, the largest (land-wise) airport in the free world.

This is where our story (finally) begins.

I was working a Saturday afternoon at DFW, and you know summers in Texas are hot.  It was about 98 degrees.  Also if you know anything about aircraft and engine performance, the hotter it gets, the less power they have, meaning not as much lift.  Lift is a good thing if you want to fly.

This particular Saturday afternoon, in addition to a few Ozark flights, we had a "Live" charter.  Live meant there were passengers on it.  This particular charter had come out of Mississippi and was heading for Twenty-nine Palms, California.  It was carrying 110 hot United States Marines heading to the desert for training.  I know there was 110 because it was a DC 9-31.  At the time Ozark flew nothing but DC-9's.  the "Dash 30's" held 100.  All of them.  No guesswork there.

Ok, back to our story, which is true to best of my memory.  The charter stopped at DFW to re-fuel.  The DC-9, unless it had extra tanks, and this one didn't, could not fly non-stop cross country.  So, after landing, there was nothing to unload, just refueling, in airline lingo, this was going to be a quick "turn around."

But a funny thing happened on the way to departure.  The fueler put on the desired fuel as prescribed by Dispatch and the DFW Weight/Balance (W/B) agent.  But the temperature in the middle of the afternoon at DFW was a lot hotter than it was in Mississippi a few hours earlier.  Remember what I told you about aircraft performance earlier.  All of a sudden, the aircraft was way too heavy.  For more than one reason.   

On a normal Ozark flight, each passenger was assigned, for W/B purposes, a weight of 176 pounds.  Many weighed ore, many weighed less.  It was an average.  But this was 110 Marines.  They all weighed more than 176 pounds.  Let's consider the luggage.  This was not Samsonite and backpacks.  This was 110 duffel bags and various other pieces of luggage necessary to this mission that greatly affected the bottom line.  And the bottom line was this, we were, this Ozark DC 9-31, was about 4,000 pounds overweight.

There were two options.   Unload 4,000 pounds of baggage, which American had graciously offered to fly to Los Angeles several hours later.  Or we could de-fuel.  But if they decided to de-fuel, they needed a tanker truck and it would be at least an hour before one was available.  Final option was leave everything om board, take off and fly to say Albuquerque, and load up on fuel again.

After much debate between W/B, the ramp manager, STL Dispatch and American Airlines, it was decided to take the bags off.  So I, one of the five-man ramp crew, and the others, started unloading bags and putting them in a cart to take to American for a later flight.  We were about five minutes into this exercise when a colonel came running down the jetway stairs (unescorted and without proper ID I might add) yelling, screaming, wanting to know what in the @#$%&*@ we were doing with his bags.

This is where it really got interesting.

The five of us unloading, knowing we were severely outranked, stopped unloading.  Fortunately, the W/B agent was there with his paperwork to show our Colonel the problem, that severely overweight aircraft do not take off.

One note, remember the movie Apollo 13.  The ship is in trouble and all the NASA engineers are using their slide rules and good ole arithmetic to figure out if the command module could make it back to earth?  Of course you do.  Well, welcome to the world of Ozark weight and balance in the early '80's.  We used pencils, multiple charts and an adding machine to get the correct number.  Computer W/B was still several years away.

So our highly qualified W/B agent is trying to explain that if the lane took off, it would be landing in Irving.  This was an unsatisfactory answer to our friendly Marine Corps Colonel.  He repeated, in rather colorful language I might add, that the United States Government had paid for this charter and Ozark was responsible for getting men and materiel to California on the same plane.

After watching this exchange with great interest for several minutes, a third player entered the discussion.  I wish I could remember his name, but I honestly can't.  He was overweight, wearing a short sleeve shirt, his tie, his tie was who knows where.  He was wearing wire rims and had a toothpick in his mouth.

"Boys," the captain interrupted, "what seems to be the problem?"  Now he knew exactly what the problem was.  He may have been a hick from south Texas, but he did not just fall off the cotton wagon.  Chances are he had been a military pilot himself.  As the captain, the ramp crew, those sitting on the that side of the airplane and anyone listening on KRLD heard, the colonel and the W/B agent presented their cases of what was going on and what needed to be done.  Obviously, there was some disagreement, and any chance of compromise seemed remote.

But at this point something remarkable happened.  The captain asked for the paperwork.  The W/B agent handed him the paperwork and couldn't resist pointing out the bottom line showing the aircraft was roughly 4,000 pounds over grossed.  The captain is studying the paperwork like he's trying to pick the winner of the third race at Belmont.  Finally, and this totally blew my rookie Ozark mind, the captain reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a pencil.  He erases the bottom line and writes in a number that makes the plane in balance, at least on the paperwork.  Then says to everyone standing with their mouths hanging open, "Looks fine to me, get this crap back on here and let's go."  The stunned W/B agent said, "I'm not signing that," Meaning once NTSB investigators went through the charred wreckage and found the paperwork, they would know who to blame.   The captain smiled and said, "no problem, I'll sign it."

It only took a few minutes to load up the aircraft, the bins were closed, the jetway came off, and the plane was pushed back.  With the southerly breeze, the charter took off from Runway 17R, which today is over 13,000 feet long.  I don't remember how long it was then.  But we all watched from the ramp, and he used about 99 percent of the runway before rotating and heading to California.  

Takeaways.  Captains know the structural limits of the aircraft pretty well.  After thousands of hours flying, they know what it can or can't do.  Second, you never know what will make a good story.

Thursday Morning Quarterback

 I am not a political writer, but I do follow politics.   I once ran for mayor in a small town, but I am not a politician. I am not going to try and change your mind about the two main candidates from Tuesday's election, so please don't waste your time and try and change mind.  If you are my friend, I don't care if we have wildly different, varying opinions.  That is not what made us friends.  Politics and all things political do not define who I am.  At least I hope it doesn't.

In the 1976 election, I was 18 years and five months old, so I could legally vote for the first time.  I voted for Gerald Ford.  He lost.  Oh well, that happens.in every presidential election from 1976 through 2008, I voted for the republican.  Some won, some didn't.  Some of the Democrats who won turned out to be decent presidents.  Some of the Republicans were less than what I expected.  It happens.

I have always (since 1980) considered myself a Reagan Republican.  Strong defense, keep the government out of the way of business and the electorate, Promote a strong economy.  Back then it wasn't so much a big deal what party you were a part of.  To be honest, for the most part, there wasn't a thumbnails worth of difference in the two parties.   Sure they disagreed on some things, but the differences were not so great that a good compromise couldn't keep the government running.  

I remember when Reagan was President, the Democrats controlled the House.  The speaker was an Irishman from Boston, Tip O'Neill.  Every Friday, or whatever day was convenient, President Reagan and Speaker O'Neill would get together at the White House.  Frequently, weather permitting, they would sit on the Truman Balcony, overlooking the south lawn and Washington Monument, have a beer or two or three, and discuss the fate of the nation and how things were going and how they could work together better.   That is how the government worked.  It was perfect.

Somewhere in the early 2000's, the Internet found its footing.  Websites and blogs with no pedigree popped up everywhere, with individuals spouting their idea of not only how the government should work, but also how we should believe.  All the while hiding behind some sort of anonymity, spouting statistics and quotes as if they were Gospel.  An electorate, especially those under 40, tired of the 30 minutes of the evening news and the morning paper, flocked to these websites, these blogs

Many of these the authors were names nobody knew.  Just someone with a far left or far-right idea, with a computer and a knowledge of how to post their ramblings.  Some became famous like Rush Limbaugh, whose sole purpose, other than make money, was to stir the emotions of their followers, to make the other side appear to be the devil himself.  Yes, Bill Clinton made some mistakes, but he did some good.  I actually came to admire Barack Obama a lot more than I thought I would.

But cable television and the internet, social media if you will, made it their job to separate us.  Choose sides it was implied.  You are either for us or against us.  Reason, or having a willingness to compromise, was viewed as a weakness or a willingness to cave in to the other side.  MSNBC had a decidedly left slant, Fox News was so far right it nearly went around the block.  CNN was not quite as bad, but still there was an edge.

It was a new era.  The way we treated those who opposed us went from "I'm sorry, we just disagree," to full blown disdain and name-calling.  Questioning the sanity of the person with a differing opinion.  At the same time issues have attached themselves to the two parties.  Citizens rally around these causes as if our survival as a republic depends on it.  I've got news for you, it doesn't.

But I don't want you to think today's blog is all negative, because it is not.  I believe there is hope.

I was thrilled Tuesday night when exit polls showed the issue that concerned the voters most was not abortion, not immigration, not the economy.  No, the issue that was at the forefront of the voters who cast their ballots was the state of the democracy.  Praise the Lord, common sense is returning!  A full 34 percent said the democracy mattered the most when they cast their vote.  Government, political science and civic teachers everywhere could be heard rejoicing.  For weeks all we heard about on the news and on social media was abortion and immigration.  Are these important issues?  Absolutely, but they are not the ONLY issues.  I really don't understand individuals who are one issue voters, that is make their decision on who to vote for based on one issue.  But that is just my opinion.

But abortion and immigration, the two hot topics.  Of those polled two days ago, 14 percent said abortion was the issue foremost in their minds.  Eleven percent said immigration was the most important.  This is astounding.  We have been told for months these were the most important issues, and they are, to one-fourth of Americans.  That means to three out of every four voters, an issue other than abortion or immigration is the most important.  Imagine that.  At the same time, 37 percent, nearly two out of every five, felt the future of the democracy was the most important.  That is more than abortion and immigration combined.  Just let that sink it for a bit.

Look, I no longer consider myself a Republican, but I don't consider myself a Democrat either.  It is not my intention to be negative, though in some paragraphs that may be hard to believe.  I do believe that we as Americans can do better.  Our candidates need to be better, there needs to be mutual respect for the other side of the aisle, and social media needs to quit stirring the pot just because they can.

The voters have spoken.  We need to be concerned about our republic and the democracy we enjoy.  Otherwise, there won't be any more elections.

Two Fat Sisters

 There are about 15 or so individuals, all me, standing outside the front door of the restaurant.  It opens at 6.30, just 10 minutes away, but already, these regulars of Two Fat Sisters, are jockeying for position to be one of the first ones in should they unlock the doors early.

Two Fat Sisters sits on the south side of Hwy. 72 between the turn-off to go to downtown Tuscumbia (or my house) and the turn-off to go to Muscle Shoals.  They are only open for breakfast and lunch, but it is the breakfast crowd that is the subject of today's fascination.  The parking lot now has about 20 or so cars in it as a few more brave souls get out of their vehicles and congregate near the soon-to-be-unlocked door.  Most all ware wear jeans.  Some have camo tops and hats, while others are wearing plaid/flannel shirts.

It's cool on this partly cloudy Saturday.  My phone says it is 57 degrees and will be in the upper 70's by this afternoon.  I can live with that.  It is now past 6.30 and a few of the natives are getting restless.  Some rub their hands together like we are in the Canadian Yukon, while others alternate their balance from their left foot to their right.

'She's coming," one or the ones near the door hollers to those gathered round.  There is a little grumbling, and one person mutters a "'bout time," under his breath, but most are just hungry and want some coffee. As the doors open, the patrons hear to their assigned seats, or so it sems.  Within a minute, the 30 or so patrons who have been waiting have found seats that suit their needs.

Within seconds, one of the three waitresses on duty, i don't recognize any of them, has brought me a mug of coffee.  You know the kind, white stone wear that are as sturdy as Gibraltar.  She asks if I need cream.  I politely decline but do tell her I would like some water with my coffee.  She asks if I am ready to order and I tell her I am.  Without waiting, I order a sausage/cheese omelet, hash browns with grilled onions, (I know, I almost asked for them smothered like that place with the yellow lights that is open 24 hours) and some sourdough toast.  

I'm sitting in one of the corners and obviously cannot hear everyone's order, but most appear to be some combination of bacon and eggs.  One poor soul order grits and whole wheat toast.  His friends look at him like he in his death bad.

One of the owners is working the room like Sinatra at the Sands.  A pat on everyone's shoulder, some small talk and then heading to the next table.  She stops at my table.  She knows me and immediately says, "where have you been?  I haven't seen you in ages."  I recognize her, I have been through this routine before.  I tell her that M and I have been on vacation, then I got sick for a week.  She asks where we went, and I said Hilton Head, South Carolina.  She knows of the place, but confesses to having not been there, she has been as close as Savannah, which is about 30 miles.

As our discussion winds down, my breakfast arrives, and she excuses herself to go visit someone else. I look at my plate and it is pleasing.  The plastic oval shape is half-filled by the omelet.  The hash browns take up a large share of the plate as well and I can tell be the aroma they were generous with the onions, while the toast is just hanging out on the side hoping to be noticed.

I am just about to bow my head and quietly give thanks for my food when my waitress stops to top off my coffee.  I thank her and continue with my prayer.  I give thanks for my food, pray for M and much of her family who are in Guatemala for a nephew's wedding, my mother and stepfather, who are having aging issues, and for a good friend whose father is having surgery this morning.

After my prayer, I quickly find the pepper and the strawberry jam.  There is pepper sauce on the table but no hot sauce.  Next time she comes by she has sone Tabasco in her hand, which I liberally sprinkle over my eggs and hash browns.

The food, as always, is delicious.  It is filling and satisfies the soul.  My bill is just over $11 for this feast.  I pay for my breakfast and leave a four-dollar tip.

Before I go, I should mention their meat-and-three is a wonderful lunch, particularly for Sunday dinner.

Well, my day is off to a great start.  Time to watch some football.

Flying Alone at Midnight

 I've been a little under the weather this week.  Nothing major or anything like that, just a cold that is always accompanied by a sore throat, a lot of coughing, a lot of sinus drainage and a runny nose.  Since Tuesday morning a roll of toilet paper has always been within arm's reach, so I can a) blow my nose, or b) spit several pounds of multi-colored sinus drainage into said soft toilet paper.  As of this early hour on Saturday morning, I am on my third roll this week.  I know, way too much information.

But one of the unwanted side effects of this late summer cold is the is the incessant coughing.  It is a cough that makes me sound like a smoke three packs of unfiltered packs of Camels a day.  Nasty cough. One aspect of the cough, is that it is pretty much a constant companion, only briefly taking a break after having taken some Coricidin, and sometimes, but not always, if I am laying horizontally.  Now that I think about it, it would be kind of hard to lay vertically.

When I am awake during the wee hours, like this morning (my laptop says it is 2.55a) there are two things I usually do.  One is listen to my iPod.  Approximately 1,400 songs, mostly classic rock, a little country, and some Christmas music for M.  Maybe the best $150 I ever spent.

The second thing I do is get on my phone and start randomly dialing numbers just to see who answers.  No, I'm kidding, I don't really do that.  That would be mean.  Fun, but mean.

No, I have this app on my phone called Flightradar24.  It gives you the position, speed, altitude, flight number of every commercial flight in the world currently flying.  It gives you the airline and city pairs.  For an airline geek like me, it is countless hours of fascinating entertainment.  Currently, at 3a, flying within 50 miles of my home in Tuscumbia, Ala., is an Air Canada Cargo 767 flying from Mexico City (MEX) to Toronto (YYZ).  It's cruising at 39,000 feet at 471 knots.  It is over Loretto, Tenn.  Just southwest of Town Creek, Ala. is a Delta A321 Airbus flying from San Diego (SAN) to Atlanta (ATL).  Amazingly he has just started his descent into Hartsfield-Jackson Airport in ATL.

My dad worked for McDonnell Douglas for 39 years and retired from then in 1996.  McDonnell built the Mercury and Gemini space capsules, the F-4 Phantom, the F-15 Eagle and F-18 Hornet, among other fighter.  They also built the huge C-17 cargo aircraft.  The Douglas side of the company gave the world the DC aircraft, from the fabulous DC-3 to the MD-11, which was an updated DC-10.

My mother started work for Ozark Airlines in 1972, survived the merger with TWA in 1986, and retired after 20 years.

So I told you all of that to tell you this, you can see where I get my aviation enthusiasm.  It is part of my DNA.  In fact, at various times, I worked for both McDonnell and Ozark/TWA.

I could tell you all about my airline career, but that would take a lot of precious inches, which at this early hour I don't want to type.  So I'll just hit the highlight.  I started working on the ramp with Ozark in frozen Fort Dodge (FOD), Ia in Dec. 1981.  I walked away from TWA as a Flight Coordinator at Lambert Field in St. Louis (STL) in September 1999, not long before TWA was absorbed by American.

The Flight Coordinator (or FIC as we were called) job I had with TWA was easily the best job of my life.  It was busy, it required quick-thinking and if you weren't mentally prepared, it was stressful.  It was not a job for most people.

STL was the domestic hub for TWA.  On a normal day, we had approximately 550 flights a day in and out of STL.  We had 51 gates and 12 banks of flights.  I worked in the TWA Tower, Similar to the FAA Tower, it was the hub of activity at the domestic hub of the airline.  We had two people directing traffic, one on the north side and one on the south side.  When a flight was ready to leave the gate, it would call FIC and ask permission (Ex. STL FIC, F444 ready to leave out Gate 42.)  if there was no traffic taxiing in or out, the response would be something like this, (F444, push back is approved, call when ready to taxi) then once unhooked and ready to taxi, (F444 your taxi is approved follow the MD-80 pushing off 72, contact metering at that point.)   Sounds simple right?  Except you might be juggling 10 aircraft at a time.  

The previous example was for the Southside, the northside person had it rougher because the busiest runway at Lambert (12L/30R), was right behind the gates and Taxiway Alpha.  Your conversation might go like this, (Tower, F315 ready to leave off Gate 38.  FIC: F315, push back approved, go tail east, and have them push you back far enough you can exit at Taxiway Golf.  F315: Roger, Tail east, Taxiway Golf, TWA 315.)

We had four individuals who monitored activity at the gates.  They would have 10-13 or so gates, and it was their responsibility to keep up with each flight and advise of any delay.  They kept the flight monitors for their gates up-to-date and wrote delays for anything over four minutes.

My favorite spot was the Gate Coordinator. In the TWA Tower, and I should add, the setup we had every major airline had at airports with hubs.  We had hot lines to the FAA, and we could communicate directly with each other.  I worked a lot of midnights in the tower.  When I started my shift at 10.30p, the last bank of flight, all heading west, were just leaving.  They would fly to west coast, then turn around and fly back, usually not arriving in STL until about 6a

So no, I did not twiddle my thumbs or watch tv all night.  On midnight it was my responsibility to assign every flight, all 550 of them, a gate for the next day.  Now this was not as easy as it would seem.  We had seven different types of aircraft DC-9, MD-80, 727, 747, 757 and 767, as well as the Lockheed L-1011.  Not all aircraft would fit in all gates.  Be we had a daily grid we worked off of, and if there were very few changes, I could be done by 2.30 or 3a.  Now STL Maintenace would have a briefing with Planning and Aircraft Routing at JFK at 4.30a.  Sometimes they would throw a wrench into things, and you might still be struggling when day shift arrived.

But most mornings, like today, it was quiet. If it was clear, you could see aircraft that were 75 miles away, particularly from the northwest to east and watch them make the final leg of the journey.  On busy nights, you could see aircraft stair stepped for 30-40 miles on final, all at different altitudes.

It was my best job ever, so now hopefully you can see why I loved it so much. I see Delta 416 from San Jose to ATL is almost directly overhead.  some of them are sleeping.  I am not, just watching them.

100 Things I like about the South

 Ok, posting a list is not exactly a blog entry.  But its my blog, so this is my entry.

I think of myself as a Southener.   Sure, I was raised in Missouri, but both my parents grew up in Arkansas, as did their parent and most of the parents before them.  Before that they were spread out from North Carolina, South Carolina and Virginia to Alabama and Tennessee.  I went to Harding College in Searcy, Arkansas, and have held Arkansas, Florida and Alabama driver's licenses.  Did I mention I was born in Louisiana?  The point being, I am a southerner, I even have bacon grease running through my veins.

A year or so ago, I sat down and tried to think of reasons I liked the South. Without straining my brain cells, I came up with over 400.  Today, I am picking out the 'Top 100 Things I Like About the South," and am sharing them with you.  Sounds like a lot of fun doesn't it.

Oh, one other thing, you may some of thoughts, you may have some of your own, no one is wrong unless they put down this wonderful part of the world.

Ready?  Here goes, the top 100.

1.  The people

2.  The Weather

3.  Charleston

4.  Savannah

5.  New Orleans

6.  The Shoals

7.  Hilton Head

8.  Panama City Beach

9.  Key West

10. Bless Your Heart

11. Fishing at a creek with your dad or grandpa

12.  Friend catfish

13. Fried okra

14. Cornbread

15. Homemade pickles

16. Collards

17. Tomatoes off the vine

18. Duke's Mayonnaise

19. Crepe Myrtle

20. Red beans and rice

21. Shrimp and grits

22. Coconut cream pie

23. Coca-Cola

24. Sweet tea

25. Chik-Fil-A

26. Bacon

27. Purple Hull peas

28. Augusta National

29. Sweet potato pie

30. Ribs

31. Biscuits and sausage gravy

32. Church

33. Church potlucks

34. Family reunions

35. Gatlinburg

36. Daytona

37. Talladega

38. Bristol

39. Beale Street

40. Iron Bowl

41. Egg Bowl

42. Third Saturday in October

43. Calling the Hogs

44. Rocky Top

45. Alabama Crimsonettes

46. Saturday night in Baton Rouge

47.Graceland

48. John Grisham

49. Harper Lee

50. Margaret Mitchell

51. Truman Capote

52. Lewis Grizzard

53. Fannie Flagg

54. James Faulkner

55. Kudzu

56. Spanish moss

57. Lightning bugs

58. Beignets

59. Rodney Scott's in Charleston

60. Crab Shack on Tybee Island

61. Drago's in New Orleans

62.Two Fat Sisters in Tuscumbia

63. Waffle House everywhere

64. Front porches

65. Porch swings

66. Hank Williams Jr.

67. Johnny Cash

68. W. C. Handy

69. Allman Brothers

70. Charlie Daniels Band

71. Lynyrd Skynyrd

72. B.B. King

73. Bread pudding

74. Robert E. Lee

75. Jimmy Carter

76. Mint juleps

77. Jack Daniel's

78. Martin Luther King Jr.

79. John Lewis

80. Booker T. Washington

81. Jimmy Buffett

82. Peanuts

83. Rice

84. Cotton

85. Designing Women

86. Dixie Carter

87. Sela Ward

88. Cybill Shepherd

89. Tennesse Williams

90. Bill Clinton

91. Muhammad Ali

92. Publix

93. Dollar General

94. Walmart

95. Peaches

96. Palm trees

97. Pecan pie

98. Natchez Trace

99.  Blue Ridge Parkway

100. Smokey Mountains

O Say Can You Seafood?

Well, M and I are still on Hilton Head Island.  We've been here since Oct 3rd, and will head home on in a few days on the 17th.  Certainly, a two-week stay at the beach, breathing that wonderful salt air is good for the soul.

I know some of my blogs are about food, and this one will be no exception, but hey, food is in the name of my blog.  This is Baseball, God and Tacos, not Baseball, God and Birds.  Well anyway, you get the idea.

I am a list person.  Now there are two ways to interpret that.  I am not the type who makes a list every morning of things I have or need to do.  That just isn't me.  Ok, when I worked at the Star Herald, I would make a list of all the stories I had to write that particular week (or day), but that was different.  No, I write lists of things like states I have visited (38), countries I have been in (24), major league stadiums i have visited (15).  You get the idea.

These past two weeks I have been keeping a list of how many different types of seafood I have had. I know, that is pretty silly, and I really can't argue with you, but if I am going to be in the land of fresh seafood, I really don't want to eat the same thing twice.  Does that make any sense?  I want to savor and enjoy as many different types of seafood as possible.

Fortunately, I do not have any shellfish allergy which would keep me from enjoying, well, shellfish, like shrimp or lobster.  So far I have yet to find a fish that really grosses me out.  I used to hate tuna, but then thanks to my friend Kim, who suggested I try Ahi tuna, I have seen the light.  I am now a true convert to a certain type of tuna.  Bottom line is, I can pretty much eat anything that swims or crawls in the deep blue sea without worrying how it affects me.

Today is our 12th day on HHI, and thus far my seafood list stands at 11.  Not a bad list, but I've done better.  I think in years past I have had as many as 15.  I doubt I make that this year.  I am getting older and slowing down you know.

So the following is my list thus far, with a brief comment about each.

1.  Crab cakes - The place where I usually get crab cakes is pretty decent.  We try to go there for Sunday brunch and I get the crabcake eggs benedict.  It's much better than ham.  Their hollandaise sauce is good, but not near as good as Southern Grocery back home in Sheffield.

2. Fried calamari - A good appetizer dish that is made better by what they have to dip it in.  Marinara is always a crowd favorite

3. Fried shrimp - Marilyn can eat shrimp all day.  It is far and away her favorite seafood.  I like my fried shrimp very lightly breaded, and fortunately most of the establishments on HHI do exactly that.

4.  Peel and eat shrimp - Just what it says.  Peel the skin off, drag them through some cocktail sauce, and eat away.  

5. Mussels - I have really become a fan of mussels.  Most of the ones here in the Low Country come from the Canadian maritimes.  Doesn't matter, they are good, just pull them out of their shells, eat them plain or dip in a sauce.

6. Crayfish - When I was growing up back in Missouri, we called these crawdads.  They look just like miniature lobsters and they taste pretty good as well.  I am not a purist though.  I just eat the meat from the tails, I do not suck the brains out.  One strike against crawfish, that's a lot of work for just a little piece of meat.

7. Snow crab - I love, love, love snow crab.  Usually when served, you get one of those crushers, like you're cracking walnuts.  You also get a bowl of hot melted butter.  Can't you hear your arteries clogging just reading about it.  There are four claws with all the food inside.  Crack them open, use the tiny, tiny fork to get the white morsels of goodness out and dip in butter.  Then repeat.  The meat of the snow crab is so sweet.  Wish I had some in front of me right now

8.  Mahi-mahi - This is an ugly green fish with a yellowish head.  But it tastes so good.  Well, actually the taste is kind of plain, but it does a great job of absorbing the spices of whatever you are cooking it in.  You see mahi-mahi a lot in fish tacos.

9.  Grouper - There is a hole-in-the-wall restaurant here in HHI called "The Sea Shack", and it is just that.  The menu is written in different colored markers on a white board.  They get stuff fresh off the boats in the morning and cook it for lunch and dinner.  My favorite item they serve is the blackened grouper sandwich. (email me for a pic).  A nice slice of fish that has been grilled with all those blackening spices.  I usually ask for extra blackening.  Served on a roll with lettuce, tomato and onion, it is the best sandwich on the island.

10. Ahi tuna - I mentioned this earlier, I had some last Friday as tacos.  The steamed flour tortilla contained the ahi tuna, sashimi slaw, wasabi aioli, avocado and sesame seeds.  Oh. My. Goodness.

11.  Scallops - Scallops are just ok.  They taste somewhat like shrimp.  But they are my mom's favorite, so she makes me promise every time I go to the beach I will have some scallops for her.  Ok mom, I did.

Ok, my list of seafood on this trip to the beach.  There is still time for some gator or oysters, maybe some swordfish.  We will just have to see.  Thanks for reading,

A Tale of Two Pizzas

 It's eight o'clock on a Friday night on Hilton Head Island, South Carolina.  M and I arrived here yesterday and will be here for the next couple weeks enjoying the Low Country, one of the prettiest regions not only in the South, but the entire country.  No, the local chamber of commerce did not pay me to say that.

Normally when we are in this part of the world, my mind races to seafood.  What shall I have, where shall we go.  A few years back on a different two-week stay, I had 15 different types of seafood in 14 days.  Yes, 15!  I kept a list, and you thought I ate nothing but shrimp and oysters.  I know, I need serious professional help.

But for the purposes of this blog, we are going to leave seafood behind and visit another of our favorite foods.  Pizza.  More specifically, we are going to talk about two of my favorite pizza places.  Frank and Helen's in University City, Missouri and The Noble Fox in Loretto, Tennessee.

If you read this blog, you know a few days ago I wrote about my genealogy.  If you read between the lines, you realize I do not have any Italian blood in my DNA.  None.  Of course, when I cook something Italian at home, especially if M likes it, I stick an "I" on the end of my name and call myself "Daltoni."  That kind of sounds Italian doesn't it?

I honestly can't remember when we didn't eat pizza in our family.  Not often mind you, but maybe once or twice a month, we would go to one of our favorite pizzerias and pretend we were sitting at a sidewalk cafe in Torino.  (That's a story for another blog.)  Mom would even buy those Chef-Boy-R-Dee pizza and we would craft it and cook it at home.  It wasn't the same.  It never was.

During my early teen years, when it was a Church of Christ rule that you had to have a Sunday evening service, we would frequently go out for pizza after church, more often to Frank and Helen's on Olive Street Road in U City, which had been serving pizza since 1954, (Quick note, U City is where Nelly is from).  Sometimes it was just the four of us, Dad, mom, me and my brother Barry, or sometimes my parents' best friends, Don and Ann, along with Bob and Mona would go along with us.  At the time Don and Ann had one daughter, Paige, who loved to torment me and Barry.  Bob and Mona had three kids, two older sons, who were usually too busy doing other things to attend, and a daughter Lisa, who was a year younger than my brother.

When we arrived, we would push a table or two together.  The parents generally sat on one end and us four kids at the other end.  Another quick note, I know these things just come to me, I must be getting old.  Another bonus of going out for pizza was Barry and I would get to order a Coke.  That's Coke, not Pepsi.  Even on a school night we loaded up with sugar.

But back to the pizza.  

Like most St Louis pizza parlors some things were standard.  The pizza shells were thin.  Communion wafer thin.  The argument was, do you want to eat bread or toppings.  Made sense to me.  The sauce of course was always a deep red, slightly sweet and spicy at the same time.  Rarely were the kids entrusted to pick their own toppings.  We usually had to share a small (are you serious?) pepperoni pizza, but being the nice, angelic kids that we were, we gladly accepted whatever was ordered for us.

I almost forgot, the cheese.  For most of you, the cheese of choice, and this includes Miss M, is mozzarella.  A fine cheese, it does the job, but taste wise is nothing spectacular.  Another St. Louis tradition is provel cheese.  You will find most neighborhood pizza places only top their pizza with provel.  What in the world is provel you ask.  Well I'm glad you did.  Provel was invented in the 1940 s by a pizza owner in St. Louis who wanted a cheese with a clean bite (not stringy) and something that would melt well.  Provel is actually a hybrid.  It is a mixture of provolone, cheddar and swiss, and has a gooey, buttery flavor.  In a word, it is glorious.

When your pizza was done, it was brought to your table.  The first thing you notice is your pizza is cut into squares, not triangles.  Who says you can't do geometry while eating pizza.

When we got older, our church youth group would go there A LOT.  Seems like it was everybody's favorite place to go.  I also remember it was a good place to sit next to the girl you wanted to ask out, but were too shy to ask.  But again, that's another blog for another day.

Finally, I haven't lived in St Louis since 1995, but anytime I would go back, I would try to get to Frank and Helen's and I would not get aa small pepperoni.

Ok, let's move 370 miles or southeast to Loretto, Tennessee.  Our good friends, Jess and Kim Eastep (imagine, more church friends) live near the Alabama/Tennessee line and would go there on occasion.  Kim would post incredible pictures of their Artisan pizzas.  No plain pepperoni here.  The topping combinations must have been made up during a bad LSD trip.  Figs?  Goat cheese?  Wild honey?  Feta?  Ground lamb?  Buffalo sauce?  Spiced pears?  Spinach?  I think you can see where I am going.

We finally set a date with Jess and Kim and met them at this Holy Grail of pizza places.  I had no idea what to order, but when it comes to food, I can be adventurous, so I confidently ordered "The Noble Pie."  It had roasted tomatoes for a base, followed by piles of prosciutto, figs, yes figs, goat cheese, topped off with a hot honey drizzle.  

I am here to tell you that in my 67 trips around the sun, it was one of the best things I ever put in my mouth.  I'm serious.  I'm so serious, every time we went back, I ordered the same thing.  Nathan and Tara Jaynes would join on occasion as well, and the six of us woofed (Woofed, Noble Fox, get it?) down four or five or six pizzas.  There was rarely enough to take home.  We would make the 40-mile drive back to Tuscumbia very happy with full bellies.

I told you all of that to tell you this.  In the last five days, both of these establishments announced they were closing.  For good.  Frank and Helen's had been a St. Louis fixture for 70 years.  The Noble Fox had been in Loretto for only three or four.  Still it's stunning.  I was in St. Louis two weeks ago but did not go by.  They are closing in early December.  Maybe I'll get a chance to sneak back up.  I'm not sure about the Noble Fox.  They may already be closed.

No, I do not talk about food all the time, but there are times when you just have to.  Thank you, Frank and Helen's and Noble Fox, you have made this scribe very happy over the years, but this week, you've made him sad.

Dad

 This coming Friday, October 4th, will be the 15th anniversary of the death of my dad.  Cancer took him at the age of 74.

I can never truly express what a great dad he was, what a great example he was (this goes for my mother as well).  But at one point, when he was still alive, I tried.

When I wrote for the Pocahontas Star Herald, I had a sports column called "Bits and Pieces."  I wrote about local, state and national sports.  Sometimes I even got on my soapbox and preached.  

I wrote the following piece in June 2006.  It was the week of Father's Day, and I wrote this for my dad.  I was fortunate, working for the Star Herald, to have a forum in which to express my thoughts and feelings.

With the anniversary of his death coming up this week, I have been thinking about him a lot and just how much I miss him.   I hope by reading this, it stirs up pleasant memories of your father.

-

June 15, 2006


Dear Dad,

You know Father’s Day is coming up this Sunday, so I thought I would say a few things that maybe I haven’t said, or of I did say them, I need to say them again.

First, let me say thank you for being a Dad that always encouraged me where sports were concerned, and never put me down or tried to make me something I wasn’t, or tried to push me.   You didn’t try to live your life through me.  You let me be a kid and enjoy the game.   I think the only rule you had, was if I started the season, I had to finish the season.   For that I am very grateful.

I have a lot of pleasant memories from when I was playing little league.   I remember how cool it was that you helped coach my little league teams.   I can recall that some of our games started at 6, and you would have to rush to the game, sometimes just meeting us there.   I loved having you around for those games.   I always thought I was pretty special in the eyes of my teammates because my dad was one of the coaches.

Another memory that I have cherished for the last 40 years was playing catch after dinner during the summer.  I was young and self-centered, and only thought about myself.   I didn’t even think about the fact that you had been at work all day, were tired, and might want to sit and rest awhile, or talk to Mom, or possibly read the paper.

I wanted to play catch you, and once the dinner dishes were done, I would beg you to come out back and play catch with me.  There I would stand by your chair, with two gloves and a baseball.  “Come on Dad,” I would say, “let’s go play catch.”  And you always did.   I know there were probably some times when there were pressing issues that needed your attention and you couldn’t, but in the mind of your 49-year old son, you always did.

We would go out back and play catch for 20 or 30 minutes.  Sometimes we would talk about the Cardinals, or my little league team, sometimes we wouldn’t say much at all.  You know, it really didn’t matter.  I was doing what I wanted to do, with whom I wanted to do it.

Do you remember that sometimes I would ask you to throw flies to me or throw grounders?   Remember I played second base, so I needed a lot of practice fielding ground balls.  I remember those times like they were yesterday.  Those are memories I never, ever want to lose.

How is it, that you were always able to get Cardinal tickets?   I loved going to the games and would not sleep the night before.  I remember going to a lot of “Bat nights”, where they would give out bats to the kids.   Barry and I would get our bats, and hold them tightly as we fell asleep on the way home.

I’ve tried to be a good Dad like you.   It has been tough, but every time Barclay and I are playing catch, which we do as often as we can, I think of all the times you played catch with me when I know you really didn’t want to, or you may have wanted to, but had other things you needed to do.    I didn’t understand that then, but I do understand it now.

But life is more than sports.  I realize that our children are precious, and we need to make time for them.  We have a responsibility to them, to love them, to be there for them, to encourage them.  Those are just some of the life lessons I learned from you on how to be a Dad. 

I am very proud of you and have always been proud to be your son.   I hope I have passed along some of the lessons you have given me to Barclay and Clayton.

I love you.  Happy Father’s Day!

Dalton

My Piece of the Rock

 As you may or may not know, depending on whether or not you are a baseball fan, the Oakland Athletics have played their last home game in Oakland.  Ever.  Due to anemic attendance and inability to work out a new stadium deal, the Athletics announced earlier this year they would be moving the franchise to Las Vegas, ironically following in the footsteps of the Oakland Raiders, who moved to Oakland a few years back.

For the most part, baseball was happy to get out of Oakland and leave the Bay Area to the San Francisco Giants.  The Giants have always been more popular and have a wonderful stadium on the San Francisco waterfront.  It also doesn't hurt that they have won three World Series is the last 15 years, so attendance is not an issue.

But the A's have a small problem in their planned move to the desert.  Las Vegas did not have a baseball stadium suitable for the Athletics or Major League Baseball, so they are going to build one.  As any contractor will tell you, it takes a while to build things and the intricacy of building a stadium adds time to the building process.

The Athletics have said it will take three years to build a stadium in Las Vegas.  But having burned their bridges in Oakland, they need a place to play for the next three years (at least).  In another ironic twist, the Athletics are going to head up I-80 an hour or so and for the next three years call Sacramento home, playing in the stadium of the Sacramento River Cats, home of the Giants Triple-A club.  One last parting shot at San Francisco.

Earlier this morning I was on Twitter, or maybe it was Instagram, I really can't remember, and it really doesn't matter.  But what is relevant is the video that I watched, which conjured up memories of an event that happened to me some 19 years ago.

The video was taken after the A's last home game.  A member of the grounds crew had a shovel and was shoveling dirt and putting it in the cups, baggies, hats, whatever would hold the soil, of the Oakland faithful who wanted to take part of the Oakland Coliseum home with them.  I would imagine the treasured dirt from the infield or batter's box will find a place of honor in an individual's library or den or man cave. 

Flash back to December 2005.  The St. Louis Cardinals have had a new stadium under construction and are going to move into it in time for the 2006 season.  Thus 2005 would be their last season in "Old" Busch Stadium before moving next door to "New" Busch Stadium.  Do you follow me?

A week or two after Thanksgiving Marilyn and I went to the old hometown to do some Christmas shopping.  It was an easy 200-mile drive from our home in Pocahontas, Arkansas heading north on US 67.  The trip generally took about 3 hours and 45 minutes.

While in the Gateway area, I told M I wanted to go downtown and see what was left of old Busch Stadium.  After all, I grew up there, probably going to (I am not exaggerating) 300 or so games in its 39-year history.

When we arrived, a chain-link fence surrounded what once held Busch Stadium.  There was only a sliver of the upper/lower deck still standing.  The rest was a dirty pile of rubble.  The rubble was a lot of dirt, rock and piles of concrete which once made the stadium.  I got out of the car and stood next to the fence.  Several men my age stood near me.  We acknowledged each other's presence with a simple nod.  No words were spoken.  We simply went back to our solemn, gaze, each alone with our thoughts of what we had witnessed over the past 39 years.

After being transfixed by the scene in front of me, my concentration was interrupted by a construction worker in his yellow vest and white hard hat, who wandered into our area on the other side of the fence.  The other side where this baseball temple once stood.

To this day I do not know where the courage came from, but I called out to the worker.  "Sir," I was able to get out, "sir, could I have one of those pieces of concrete?"  I meekly pointed to one of the 30 or so pieces nearby.  He stopped, looked at me and they at the pile.  He shrugged, and said, "sure, I guess."  He actually asked which one I wanted; I mumbled it didn't matter.

He reached down and picked up a nice chunk of concrete that was flat on one side and handed it to me.  "Will this do?"  I held it in my hand as if it were the Holy Grail.  "Yes, thank you," was all I could get out, never taking my eyes off the prize I was holding.

Then a funny thing happened.  The other four or five men standing near me, who had been watching me with a hint of jealousy and awe suddenly found courage.  "Can I have one too," they asked, almost in unison.  Dutifully, not saying a word, the worker picked up the cherished pieces of childhood and handed one to each of my newfound brothers.  Smiles suddenly appeared on our faces.  We were all, in a word, "giddy," because none of us expected to leave this hallowed ground with anything but memories.

For 19 years now my piece of Busch Stadium sits proudly on a shelf of a bookcase in our library at home.  One man's rubble is another man's treasure.

Kings, Presidents and Other Relatives

 I would imagine most of us know very little about family beyond our great-grandparents or perhaps our great-great-grandparents.  It's not that we aren't interested, it's just that many families don't keep good records, even going back a couple of generations, nothing was known about those who came before.

Fortunately, I don't have that problem.  My mother's maiden name was Dalton.  Yes, that is how I got my first name.  It's a southern thing, giving the mother's maiden name to the first-born.  In this case, me.  But back to the Dalton's, one thing about them, they love history and more specifically, genealogy. 

My Grandpa Dalton's oldest brother, Lawrence Dalton, for decades wrote a history piece for the local paper, the Pocahontas (AR) Star-Herald.  That is the same paper I went to work for 35 years after his death.  He also wrote a book in 1948 entitled "History of Randolph County."  

The second brother in line, Clarence, loved baseball.  I can remember many summer afternoons sitting at his house in Pocahontas listening to him tell me stories of Dizzy Dean or Babe Ruth.  Jimmie Foxx and Bill Terry.  The third brother, Acel, was just a natural-born storyteller.  Easily the best in the family.  One cautionary tale, I was told always take what Uncle Acel says with a grain of salt.  Some in the families would have different versions of the same story.  I think of what Mark Twain once said, "Never let the facts get in the way of a good story."

My grandpa, Kermit, was fifth of the six brothers, and he too would entertain me around the charcoal pit with stories of his growing up in Randolph County, Arkansas.   Unfortunately, my grandpa Dalton passed away when I was 15.

We have moved on a couple of generations.  Two of my cousins, Frank Dalton Jr. and his sister, Jenny Ito are both heavily involved in genealogy.  Beverly Dalton, the wife to another one of my cousins, did hours weeks and months of research on the Dalton's, and even though she passed away several years ago, her work is preserved in several volumes and is being closely guarded by her grandson Nate Dalton.

I cant't ignore the Sullivan line.  My great-grandpa Sullivan was a blacksmith in Murfreesboro, Ark.  His blacksmith shop was in a dog trot about 50 feet behind his house.  I can recall him sharpening saws and knives and saws, Just doing anything a blacksmith did.  When I was growing up, we had hanging on the wall in our family room, a large cast-iron skillet, close to two feet in diameter.  My grandpa made it for deep camp.  When he had a free minute, I would sit on the anvil in his shop and learn about my ancestors in Pike County.

The point being in all of this, my passion for genealogy research comes naturally.  In retirement, it has become my hobby.

Ok, I apologize for the long intro.  But I felt it was important to share that my interest in the subject is not a passing fancy.  It is deeply embedded.

In addition to family research that I have used and added to, I also subscribe to ancestry.com, as well as the Mormon genealogy site, familysearch.org.  Both have tremendous resources and an abundance of information.  In fact, ancestry.com tells me I have shared DNA with over 115,000 people, just in their data base.

Because of their easily accessed files and data, I have been able to fill in most of my family tree going back close to 500 years.  As I am filling in my tree, I am only using direct lines.  At this point, not worrying too much about adding additional brothers and sisters.  At some point I may do that.  

Think about this.  we have two parents, four grandparents, eight great-grandparents, and 16 great-great-grandparents.  Every generation it doubles.  If you go back 15 generations, you have 32,768 sets of grandparents.  Go back two more generations, you now have 131,072 sets of grandparents!  This is mind-boggling.  But it sets up the point I'm about to make.  

Let's go back to the year 1500.  The world population at that time was approximately 500 million.  However, the population in Europe, where all of my ancestors came from, was only 61.6 million.  So, if you have 131,072 grandparents, that is 0.02 percent of the European population, or 1 in 50.  So, if you had 500 people in your little English village, statistically, 10 of then would be your grandparents.

Now, I told you all of that to tell you this.   According to the Mormon genealogy website, I am related to a lot of famous people.  But seeing the math in the previous paragraph, chances are pretty high you are as well.  Most of us are of European descent, and the statistics say the farther back you go, the more grandparents you have, and the smaller the population, thus the more in your ancestry tree.

There is one big caveat in all of this.  The info is only as good as the person who recorded it.  Many records are verifiable some are a bit spotty.  You have been warned.

Given all of this information, my own research has verified I am related to two former mayors of London, three kings of Scotland, countless Lords/Dames, people who lived in Castles and even an Earl or two.

Other research says I am related to 27 presidents with George Washington being the closest, first cousin, ten times removed.  Second cousin to James Monroe and James Madison.

Moving to Europe, I'm apparently related to Queen Victoria, Marie Antoinette, Winston Churchill and Princess Diana, which means I am also related to the future King William.

My famous relative list also includes aviation pioneers Wright Brothers, Charles Lindbergh, Amelia Earhart and Neil Armstrong.  Also listed are authors Edgar Allen Poe, Henry David Thoreau, Emily Dickinson, Jane Austen, Robert Louis Stevenson, Mark Twain and Agatha Christie among others.  I'm proud to be related to Helen Keller, whose house sits about a mile away from where I am now.  John Lennon, George Harrison and Elvis are also in my crowded tree.  Incredibly, Family Search says I am also related to Brigham Young and Joseph Smith.

Now whether I am related to all those people doesn't really matter.  The ones in my direct blood line are the important ones.  It is a fun hobby, to learn about your ancestors and what they did for a living, the hardships they endured.  So many of my ancestors fought in the Civil War and Revolutionary War.  I'm grateful to know that.

We all have a story, and it is exciting to see where the research leads us.

A Parable

Unless you are a long-time member of the Churches of Christ, this story, this parable will have very little meaning to you.  In fact, it probably wont make any sense at all.  But if you are, as Patrick Mead would say, part of "our tribe," this will make a lot of sense.

As you may or may not know, Jesus frequently told stories (parables) to make a particular point easier to understand.  We have all heard or read the parable of the Prodigal Son, or the Good Samaritan.  The following is my feeble attempt to write a church-related parable.

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I have always been pretty conservative by nature.  My cars of choice have been Fords or Chevys.  Nothing special or fancy, but something dependable, something comfortable.  My parents drove the same type of car, my grandparents, even most of my aunts and uncles.  Sure, there might be a Chrysler or Dodge in there.  Still a conservative car, but one with an extra feature or two

For most of my life it never once entered my mind to get a different car.  Why should it?  I was happy with what I was driving and no desire to change,  Ok, I admit I might look at one of the sports cars from time to time and might even wonder about them, but that was not who I was, or so I kept telling myself.

But as I aged, or matured if you will, I started reading about these new cars.  Cars that would still take you to the preferred destination of your dependable vehicle, but these vehicles had something extra, something tangible, accessories if you will, accessories the guardians of the old conservative cars said would never have any role in their old, comfortable vehicles, "It's our tradition," they would say, "to drive these cars just like or daddies did.  If it is good enough for them, it is good enough for me."

Slowly these other vehicles started to intrigue me.  I would talk to my friends about them.  Some, shared my curiosity.  Some might look at me as if I confessed to mass murder and walk away shaking their heads, wondering where I went wrong.

Over time some, actually more than some, traded in their old, tired vehicle for the one with all the accessories.  You know what, lightning didn't strike them.  The newer vehicle was comfortable and still got them to their destination.  They were still part of the tribe, but others dismissed them, saying they could no longer drive together, or park in the same lot.

I recently test-drove one of these newer vehicles and I must say I liked it.  The ride felt quite comfortable despite the new accessories.  I was happy.  But that is not to say I didn't have questions; I have one for sure I need to do some more study on.  I reminded myself that traditional vehicles, while comfortable and mostly dependable, having one of them as my vehicle of choice was not the law.  Nowhere could I find in the traditional car care book that I was restricted to one type of vehicle.

I am instructed, no matter what I drive, to love it, and be obedient to it, not to do any crazy driving.  I may take another test drive.  It may be exactly what I need.

Spoiled or Fed Up?

 I have been a St. Louis Cardinal baseball fan my entire life.  Our family moved to the St. Louis area when I was two, and I spent my growing up years there.  I haven't lived there since 1995, so I have been gone for almost 30 years.

Still my allegiance to the Birds on the Bat remains.   In the 10 years I have lived in Alabama, I have subscribed to MLB TV each year so I can continue to watch the Cardinals on a nightly basis.  Yes, I have to admit, I still live and die with the Redbirds.

I have to admit Cardinal fans are spoiled, and I put myself in that category.  As members of Cardinal Nation we are used to winning baseball.  In my lifetime the Cardinals have been consistently good.  In my 67 years, the Cardinals have been to the World Series 10 times and won four of them.  How many teams can you name who have won 10 pennants in the last 67 years?  Two.  The Yankees with 18 and the Dodgers with 12.   Here is another way to look at it.  In my lifetime, since 1957, the Cardinals have only finished under .500 17 times.  Perhaps the most amazing stat of all is they have not had back-to-back losing seasons since 1958-59.  Something they could do this year!

I write all of that to say this.  We are spoiled, I am spoiled.  To watch the Cardinals the past two years has been tough.  It has been infuriating.  It has been disheartening, and I point the finger directly at the front office.  Executive V.P. John Mozeliak and his staff have let this happen on their watch.

The drafting of high school and college players has gotten worse and to go along with that, the talent assessment of players under team control is lacking.   How many players in the last 10 years have the Cardinals traded that have gone on and done extremely well elsewhere.  Let's name the obvious ones.  Zac Gallen, Sany Alcantara, Adolis Garcia, Randy Arozarena, Jack Flaherty, Lane Thomas, Tommy Edman, Tyler O'Neill.  Who will be next?  Nolan Gorman?  Lars Nootbaar?  Alec Burleson?  There seemingly refusal to own up to the disaster that has become the Cardinals is alarming.

My suggestion?  Cleans house, starting with Mo, the GM, and field manager Oliver Marmol and his staff.  A sense of complacency and lack of urgency has infected the entire organization.

Yes I am spoiled.  But I am also angry and fed up

Ordinary people

Good morning to all of you.  I don't have to tell you that today is 9/11, one of the most memorable days in our nation's history.

There are a few dates that stand out, where just the mention of them reminds of the events that happened that day, whether good or bad.  Regardless, they live forever in our mind and will forever.

July 4th, December 7th, and of course today, September 11th or as we so often refer to it, 9/11.

As I was finishing my coffee this morning, I was on my phone.  I had just finished talking to my mother and was checking email.  I noticed I had a message on Instagram and checked it.  There were two Messages from my good friend Allison Blair.  The first message was a video she had forwarded, the second just contained two words, "Must watch."

It has been written that 9/11 we saw the worst of humanity and at the same time the best of humanity.  What our Canadian friends did in handling hundreds of jumbo jets that were not being allowed in the United States, and the wonderful citizens of Nova Scotia, Newfoundland, Prince Edward Island and others did in taking thousands of people into their homes, people they had never met, is extraordinary.  For three days they housed them, fed them, and gave them a place that was safe.  Ordinary people doing extraordinary things.  As Americans we will always be grateful.

But the video Allison sent was about another aspect of 9/11 and is no less incredible.  Once again, this time ordinary Americans rose to an immediate need, an immediate cry for help, and did a most extraordinary thing.

After the two planes hit the World Trade Center and following their subsequent collapse, lower Manhattan became an island.  The highways were closed, the subway had stopped, the tunnels to Long Island were closed, every airport in the United States was shut down.  Citizens were pretty much on their own.

Many people, in trying to escape the immediate WTC area headed south, to the banks of the Atlantic and Hudson River.

In the video, the Coast Guard puts out a plea for help.  Anyone with a boat please come to a designated spot, to help carry the distressed citizens to safety.

More than 150 vessels responded.  Tugboats, FDNY fire boats, ferries, commercial vessels, and scores of ordinary citizens in their private vessels all responded immediately to the Coast Guard cry for help.

Over the next nine hours, it is estimated that between 500,000 and one million individuals were evacuated from Lower Manhattan.  From a Staten Island ferry capable of hauling 6,000 souls, to rubber dinghies that carried three.  It was the largest evacuation since Dunkirk.  In fact, history tells us it took nine days to evacuate 350,000 at Dunkirk,  In New York, it took nine hours.

I hope you have opportunity to watch the video.  It is narrated by Tom Hanks and is about 15 minutes.  Not long.  In their own words, ordinary people recalling a day when they did something truly extraordinary

Welcome back

Hey Kids.  Have you missed me?

A few years ago, 13 to be exact, I started a blog, this blog.  I entitled it, "Baseball, God and Tacos."   three of the most important things in my life, but not necessarily in that order.   I wrote about 20 blogs then got tired of it and let it die.  Now I think it is time for resurrection.

So, beginning with this brief column, my blog has been revived.   

As you know I wrote for the Pocahontas Star Herald for 15 years.  I left that job 10 years ago when my wife Marilyn and I moved to Alabama.  To be honest, I was ready to move on.  Being a reporter is a busy job.  Well most of the time, with day-to-day activities, ball games, meetings, deadlines, well sometime those work weeks went from 40 to 50-55.

I dont miss the day-to-day aspect of the job.  I'm 67 years old and frankly too old for that.  But I do miss writing, it is something I think I have a little bit of talent doing.  Many of you were kind enough over the years to say so too me.   So by returning to the blog, I hope to once again satisfy my urge to write.

Honestly I dont know if I will write weekly, several times a week, or once a month.  Just whenever the mood strikes me, and whenever something crosses my mind that I want to write about.  I cant use the excuse I dont have any time., because I am retired, that's all I have is time.

So maybe some of you will subscribe to this, maybe some of you won't.  Doesn't matter.  Well yes it does, I hope you like it.

Have a great rest of your Thursday, there's a pork steak in the fridge left over from yesterday that has my name on it.

Be nice to each other.

Dalton