The Call of 9/11*

Image and Words Copyright © 2011 by Ralph Couey

*Johnstown, PA Tribune-Democrat
September 18, 2011
as "The call of 9/11"

The tenth anniversary has past.  The first heat in the breathless race to establish a memorial for the crew and passengers of Flight 93 has been won.  In a field near Shanksville, along one side of the Pentagon in Arlington, and around the empty footprints of two towers in New York City, people gathered.  Across the country, small memorials were dedicated, speeches were made, and words were written.  Everywhere, Americans paused to remember a day that changed us all.

As I sit here, brief images of this past weekend’s events flash by.  We arrived early and spent time talking to others nearby.  Though strangers, we were linked by the common purpose in being there.  We spoke of the common thread of where we were and what we were doing when we first heard the news out of New York; how we felt when we knew our country was under attack.

Every American who was alive, awake, and aware on September 11, 2001 will forever share that common bond.  Because for Americans, everything that happened that day was personal.  

I remember George W. Bush’s words of faith and country; Bill Clinton’s words about the courage of choice; and Joe Biden’s powerful words of how September 11^th, 2001 changed us all; as a country, and as individuals. 

I remember the somber tolling of the Bells of Remembrance as the names were read by the family members, and the catch in my throat at the words “…and unborn child.” 

Promising the Past to the Future*

Copyright © 2011 by Ralph Couey

*Johnstown Tribune-Democrat
September 11, 2011
as "A commitment to remember"

Ten Years.

Yes, it’s been that long since the bright sunshine of a late-summer’s day was darkened by the cloak of terrorism.  America hadn’t experienced the ravages of war since the silence of an April day in 1865. But on September 11, 2001, our country was brought face-to face with war’s brutal realities.

The recollections remain, enduring in crystal-clear digital video and photo images.  And in our hearts, the memory of almost 3,000 innocent humans who lost their lives, and the living pain of countless thousands who mourn them still.

It was a day that began with sheer mind-numbing disbelief; shock, horror, and fear.  But it was a day that ended with a rare feeling of national unity.  

For those associated with Flight 93, on this day, we remember the past; but we also dedicate a future.

This morning, people will gather at a new memorial near Shanksville, Pennsylvania.  After a decade of ceaseless dedicated efforts, the Flight 93 National Memorial has been dedicated.

The Man Cave**

Copyright © 2011 by Ralph Couey

*Chicago Tribune
September 23, 2011
as "The man cave"

*Somerset, PA Daily American
September 24, 2011
as "The man cave"

Women like to joke about men. No surprise there. One of the sources of those giggles is that space in the house that men can claim as their own that we call the “man cave." I suppose that's a sort of “funny ha ha” reference to our more primitive natures. Of course, everyone knows that women are a more advanced form of life.  

Well, more complex, anyway.

Every man needs to have a space over which he is the absolute monarch, especially those of us who married…shall we say…women of an assertive nature.

It can be a corner of the basement or the entire garage, but never anywhere in the main part of the house. It is where we are free to be our dirty, messy, sometimes smelly, unshaven selves, free of frilly bedspreads, fluffy pillows, and towels and weird-looking soap that must never be used. It is that place where we can explore, experiment, and create, and not clean up afterwards if we don’t feel like it.

Happy Trek-Day!

From actionflickchick.com

Copyright © 2011 by Ralph Couey

(except image above and quoted segment below)

“Space; the final frontier.

These are the voyages of the Starship Enterprise.

Her five-year mission:

To explore strange, new worlds;

To seek out life, new civilizations.

To boldly go where no man has gone before.”

With those stirring words, on September 8, 1966, Star Trek was born.  Conceived by Gene Roddenberry, it was intended to be a “wagon train to the stars,” using space, a ship, and the people aboard her to tell the story of the future.

It was a hopeful future.  War, poverty, racism, hunger all were things of the dim, distant past.  Earth had come together in a global government and formed an interstellar Federation of Planets peacefully uniting newly-discovered civilizations.  Warp drive powered faster-than-light ships, making interstellar exploration and commerce possible.  The transporter made possible instantaneous transportation over thousands of miles; tricorders provided explorers all manner of information about the environment.  Cancer was eradicated, along with most other terrible diseases.  Broken bones, torn blood vessels, and damaged organs, all could be healed without surgery.

But conflict hadn’t become extinct.  The Federation fought regularly with the Klingons and Romuluns. 

The ship, called a “starship” rather than a space ship, was named “Enterprise,” a name familiar to Americans.  The original aircraft carrier was the most decorated ship in World War II.  Enterprise was the first nuclear-powered aircraft carrier in 1960 and the Navy is under considerable pressure to bestow that name on the lead ship of the new CVN-21-class carriers.

The Sanctity and Responsibility of Remembrance**

Copyright © 2011 by Ralph Couey

*Chicago Tribune
September 9, 2011
as "Today we make a promise to future generations"

*Somerset, PA Daily American
September 10, 2011
as "Today we make a promise to future generations"

Ten Years.

It’s been that long since a brilliant late-summer day was darkened by a series of violent acts, driven by anger and hate.  America, a land that had since 1865 escaped the ravages of war, was brought face-to face with its brutal realities.

The recollections remain, preserved by digital video and photo images that will endure forever.  And in our hearts, the memory of almost 3,000 innocent humans who lost their lives, and the living pain of countless thousands of loved ones and friends who mourn them still.

September 11, 2001 was a day that began with mind-numbing shock and disbelief.  But it was a day that ended with Americans bonded by a new sense of national unity. 

For those associated with Flight 93, this is a day to remember the past. But it is also about dedicating a future.

This morning, after a decade of ceaseless, dedicated, sometimes heart-breaking efforts, the Flight 93 National Memorial will be dedicated.

The story of Flight 93 is one that has resonated deeply.  From across the country and around the world, people have been drawn to this field of honor. 

The Selfless Essence of Leadership*

Copyright Words and Image © 2011 by Ralph Couey

*Johnstown, PA  Tribune-Democrat
September 25, 2011
as "Hail to the Chiefs"

Every year, the United States Navy selects a deserving few First Class Petty Officers for advancement to Chief Petty Officer. The magnitude of this achievement cannot be overstated.

In Navy culture, the Chief occupies a special place. Of all the ranks, from Seaman Recruit to Admiral, none is more respected and revered. 

Chiefs are the technical experts within their rating or specialty. But the rank goes way beyond expertise. A sailor has more direct contact with the Chief than any other person in the chain of command. Thus, no other person has a more direct or powerful influence over their life and career. The tasks performed on a daily basis are assigned by the Chief. An individual’s work is monitored and measured under the eyes of the Chief. But the Chief is also primarily responsible for the sailor's morale, health, welfare, and training, making sure they are technically competent and ready for advancement when the time comes.

But most importantly, the Chief is the one person whom sailors must trust absolutely, the one they know will come to their aid in times of trouble; the one person who will hold them accountable, but won't abandon them. This is the key element in the life of a young sailor far from the safety net of home and family. In their wisdom and leadership, Chiefs are that steadying influence in an often chaotic life.

The Valley of a Dream*

Near Town Hill, Pennsylvania
Words and Image Copyright © 2011 by Ralph Couey

*Somerset, PA Daily American
October 1, 2011
as "Finding Willoughby"

In the last several years, I've made enough trips between Somerset, PA and Washington DC to, as they say, wear a rut in the road.  I've gone often for business reasons, but mostly for the pleasure of being with family.  The drive takes around 3 hours -- longer if we get caught in the massive evacuation that takes place every Friday afternoon.  To be honest, I'm often surprised that anyone is still in town after seeing those epic backups on the outbound Interstates.

As often as I've traveled that route, it wasn't until recently that I took the opportunity to gaze out the side windows.  When we drive places, it’s hard not to become locked into the duel of traffic and the press of time.  Even as passengers, we tend not to take notice of the land as it zips by.  But lately I’ve noticed that this trip, so often taken, really is a pretty drive.  As the mountains give way to gently rolling hills, and eventually to coastal plain, you can see everywhere the dense forests carpeting the landscape.  I began to notice little things, details that over the years I had ignored.  For example, trees are not all the same shade of green.  Looking at those hillsides, you can see an orchestra of different species.  Giant oaks, graceful elms, sycamores, and maples each one an individual, yet an integral part of the greater symphony.  Off the sides of small bridges, I see glimpses of tranquil streams under the shady arc of trees. 


But my favorite place lies just outside of Breezewood, PA, where I-70 leaves the turnpike and takes that big bend to the south.  Just past the exit for Town Hill, PA, the road jogs suddenly to the east along a path carved out of a mountainside.  To the left, the trees thin out and below lies the most picturesque sight of the entire trip.

I don't know the name of the valley, or even if it has one.  From the elevated position of the highway, the land below seems heart-breakingly beautiful, reminiscent of perhaps Southern England or Eastern France.  The terrain gently rolls, lined by dense stands of forests in its low points.  The hills themselves were cleared of trees perhaps long ago replaced by the striking geometry of crop fields.  On other fields is the perfect green of grass where pastoral herds of horses and cattle drift along, almost cloud-like.  Barns and farmhouses dot the landscape here and there, and standing like a sentinel, the graceful steeple of a perfect white-painted country church.

The valley is almost storybook in its perfection and peacefulness.  Gazing down from the highway, I am transported to a different time and place, where life runs at a more sedate, peaceful pace.

I don't know anything about the valley or the people who live there, only to wonder if they know how lucky they are to live in a place of such peaceful beauty.

Someday, instead of droning on past, I should separate myself from the stream of traffic and go down into that valley.  I don't know what I'll find.  It’s a sad fact that for things far off, beauty rarely retains that quality when examined close-up.  Maybe what keeps me from taking that drive is the fear that reality will not be the dream I see from above. 

But I am an optimist by nature.  I always look for the good in situations and people.  Who knows what new experience will welcome me? 

One of my favorite “Twilight Zone” episodes revolves around a man whose high-pressure job has become a living hell.  His wife, ambitious and vain, treats him with scorn.  A gentle soul, his life has become unbearable.  On his daily commuter train ride back home, he seemingly falls asleep only to wake up in a town called Willoughby.  It is an existence apart from his, a peaceful page from the 1890’s where life was easy, simple, and moved at a far gentler pace.  He is drawn to that idyllic existence, choosing to go there, leaving his old life behind.  He sought peace and tranquility, and found it.

Perhaps this valley is my Willoughby; a place where the gentle pace of a forgotten time calls to me in the din of my frantic pace of life.

In that unnamed valley, I see not so much to a different place, but the dream of another time.

The Kawasaki VN900LT: My Take

Copyright © 2011 by Ralph Couey

I don’t think there’s a more difficult thing for the American male than to admit a mistake, especially when it comes to the purchase of a particular motorcycle.

I’ve been riding for 18 years and over 200,000 miles.  My passion for riding started with a job some 35 miles from home.  The commute was becoming a real burden, with gas at that time a killer $1.14 per gallon.  My better half had thus far resisted my entreaties with that consummate skill all wives possess.  But by this time, the kids had become old enough that she decided I could risk my neck in the cause of the family budget.

I acquired my first bike, a 1981 Suzuki GS550T, for $500.  It was a sharp-looking standard, cheap enough to buy and maintain while I learned how to ride.  I dropped it a few times, but the only casualties were the turn signal lights, which stuck out from the forks.  A nearby salvage yard managed to keep me supplied with fresh ones.  I rode a lot in all weather conditions (save snow and ice) and that bike taught me a lot.  Over time, I moved up to a 1980 Yamaha XS Eleven Special, then a BMW K75RT, and a Honda PC800 Pacific Coast, with which I enjoyed an enduring 100,000-mile relationship.  However, once I sold the PC, we went into a period of financial trial that forestalled the purchase of a new bike for two agonizing years. 

Finally in the spring of 2009, I bought a 2007 Kawasaki Vulcan 900.  I had that bike for about two months before having my third accident.  I was distracted by a car that had started to pull out of a parking lot across my path and thus didn’t see the guy who had stopped in front of me.  I applied the brakes, which were quite a bit more reactive than what I was used to, and locked up the front wheel.  My lane positioning was completely wrong, riding in the “grease pit” portion of the lane, so the bike snap-rolled to the left and went down hard.  I was saved from a broken leg by the crash bars, but still managed to crack a rib.  With my own elbow.  Fortunately, this happened right in front of a hospital, so I had two doctors by my side in seconds.  I survived.  The bike was totaled.

It took a couple of months for me to heal up.  (A busted rib is a whole new kinda pain, let me tell you.)  But I managed to find a 2006 Vulcan 900LT with fewer miles for a real good price, so I bought it.

Civil War: Events of September 1861

Ulysses S. Grant takes command of Union forces at Cape Girardeau, Missouri.

On September 2, the battle of Dry Wood Creek (known in the South as the Battle of the Mules) was fought in Vernon County, Missouri.  After winning the Battle of Wilson’s Creek, Confederate-loyal Major General Sterling Price, leading some 6,000 poorly trained and underequipped Missouri State Guardsmen, occupied Springfield.  Soon after, he headed towards Ft. Scott, Kansas.  En route, they encountered a 600-man Union cavalry force under  the command of Colonel (and Senator) James H. Lane.  (a caricature of Senator Lane appeared in the Clint Eastwood movie “Josey Wales.”)  The Union troopers surprised the Southerners, but in a fight lasting about two hours, Price’s numerical superiority eventually decided the dispute.  Because of this battle, Union troops abandoned southwestern Missouri.

On September 3, Confederate General Leonidas Polk, concerned about the Federal build-up in the west, ordered General Gideon Pillow to seize Columbus, KY on the Mississippi River.

On September 4, Pillow succeeded in taking Columbus.

But on September 6, Union General Grant took Paducah, KY without opposition.

Being the Weird Guy in the Yellow Helmet*

Copyright © words and photo 2011 by Ralph Couey

*Somerset, PA Daily America
October 22, 2011
as "Seeing life through different colored glasses"

I’ve been accused of being a little weird at times.  I suppose there’s some truth to that.

My particular brand of strangeness usually involves puns or my inexplicable lack of fashion sense.  I love puns, because I am a purveyor of words; words are my playground, and finding twists of irony and nonsense in them is one of my favorite games.

Where I really get the odd looks is when I dress myself.

I am partially color blind, which makes color matching difficult.  Fortunately, my favorite colors are blue and gray, which I can identify easily.  Most of my wardrobe is some variation of blue, white, or gray.   (On a side note, what’s the difference between “gray” and “grey”?)

Where I run into trouble is in matching the few greens and browns hanging in my closet.  When my wife is at home, I ask her to interpret for me.  When I pull a pants and shirt out of the closet and I see her shudder, I know I’ve picked the wrong pair.  Sears used to have a line of children’s clothes called “Roos” which could be mixed and matched by the type of animal on them.  I think someone needs a line of “Roos” for men.  At least for me, anyway.

As most of you know by now, I ride a motorcycle for reasons best explained on my motorcycle-themed blog, “Soul of a Motorcyclist.”  I’m always concerned about my visibility to other motorists on the road, so I bought a bright yellow Nolan helmet last year.  It seems to have worked because I’ve had far fewer close calls this year.  I see the double-takes from people, which is good, since inattentional blindness means if they look once, they probably don’t see the motorcycle.

Plus, bright yellow just makes me happier.

The Mirror of the Past*

Hazel and Ralph E. Couey, with my Dad, Duane

Copyright © 2011 by Ralph Couey

*Johnstown, PA Tribune-Democrat

October 23, 2011

as "Family Treasures Discovered"

When our father died in 2004, my sister and I had the sad duty of going through his belongings.  He had been a minister who traveled the world and amongst his things were reminders of his missions to all seven continents and a host of Pacific islands.  He was an avid reader, very much a self-taught man, and had acquired a prodigious collection of books.  They were mostly theology and philosophy, but included some history, and the collected poems of Wordsworth.  What we didn’t donate went into a storage unit, and eventually into my sister’s garage.  

We think we know everything that’s in those boxes, but occasionally we get surprised.  Once, she found a box of letters that our grandfather had written to Dad while he was in the Navy in World War II.  Neither of us ever knew our Grandfather, even though I bear his first name, so this was a priceless opportunity to peer into the life, mind, and heart of a man we wish we had known.

And it was amazing.  He was a man of strong opinions, and was not at all shy about sharing them.  He wrote at length about his life and the times in which he lived.  And those things that all parents fret about, namely the welfare and behavior of their children.   His words opened a window on a life we had never known. 

United by That Moment***

Copyright © 2011 by Ralph Couey 

*Chicago Tribune
September 2, 2011
as "United by remembrance"

*Somerset, PA Daily American
September 3, 2011
as "United by Remembrance"

*Independence, MO Examiner
September 10, 2011
as "United in moment of remembrance"

It seems like just yesterday.  And yet it also seems like a lifetime ago;  that bright, blue, sun-splashed September morning 10 years ago when our world changed forever.  It was one of those moments, like Pearl Harbor and John Kennedy's assassination, that we remember exactly where we were and what we were doing at the moment we heard.

I was working in a Caterpillar factory in Boonville, Missouri.  It was a pleasant day for a change, but the morning air had felt distinctly chilly during my motorcycle ride to work. 

 My co-worker and best friend John and I were working steadily when the phone rang.  John answered, the looked up and said, "A plane flew into the World Trade Center in New York."  We shook our heads sadly and continued working.  I was thinking about an incident  in July 1945 when a B-25 twin-engine bomber, lost in the fog, slammed into the Empire State Building, when the phone rang again.  John answered it and then his face became agitated.  "Another plane hit the other tower!  The whole damn world's gone crazy!"

We tuned the radio trying to find some news.  After several moments we found a station out of nearby Columbia that had stopped their usual soft rock format and gone over to the audio feed from Fox News television.  We kept working, but our minds were churning.  As the reports flowed from the radio, we were shocked by the enormity of what had happened.  We heard about another plane crashing into the Pentagon, and a fourth one apparently crashing in Pennsylvania.  The government ordered every aircraft out of the sky.  And then in a moment of horrible disbelief, we were told that in New York City the twin towers of the World Trade Center had collapsed.  

At lunchtime, we turned on the television in the breakroom.  The reception was terrible, but the images were clear enough.

EARTHQUAKE! The Sequel

Copyright © 2011 by Ralph Couey

Well, it happened again.  Today, August 23^rd at 1:51 in the afternoon, the earth moved.  No, I wasn’t kissing my wife.  Somewhere beneath the rolling hills near Mineral, Virginia, two pieces of the earth’s crust bumped and ground against one another for a little less than a minute.  The result was a temblor that measured 5.9 on the Richter scale.  Southern Californians may be able to shrug off one like that, but here in the relatively quiet east, it was the most powerful quake in 67 years.

We felt it strongly here in the Laurel Highlands of Pennsylvania.  At work, we felt our building begin to sway.  It was a gentle back-and-forth movement that began to fade, but then surged even stronger.  Shelves rattled, plants swayed, chairs rolled. The shaking of the earth lasted less than a minute, the shaking of the building a bit longer.  However the shaking inside my fellow Pennsylvanians may go on for some time yet.

Earthquakes are a rare thing around here, even given the two we’ve had in the last 14 months.  So its not surprising that the local equanimity might have been a bit bruised.

Fear and the Dark Side*

Copyright © 2011 by Ralph Couey

*Pittsburgh, PA Post-Gazette

September 11, 2011
as "We've held fast to our freedoms"

"Those who would give up essential liberty,

to purchase a little temporary safety,

deserve neither liberty nor safety."

-- Benjamin Franklin

When a country is attacked within its borders, things change, especially when such attacks by foreign entities take the lives of civilians. Some civil libertarians have claimed that individual freedoms have been curtailed by the government since 9/11. But exactly what rights have been surrendered?

The key to Dr. Franklin’s statement above are the words “essential liberty,” which most Americans take to mean those rights enumerated in the Bill of Rights.  Also included would be non-statutory rights, such as freedom of movement.

Freedom of speech is still very much in force. An evening on the cable news channels, the Internet, and in the letter to the editor section of the newspaper provides ample proof. People are railing against politicians and positions on both sides, without fear of reprisal. But when the line between legitimate beefs and actual physical threats is crossed, then, and only then, do the authorities take action.

Freedoms of religion and belief have not been revoked. No religions have been outlawed. The uproar about the new Islamic mosque in New York City was all about location. People are still free to be Muslim.

Reactionaries who call themselves “Christian” have been blowing up clinics and murdering abortion providers for a long time; yet fundamental Christianity is still legal. The violent actions of leftist radicals in the 1960s are historical fact. Yet, today one can still be a communist.

The Road Less Traveled*

“Two roads diverged in a wood

And I took the one less traveled by

And that made all the difference.”

--Robert Frost, 1916

Copyright © 2011 by Ralph Couey

*Johnstown Tribune-Democrat
September 5, 2011
as "The road less traveled may lead to greatness"

There is a certain kind of comfort in routine.  Despite the boredom and drudgery, you always know what to expect.  What makes change so difficult, after all, is the mystery of outcome.

On the well-worn path, the branches have been brushed aside, the undergrowth compressed under countless feet. It is easy to follow such a path, both in the forest and in life.  We always look for such signs.  We want to know that the way is safe, the destination known.  With that assurance, we are confident that our journey will follow others who went the same direction.  

However, it is perhaps somewhat hypocritical to walk only in the same paths as others and feel that we have accomplished something ourselves.

On occasion, we will happen upon a branching path.  This one is rougher, shrouded by tree limbs and tall grass.  This path doesn’t appear on our maps; its end is a mystery.  We regard the trail curiously, asking ourselves, “Wonder where that one goes?”  But we continue on the familiar path; the safe path.

Great people have also come across such mysterious paths, and wondered the same thing.  And yet in defiance of logic and sanity, they quit the well-traveled path for the one unknown.  Their curiosity and sense of adventure has posed a question which can be answered in only one place:  At the trail’s end.

My Lap-Band Life: Seven months in

Copyright © 2011 by Ralph Couey

July was a disappointment, in many ways.  The organization I work for may close in the next month or so and while I’ve been fortunate enough to receive job offers, I haven’t heard final confirmation of my acceptance.  Either way, we have to move, something I’m not looking forward to.  I accept that change is the only consistent thing in life; but upheaval is not and that’s what I’m going through.

In the past, when I was going through stressful times, I would turn to food for solace.  When I chose to have lap band surgery, I knew that this would be the monster crouched on my doorstep.  The disappointing thing was that even though I was aware of this trap, I still fell into it. 

I gained one pound in July.

It was embarrassing to report this to the doctor at my regular monthly visit, especially after losing 14 pounds in June.  The one encouragement I was able to find was him telling me that nearly all lap band patients go through a bad month or two, but more to the tune of 5 or 6 pounds gained, not just one.  He suggested other ways to try to manage my stress, mainly being more active.  That’s good advice because when I’m stressed, my tendency is to shut down, crawl into a corner and mope.  What I need to be doing instead is to get up and move; taking a walk for example.  Not only would this help to fend off a reversal, expending some of that pent-up adrenaline would ease my mind considerably and take a load off my heart, which has been talking to me of late in urgent little twinges.  I'm holding off on another adjustment until I see what happens here in August.

Home Sweet Home**

Copyright © 2011 by Ralph Couey

*Somerset Daily American
August 27, 2011
as "Not new for long"

*Chicago Tribune
August 26, 2011
as "Not new for long"

Human beings are wonderfully adaptive creatures. When confronted by new situations and environments it’s amazing how quickly the new becomes routine.


I take occasional business trips, going to such wildly exotic places as Fresno, California.  Now, these aren’t vacation destinations (and who in their right mind would want to vacation in Fresno?), they are full workdays.

The first day, everything is brand-new, from the airport, the rental car, the hotel room, and wherever the business at hand takes place.  But surprisingly, it doesn’t take long for the new to become old, the strange to become familiar, the different to become routine. 

Airports look the same. The gates and wide concourses lined by various shops, eateries, and kiosks. It’s always a hike from the gate to baggage claim. But after several hours in a cramped seat, exercise is a good thing, especially for us in the blood clot age group.

As often as I’ve flown, my bags have never been the first ones to hit the carousel. In fact, I noticed that the first ones down the chute are usually the last ones to be picked up. I remember one trip to Dallas when my bag was the third one to arrive. It was like winning the lottery.

Furballs and Hearts***

Copyright © 2011 by Ralph Couey

*Chicago Tribune
August 19, 2011
as "Unwavering Loyalty"

*Baltimore Sun
August 19, 2011
as "Unwavering loyalty"

*Somerset, PA Daily American
August 20, 2011
as "Unwavering Loyalty"

The first dog in my life arrived under a Christmas tree when I was 6 years old. He was a Dachshund, small and wrinkled, with eyes that were barely opened. My sister and I took him into our arms and our hearts, naming him "Brownie."

We played with him constantly, taking him everywhere. At night, it was at the foot of my bed where he took his rest.  After only a year, he died when some miscreant threw a piece of poisoned meat into the back yard.

My sister and I were devastated.

But on Christmas Day two years later, our parents presented us with another tiny Dachshund, which we also named Brownie. He was with us for 17 years, a long time for a dog. We loved him and he us, but he didn’t take too well to my fiancé, unnerving her with his relentless silent glare. And every time we came home, he would be standing at the top of the stairs, leaned out as far as he could in order to see around the staircase and greet us with wagging tail and a joyful bark.

But as the years passed, he began to suffer. His back legs became stiff, and then paralyzed. Finally, my Mom could stand it no longer and without telling the rest of us, she took him to the vet and gave him his final rest. I remember that moment of shock and loss; the sudden hole in my heart.

I didn’t get another dog until after we were married.  We turned to the Humane Society, making two trips to the animal shelter. There were many dogs, but amid those jumping and yelping, and silent and quivering, there was one dog sitting quietly; composed and dignified. Cheryl walked by the cage door and suddenly stopped. She knelt down, and the dog responded, licking the fingers she stuck through the mesh. She turned and said definitively, “This is the one.” I know better than to argue with that tone of voice.

Only a Moment in Time**

Copyright © 2011 by Ralph Couey

*Chicago Tribune
August 12, 2011
as "Moments of time"

*Somerset, PA Daily American

August 13, 2011

as "Only a moment in time"

It was only a moment in time.

His son was now a teenager, entering into that age where relationships with parents could become difficult.  To be honest, the two had become somewhat distant.  The Dad was still coaching his son’s team, but the two rarely talked much off the field.  Suddenly, an opponent hit a sinking line drive towards the corner.  His son was sprinting towards the foul line and just at the right moment, he dove, snagging the ball in his glove.  The son came running off the field, his face split with a wide grin.  Dad held up his hand for a high five.  But the son, surprising both of them, ignored the hand and leaped into his father’s arms for a hug.  As they pulled apart, the two saw each other with all their fences down, their hearts wide open to each other.

It was only a moment in time.

They were in their 80s, a lifetime of that adventure called marriage behind them.  They had been going to the track at the local high school in the evenings to exercise.  As they walked along, suddenly she collapsed to the ground.  Despite all the efforts of bystanders and paramedics, she was gone.

It was only a moment in time.

He was so nervous.  He had wanted to ask her out for a long time, but fearing rejection, it took all the courage he had to finally ask.  To his shock, she said yes.  After all the anticipation, he was beginning to worry that she would get bored and leave.  Then suddenly, she looked up at him, and smiled.

It was only a moment in time.

The Finger and Medical Miracles*

Copyright © 2011 by Ralph Couey

*Johnstown, PA Tribune-Democrat

August 21, 2011

as "Aging men face medical waterloos"

Growing old is curiously both a curse and a blessing.  The blessing part is the accumulation of knowledge and life experience that results in the gift of wisdom.  Make no mistake, we all make mistakes.  Most we eventually learn from, some we never seem to.  Of course, having wisdom promotes the desire to share it, especially with younger people whose lives, we are sure, would be so much easier if they’d just listen to us.  They, of course, are just like we were, living life by the dictum “In order to be old and wise, one must first be young and stupid.”

The curse of age usually involves the infuriating decline of our physical health.  For many years, I played league softball and tennis religiously, although not always successfully.  Last summer at a picnic, I took a few swings in a pickup game.  The ball didn’t go very far and my sprint had turned into a lumbering plod.  I haven’t picked up a bat since.  Just too embarrassed to do it.

Stuff...and Change**

Copyright © 2011 by Ralph Couey

*Chicago Tribune
August 5, 2011

*Somerset, PA  Daily American
August 6, 2011

We all know about the tendency to acquire “stuff,” most of which usually seems to end up in the attic, basement, or out in the garage.  These are items that we generally don’t think about for years, perhaps decades, but are too sentimental to let go of nonetheless.  If a family stays in one place, then stuff is not normally a problem; out of sight, out of mind, if you will.

But there are times in a family’s life when homeowners have to confront the monster of their past.  Most times, it’s that moment in late autumn when the first big snowfall is forecast and suddenly you realize that the car no longer fits in the garage.  But the big event, the one we all fear, is that moment when you know you have to move.

Nobody likes to move.  We get comfortable and settled, and resistant to even the idea of packing everything up.  This happens more often when we’re young, moving out of the parent’s house, going to college, getting our own apartment, and then moving several times for various reasons.  But life changes fundamentally when you can no longer pack your entire universe in the back of a Dodge Neon.

Civil War: Events of August 1861

On August 1, Tennessee voted to adopt the Confederate constitution.  Brazil recognized the CSA.

August 3^rd marked the first use of aerial reconnaissance from a ship when a Union naval officer went up in a balloon to look at Confederate-controlled Hampton Roads.  Also, a Federal fleet bombarded Galveston, Texas.

In a naval action at Fernandina, Florida, the USS Vincennes ended the Rebel blockade of that port.

President Lincoln signed a variety of bills produced during the special session of congress.  Among them were a new issue of bonds, tariff increases, and the first direct income and real estate tax.  But the most important one was the Confiscation Act of 1861 which gave federals the right to seize property used in the insurrection.  This meant that slaves forced to participate in the Confederate war effort were essentially freed.

Also, Union enlistments were increased from 3 months to 2 years.

On August 6^th, the Second Wheeling Convention met to discuss the separation of Kanawha, what would eventually be the 39 counties called West Virginia.  Votes in these counties had run as much as 20 to 1 against secession, which necessitated the division.

In Kentucky also on the 6th, a naval officer, LT Bull Nelson was ordered to build a camp for the training of the Kentucky militia for the Union.

Speech: "She'll Always Bring You Home"

Copyright ©2011 by Ralph Couey

The sea is seductive. It holds an indescribable power over the soul of a human.  It is a place of awesome beauty and fearsome power.  Yet, at dusk when the sun’s dying rays appear to sink into its depths, it also inspires quiet reflection and deep emotions.  As author Kate Chopin put it,

"The voice of the sea speaks to the soul.

The touch of the sea is sensuous,

enfolding the body in its soft, close embrace."

Standing on the deck of a ship, you look around you and behold a perfect world of water, unbroken from horizon to horizon.  Beneath you lies a tower of water many hundreds, or even thousands of feet deep.  At night, far from any polluting light source, the sky is crowded with stars.  As the bow cleaves the water, tiny creatures are stirred up in the wake, giving the foam a glowing phosphorescence as it trails out astern.  During the day, you are struck by the sheer size of the planet you inhabit; at night, the majestic infinity of the universe awes you.  Either way, you feel very, very small.

But under your feet is a steel deck.  The engines are turning and the Captain is on the Bridge.  In the middle of incomprehensible vastness, you find comfort in the solidity of your ship.  

A mass of haze gray steel floating on the water.  That’s what most people see in a Navy ship.  But to a sailor, it is a vision that ignites strong emotions.  

To outsiders, the love affair between ships and sailors is a mystery.  You have to understand that a ship is not an office building.  It is a workplace, to be sure.  But it is also the vessel that carries sailors across the trackless seas to places of wonder and duty.  They work there, sleep there, eat there, and if necessary, fight there.  Some die there.

"Earn This!"*

Copyright ©2011 by Ralph Couey

*Johnstown, PA Tribune-Democrat
August 14, 2011
as "We must earn heroes' sacrifice"

I recently spent a weekend in New Orleans attending the reunion for my first ship, USS Ouellet.  We had a great time reminiscing and laughing at those memories.  We talked about deployments, the thousand incidents great and small that make for lasting memories.  We spoke of shipmates we had served with, officers we had served under, and ports we had visited.  It was a fine way to recall that in our most vulnerable years, we had done something worthwhile.  The friendships we had established decades before were revived as easily as sliding into an old comfortable pair of blue jeans.

In high spirits, we walked the narrow streets of the French Quarter in the same way we had done in exotic places like Hong Kong, Singapore, Manila, Tokyo, Karachi, Mombasa, and Bangkok, all of us falling into that curious rolling gate that marks a landed sailor.  On our heads we proudly wore those blue ballcaps with the ship’s name emblazoned on the front, and once again, we were shipmates.

In recent years, it’s become common for people to thank veterans for their service.  Having grown up during the Vietnam era, this is something I’m grateful to see.  A few times over the weekend, I was stopped by folks who, seeing my ballcap, offered a handshake and their thanks.

My friends might react in disbelief at the idea that I’d ever be at a loss for words.  But in these situations, I really don’t know what to say.  I am grateful, to be sure; but also a little embarrassed by the attention, mainly because like all of us who have worn the uniform, we don’t think of ourselves as being worthy of such things.  We’re not the heroes.  

The heroes never came home.

There is, however, deep inside something I wish I could say.

Peace...And a Cup of Tea***

(Quotes taken from an article in the Honolulu Star-Advertiser, and a televised report from KHON-TV.)

Copyright ©2011 by Ralph Couey
except the quoted portions as noted above.

*Chicago Tribune
July 29, 2011
as "Peace and a cup of tea"
*Somerset, PA Daily American
July 30, 2011
as "Peace and a cup of tea"
*Pittsburgh Post-Gazette
December 7, 2011
as "A cup of tea"

Shining out of a clear blue sky, the golden sunlight lay gently on the waters, the surface ruffled by the ever-present trade winds. A crowd of 150 people gathered, some clad in traditional kimonos, some in business suits, others in Aloha shirts. In the quiet of the morning, the pure white arches of the Memorial rose above them in peaceful beauty.

An old Japanese man sat before a table and with grace, dignity, and great ceremony, prepared a bowl of tea. He then rose and walked to the end of the room and placed the bowl on an altar and bowed deeply and reverently before a marble wall upon which was etched 1,177 names, the crew of the Battleship Arizona. Below the Memorial, they remain entombed within the hull of their ship which slowly rusts away in the waters of the inlet the native Hawaiians call “Wai Momi.”

We know it as Pearl Harbor.

No one from this hemisphere can possibly overstate the importance of the traditional tea ceremony to the Japanese. It symbolizes harmony, purity, tranquility, and reverence, fundamental elements of that ancient culture. Over the centuries, it has been performed on many occasions, from the celebration of love between a man and a woman, to a moment of peace during war. The ceremony is so revered, so symbolic of peace that even the warrior Samurai left their swords at the door.

The event on July 19^th was a ceremony of peace and reconciliation offered by the Japanese people in memory of those who lost their lives on that terrible Day of Infamy. It was the inspiration of former Hawaii First Lady Jean Ariyoshi, wife of former Governor George Ariyoshi. “I had this vision of people getting together, healing together, and honoring the war dead and praying for world peace. There’s no more beautiful place than to do it here.”

The Arizona Memorial is built over the remains of the sunken battleship and has since its inception been a place of reverent pilgrimage for Americans. Moored nearby, another battleship, USS Missouri, the scene of the Japanese surrender, reminds us that every war has two places in common. Where the blood first flowed, and where the killing finally ended.

"Baby, It's Hot Outside!!!"**

Copyright © 2011 by Ralph Couey

Chicago Tribune's hot"
July 22, 2011
as "Man, it
*Somerset, PA  Daily American
July 23, 2011
as "Man, it's hot"

For most of my life, I’ve lived in places where summers were uncomfortable, and occasionally intolerable.  Muggy heat makes me almost claustrophobic at times.  The National Weather Service has given us an additional measuring tool, the heat index. But I hated the heat index.  It’s already hot.  Do I really need to be reminded that it feels worse than it actually is?

In Missouri, summers were torture. Starting in late May, temperatures would rise into the upper 90’s and frequently topping triple digits.  The humid air would trudge in from the Gulf of Mexico, adding to the already-high temperatures.  I couldn’t walk from the driveway to the front door without breaking a sweat.

When we moved to the Laurel Highlands seven years ago, I truly thought I had died and gone to heaven.  The summers were mild.  90-degree days were downright rare and the humidity didn’t hold a candle to Missouri.  The nights cooled down nicely.  It was always a pleasant way to pass a summer, although frequent trips to Pittsburgh and the DC area kept me in touch with reality.

We have had some hot spells, generally short-lived.  But not this year.

Over the last ten days, temperatures have ventured into the 90s and this quasi-rain forest  has been very dry.  The combination has left our yards turning brown and our gardens panting. 

Several years ago, I stopped putting the window air conditioners in.  Part of that was the effort involved in carrying them down from the attic and installing them.  They’re bulky and heavy, and to be honest, my back hurts just thinking about it.  Really though, in the past few years, we haven’t needed them but maybe one or two days out of the whole summer.  But in looking down the road at the extended forecast, it seems that this hot spell is going to be with us for a while, anyway.

Attention NFL: Go Ahead; Make Our Day*

Copyright © 2011 by Ralph Couey

*Johnstown, PA Tribune-Democrat
July 24, 2011
as "Autumn of silence?"

The approach to every autumn, for as long as I can remember, brought for me a rising excitement.  The arrival of the cooler breezes meant that football season had arrived.

But this fall may arrive with an uncommon silence.  In stadiums across the country, instead of the roar of the crowds, only the whisper of the wind will be heard.  Owners and players find themselves athwart serious issues that have to be resolved to ensure the healthy future of the game and those who play it.

Owners want an 18-game season.  More games, more tickets, more revenue.  Players want to be compensated for those extra two weeks (and who around here wants to work for free?) and are very concerned at the effect of two additional weeks of violence will have on their bodies.  This is a very real issue.

Earl Campbell was a dominant running back with the Houston oilers.  He was an immensely powerful man with thighs the girth of which would rival a mature oak tree.  His best year was 1980 when he rushed for nearly 2,000 yards.  But his career lasted only 8 years. 

And the last time I saw Earl Campbell, he was in a wheel chair.

The 300th Post

Copyright ©2011 by Ralph Couey

Welcome to my 300^th post! 

On November 3, 2006, I started this blog as an outlet for thoughts that were swirling around inside begging to be let out to breathe.  As my newspaper columns became more popular, this blog became the repository for the things I wrote, not only the pieces that were published, but also ones that were too long or just didn’t work as a column. 

The subject matter has been broad.  As I look down the post index, there is a heavy preponderance of motorcycle-themed essays.  Included are those neat little “slice o’ life” subjects that columnists love so much.  Things like head lice, cows, seasons, the weather, and walks in the forest.  There are also deeper pieces discussing life, death, love, and United Airlines Flight 93, which really covers all three of those subjects.  There’s almost no politics here, a lack that really pleases me.  While I am active and I do vote, I understand fully that those decisions are mine alone and discussing them only serves to divide the audience.  And we have more than enough anger floating around these days.

Any, I thought I’d take a little look at that number, 300.

The Matches Made In Heaven*

Pacino and DeNiro

(Regency Pictures publicity still)

*Johnstown, PA  Tribune-Democrat

July 17, 2011

as "Screen pairings we love to see"

Copyright © 2011 by Ralph Couey

Written content only.

A match made in heaven

This is a phrase that’s normally used to describe a couple who seem to be perfect for each other.  But that expression can also apply to situations where two of the best take the stage at the same moment.  It’s always the stuff of legends.  And for us fans, it’s just plain fun

Al Pacino and Robert DeNiro were paired in a movie called “Heat.”  Pacino played a homicide detective who applied himself wholly to his profession at the cost of everything else in his life.  DeNiro was the consummate career criminal, an audacious planner of, as he put it, “big scores.”  The two sparred and weaved throughout most of the movie, coming together for one unforgettable scene, sitting across a restaurant table.  Powerful stuff.  They were the best of their generation at the peak of their craft, the quintessential tough guys.  Watching them, you knew one of them had to lose.  And that was the only bad part.

One pairing I regret never seeing, was Clint Eastwood and John Wayne.  

It could have been a story that unfolded on a Pacific Island during World War II, or on the dusty streets of Laredo, Texas.  Maybe on a city’s mean streets, one as the cop, the other as the bad guy, or both on the same side.  Any of those locations would have suited both actors.  

In a way, they were opposites.  

Not Only Names, But the People They Were**

The Columbine Memorial

*Chicago Tribune

July 15, 2011

as "A fitting memorial"

*Somerset Daily American

July 16, 2011

as "A fitting memorial to lives taken too soon"

Copyright © 2011 by Ralph Couey

The sky was overcast as I came slowly up the sidewalk.  The wind was gusting out of the northwest, a cold and bitter presence reminding me of my thoughtlessness in not bringing a coat to Colorado on this grim-looking day in May.   Enduring the frigid winds, I turned onto a wide path, the head of which was decorated with a low stone wall and a simple sign:  “Columbine Memorial.”

April 20, 1999 was a cool, cloudy morning in Littleton, Colorado.   At Columbine High School, students arrived for a normal school day.  But at 11:19, just as the first shift of students began gathering in the cafeteria, shots rang out.  Over the next 45 minutes, two students, Dylan Klebold and Eric Harris walked through the school, taunting and then shooting fellow students, some at point-blank range.  In terror, most fled the school, while others hid under desks.  The two shooters fired 176 times, saving the last two rounds for themselves.  In their wake, 12 students and a teacher were dead. 24 more were wounded.

The shock of this terrible tragedy was felt well beyond the boundaries of this middle-class community.  The entire country was in mourning.

It’s been 12 years since that day, a day that fundamentally changed schools forever. 

A broad walkway takes you into the memorial between two low stone walls, opening into a circle.  To the left is a wall with six openings through which pour a steady stream of water.  Straight ahead, three stone and marble arcs mark the center of the memorial.  At my feet is a large inlaid ribbon, and the words, “Never Forget.” 

On raised sheets of granite are engraved individual memorials to the 13 who were lost that day, written by the parents and families.  It is through those words that those thirteen cease to become names to be read, and become people to be remembered.

My Lap Band Life: Six Months In

Copyright ©2011 by Ralph Couey

                                                   Before                                 So Far

Second picture is a bit misleading since I'm wearing a baggy shirt and pants that are 4 sizes too big.  The difference really shows in my face and neck.  In case you're wondering who those cute kids are, they're two of our grandchildren, Diana 5, and Ian 5 months.

The adjustment at the end of May really helped.  From then until the end of June, I lost 14 more pounds down to 240.  That makes the total weight loss now 44 pounds since the surgery, and 73 pounds since the pre-op seminar.  I've gone from a size 52 pants down to 42, and my shirts from 3XL to XL.  My target is 180 pounds, so I still have 60 pounds to go, but I can see a glimmer in the far distance that just might be the light at the end of the tunnel.

I'm much better now at being happy with 3/4 cup of food.  I find I still have to have quite a bit of salad to...um...keep the plumbing functional.  I've learned to limit my intake of soup because it doesn't stick around to keep hunger away, but merely drains on through.  I'm really working on taking small fork/spoonfuls and chewing a lot before swallowing.  After the adjustment, I had quite a bit of discomfort because I had started to go back to eating too much too fast and I had to re-teach myself to slow down and cut down.

The heat and humidity of summer has arrived, a time that has always been intense torture for me.  Not only was I uncomfortable, I was sweating a lot, which made for some uncomfortable social situations.  I find this year, however, that my tolerance for summer weather is much better.  Granted, the temperate Laurel Highlands area isn't Florida, but when I venture out of the mountains to DC or Pittsburgh, I really notice the difference.  Of course, the flip side is that with far less bodily insulation, winters will now feel much colder, solar minimum notwithstanding.

It's hard to argue with results, and results is what I've gotten.  But the crowning glory happened this past weekend.  We went down to DC for the 4th and on the way we stopped at the Hagerstown Outlet Mall in Maryland.  We had our middle daughter with us who is newly preggers and needed some maternity wear.  While Mom and Daughter were shopping, I wandered around.  My first stop was the Polo store where I found quite a bit of clothes that fit.  But the best moment came a bit later. 

The Worst Fear*

Copyright © 2011 by Ralph Couey

*Johnstown, PA Tribune-Democrat
July 10, 2011
as "Speak your mind, share your heart"

It’s called Glossaphobia.  No, it’s not about your brand of car wax or furniture polish. It’s the technical term for the fear of public speaking.  Countless surveys and public researches have listed this particular dread as number one above all others.  It leads fear of death, spiders, darkness, heights, people, flying, open spaces, thunder and lightning, and confined spaces. 

Kinda strange when you think about it. 

If someone walked up to you in the dark and put a black widow spider in your face in the middle of a crowd of people standing at the edge of the Incline Plane lookout platform during a thunderstorm and demanded that you give a speech or die, I don’t think anyone would quibble over the choice. 

But according to the researchers, 3 out of every 4 people suffer from some form of speech anxiety, so you’re not alone.  It doesn’t seem to matter whether the audience is a few friends at a dinner party, or an auditorium full of hostile politicians, the fear is the same. 

Civil War: Events of July 1861

With the two sides firmly in place, the fighting starts in earnest with a graduate education in the inhumanity of war at Bull Run.

On July 2, Union Major General Robert Patterson took his division across the Potomac under vaguely-worded orders to re-take Harper’s Ferry.  Patterson had been slow to move which gave the Rebels time to deploy.  He ran into the troops of Colonel Thomas Jackson (soon to be nicknamed “Stonewall”) near Hoke’s Run.  He began to push Jackson’s troops back, but Jackson was under orders to only delay the Union advance, not to stop them.  Patterson got as far as Martinsburg, but stopped there on the 3^rd.  This inactivity allowed Confederates to bring up reinforcements which defeated the Union forces at Bull Run.

On July 4^th, Leonidas Polk, first cousin to President James K. Polk, a political general who possessed no combat experience, but had a close friendship with President Jefferson Davis, was commissioned a Major General and given command of Department Number 2, roughly the area between the Tennessee and Mississippi Rivers.

July 4th: A Birthday of Hope**

Copyright © 2011 by Ralph Couey

Berbera, Somalia

Photo by Ralph Couey

*Somerset, PA Daily American

July 2, 2011

as "A Birthday for hope"

*Chicago Tribune

July 1, 2011

as "A birthday for hope"

Some thirty years ago, I was walking the dry, hot, dusty streets of Berbera, Somalia.  I was a young U.S. Navy sailor and our ship had pulled in to meet a destroyer tender for some essential repairs.  We had been given a few precious hours of liberty, a gift after 7 weeks at sea.

It was a brutally hot day, around 115 degrees.  Clad in my white doubleknit uniform, I was rapidly boiling over.  But the experience that awaited me quickly eliminated any thoughts of my personal discomfort. 

The signs of poverty and hunger were everywhere.  People lived in hovels I wouldn’t have stored my lawnmower in. And when we looked at each other, I saw in their eyes, the emptiness of despair. 

Americans who complain about being poor obviously haven't been to Africa yet.