Civil War: Events of February 1863

Union Navy ships made an unsuccessful attack on Ft. McAllister, guarding the southern entrance to the port city of Savannah.

On the 2^nd, Union ram Queen of the West steamed past the Confederate batteries at Vicksburg.  She was hit twelve times, but was mostly undamaged.  She then rammed the Confederate ship City of Vicksburg and retired.  The next day, she attacked three southern ships and captured them, destroying their vital cargoes.

Also on the 2^nd, Confederate General Nathan Bedford Forrest attacked the Union garrison at Fort Donelson, Tennessee in an attempt to relieve the pressure on Vicksburg.  The attack failed.

On February 3, the French made an offer to mediate between the North and South through Federal Secretary of State William Seward, who declined the offer.

Union General Joseph Hooker reorganized the Army of the Potomac, giving corps commands to John Reynolds, Darius Couch, Dan Sickles, George Meade, John Sedgwick, William F. Smith, Franz Siegel and Henry Slocum.  George Stoneman is appointed cavalry chief.

On February 12^th, the West Virginia Constitutional Convention reconvened in response to the U.S. Congress’ request to modify certain wording concerning slaves.

Queen of the West struck again on the 12^th, taking more than $2 million in cargo in a single day.  But on the 14^th, the ship ran aground and was abandoned.

The U.S. Senate passed the Conscription Act on the 16^th.  The next day, West Virginia approved a revised state constitution.

General Grant, who had previously issued an order to halt publication of the Chicago Times as a subversive newspaper, rescinded the order on February 17^th.

A Democrat Convention in Richmond, KY was broken up by Federal authorities because some members were pro-South.

Confederate General Daniel H. Hill assumed command of all North Carolina forces on the 25^th

February 26^th saw President Lincoln signing the National Currency Act into law.  The legislation created a national banking system, a currency bureau, and the office of Comptroller of the Currency.

Also on the 26^th, the Cherokee Nation rescinded its previous declaration of secession and also abolished slavery.

On the last day of February, Federal gunships moved up the Ogeechee River in Georgia to destroy a Confederate privateer known as the Rattlesnake.

This Thing Called "Love"*

*Johnstown Tribune-Democrat, February 11, 2010

as "Feb. 14 - A Time to Celebrate This Crazy Little Thing Called Love"

Copyright © 2010 by Ralph Couey

It’s an oft-spoken truism that while men marry women for what they are, women marry men for what they can make out of us. When I look at my wife, I still see the breath-taking girl I fell for 32 years ago. When she looks at me, she sees (and she’s actually said this) a “work in progress.”

I don't consider that a bad thing; I'm excited to be married to someone who remains convinced that every day I can be more than I was the day before.  Her faith in me has never wavered, even during those times when I had lost all faith in myself.

Marriage is a relational laboratory; the virtual Petri dish where two independent people learn how to be co-dependent. The first seven years can be explosive as both partners engage in a sort of emotional “push-me pull-you,” trying to pull the other in their direction. Through this process, both learn the value of compromise; that the best solutions often exist in the middle.

Through it all is this thing we call “love.”

The Possibilities of Life and the Prison of Physics

M-31 Andromeda from Astronomy Picture of the Day 1/24/2008

Copyright © 2009 by Ralph Couey

Written content only

Like millions of others, I often look to the night sky, fascinated by the possibilities of what lies out there. However, at times I also find myself idly wondering whether in that sky there might be someone else standing on another planet some impossibly long distance away looking back.

The latest estimate for the size of the known universe is around 150 billion light years across, containing somewhere between 100 billion and 500 billion galaxies, each probably containing between 200 billion to 400 billion stars. Certainly amongst that blizzard of zeroes, there has to be at least one other intelligent technological civilization.

In short, do I believe there are other intelligent species in the universe?

Yes.

Do I think we’re being visited by aliens in flying saucers?

No.

The physical laws of the universe, as we know them, make interstellar journeys impossible, impractical, and even pointless. The speed of light, warp drive notwithstanding is a barrier impossible to cross. Any physical object, be it human or molecule, converts to pure energy at the speed of light. Not a bad way to travel, all things considered. But understand that there’s no way to be reassembled at the end of that journey.

We could travel very close to the speed of light, but physics makes it pointless.

Scientists studying the behavior of subatomic particles in an accelerator, discovered that as they approached the speed of light, their rate of decay slowed tremendously. That remarkable find led to an understanding called “time dilation.” What that means, essentially, is that if you were on a starship that was traveling at 90% of the speed of light, time for you would slow down enormously, while back home, clocks would continue to tick along at their normal rate. Dr. Carl Sagan in his ground-breaking program “Cosmos” said that time dilation would make a round trip to the center of our Milky Way galaxy doable within a human lifetime.

Such a ship could make that trip, a distance of about 50,000 light years, in about 42 years, as time would be measured aboard the ship. That’s assuming the crew would survive the hard radiation, asteroids, million-degree clouds of gas, and each other. Unfortunately, for those of us left behind subject to the clocks here on earth, about 60,000 years would have passed, the time that separates modern humans from Neanderthals. Even if our intrepid explorers survived the trip, their return would become an encounter between two completely alien cultures.

Of course, that’s assuming there would still be life on earth. Asteroids, comets, gamma-ray bursts, super volcanoes, climate change, and what we could do to each other are all very real possibilities that would cause the end of life as we know it.

Homo sapiens is not the first dominant species on this planet, and almost certainly won’t be the last.

Dr. King and the Revolution of the Heart

 

 

Copyright © 2013 by Ralph F. Couey
Written content only

 

Today, we celebrate a singular holiday.  Out of all those that speckle the calendar, this one is unusual in that it is the only one specifically named for one American.  But in meaning, it is much more.

 

Dr. Martin Luther King was born on January 15, 1929.  He grew to be a minister, earning a PhD from Boston University.  He possessed that singular gift of lyrical oratory, giving life to mere words, delivering them not just to the ears, but to the heart.

 

The American civil rights movement, way overdue, was gathering steam.  In 1955, Rosa Parks refused to give up her seat to a white man.  She was arrested and convicted of disorderly conduct.  What followed was the Montgomery Bus Boycott which lasted 381 days, cost the bus line some 80% of its revenue and only ended when a federal court ordered the bus system to be desegregated.  Dr. King led this protest and brought his name into national prominence.  It was not an easy victory, however.  At it’s height, King’s house was bombed.

 

The bus boycott proved to be the turning point.  Dr. King became the face and the voice of civil rights.  

 

His development included influence by theologian and educator Howard Thurman.  Thurman introduced the young minister to the writings of Mohandas Gandhi, who had turned non-violent protest into a potent weapon against British colonialism.  King, who visited the Indian leader’s birthplace, was profoundly moved by Gandhi’s story.  On his final day in India, he said, "Since being in India, I am more convinced than ever before that the method of nonviolent resistance is the most potent weapon available to oppressed people in their struggle for justice and human dignity.”

 

Back in the United States, King, as leader of the Southern Christian Leadership Council, began to lead a series of non-violent protests.  He and thousands of others marched for African-American’s right to vote, desegregation, labor rights among other issues.  Throughout the south, sit-ins were held at lunch counters that banned blacks.  The protests were non-violent, but directly confrontational, which led to violent reactions by southern whites.  

 

In 1963, the SCLC launched a campaign against segregation and economic injustice in Birmingham, Alabama.  Protests were widespread, but the turning point was when the Birmingham Police Department, led by Eugene “Bull” Connor, turned fire hoses and police dogs loose on the protesters.  Some responded, helped by bystanders who apparently decided they’d seen enough.  The campaign was a success.  The signs of Jim Crow were taken down, and blacks were allowed more access to public places.  King said later, “We know through painful experience that freedom is never voluntarily given by the oppressor; it must be demanded by the oppressed.”

 

"The House is On Fire! What Do We Do?" A Homeowners Survival Guide to Disaster

Copyright © 2008 by Ralph F. Couey

All rights for reprint or reuse reserved by the author.

 

In the summer of 1996, our home caught on fire.  The experience of that night is permanently etched in our memories.  Because we knew what to do, our family, including our pets, got out of the house without injury.  But the days and weeks after that disasterous event were full of moments when we were close to being overwhelmed.  We had no idea what to do, who to call, or how to plan.  I wrote this planning to get it published as a helpful brochure.  Rather than wait for the uncertain tides of publishing companies, I decided to post it here so anyone who needs the benefit of our experience can have it.

 

 

 “Putting the Word “Fire” in “Fireworks”

 

July 3, 1996.  A typically hot and humid day for a Missouri summer.  The sun had set and we had just cleaned up after exploding our ration of fireworks on the driveway and in the street in front of our suburban home.  The kids were upstairs watching television and I went down to our basement bedroom to shower and get ready for bed.  My wife, a Registered Nurse, was at work, having been called in to do an emergency surgery.   

 

I had just stepped into the shower when my youngest began banging on the bathroom door.  I responded with some small irritation.  She was, in the words of her siblings, a drama queen, susceptible to fits of extreme excitement over relatively minor things.  I shut off the water and went to the door to listen.  She yelled that a neighbor had come to tell us that our attached garage was on fire.  I hurriedly dressed and ran upstairs.  My daughter, in her panic, had opened the garage door.  The garage was blazing from the inside and the fire, now supplied with a fresh burst of air was literally exploding in ferocity.  I ran back inside and yelled at the kids to evacuate and to take our pets with them.  I ran to the phone and called 911.  I then made a quick tour of the house, making sure that everyone was out.  By this time, I could feel the heat coming off the living room wall next to the garage.  Realizing that time was running out, I left the house, seeing the relieved looks on the faces of my children.  Outside, the heat was very intense.  I saw that my car was parked on the driveway and remembering that I had just filled the tank with gasoline, I quickly moved the car out onto the street.  I was just in time, since the plastic headlight lenses were already scorched.  A neighbor brought over a 50-lb CO2 extinguisher.  I activated it and began to move towards the fire. But the intense heat prevented me from getting close enough for the fog to have any real effect.  I retreated to the other side of the street and stood among the growing crowd of my neighbors and watched our home burn.  

 

The fire department responded quickly, although it seemed forever before we began to hear the sound of sirens coming down Route K.  The trucks pulled up in front of the house, deployed their hoses and went to work.  They attacked the blaze intelligently and swiftly and it seemed that in a surprisingly short time, they had control of things.  The fire was extinguished and to my surprise, while the two-car garage was a pile of smoking ash, the house had apparently been largely saved.

 

We were lucky.  With me downstairs in the shower and the kids mesmerized by the television, if our neighbor hadn’t been walking his dog and seen the fire through the garage windows, there’s no telling how far along the fire would have gotten before one of us inside would have noticed.  Another thing that saved us was that the garage had been an add-on to the house by the previous owners.  As such, instead of attaching the garage to the house, they built an additional wall.  That double-wall between the garage and the house, and the lack of any direct access (door) from the garage into the living room, kept the fire confined for an additional space of time, enough for us to escape.  In addition, our barbecue grill was sitting on the back deck with a freshly-filled 20 lb propane tank, less than 20 feet from the blaze.  Had that tank exploded, the firefighters assured me, the force of the blast would likely have leveled most of the house and would have put at risk any human within 300 feet.

 

“Shock and Awe”

We stayed with friends that night and the next day, July 4, we drove back over to our house.  Rounding the corner onto our street, the bright sunlight revealed the extent of the damage.  The garage, of course was gone, as was the large satellite dish that had sat on the roof.  The double wall had protected the house, but the fire had eaten through into the attic space and consumed most of the roof.  I belatedly noticed that the trees in front and back had sustained some damage as well.  With no small amount of trepidation, we unlocked the door and went inside.  

Civil War: Events of January 1863

On New Year’s Day, the Emancipation Proclamation went into effect.  On that same day, a naval action, the Battle of Galveston was fought.  Two Confederate ships sailed from Houston to Galveston aiming to engage the Union fleet in Galveston harbor.  One of the southern ships, the CSS Neptune, was severely damaged and eventually sank the other ship, the Bayou City, managed to capture one of the Union vessels.  During the action, the USS Westfield went aground.  The Union commander, William Renshaw, ordered the vessel’s destruction rather than allowing it to fall into enemy hands.  But the explosives went off early, killing Renshaw and several other Union troops.  Ashore, the Union troops saw the explosion and assumed that the Union fleet was surrendering, and therefore laid down their arms.  The rest of the Union fleet withdrew to New Orleans.  This action temporarily lifted the Union blockade and the Confederacy maintained control of this vital port for the remainder of the war.

 

January 2^nd saw General William T. Sherman abandon his attempt to take Vicksburg, MS.

 

On the 4^th, Major General McClernand began to move up the Arkansas River.  Also on that day, President Lincoln and General Halleck order Grant to rescind Special Order 11, which had expelled Jews from Tennessee, Mississippi, and Kentucky.  Also on the 4^th, the USS Quaker City and USS Memphis seized the Confederate blockade runner Mercury while on its way to the Bahamas.

 

January 9-11 saw the Battle of Fort Hindman, also known as Arkansas Post.  Downriver from Pine Bluff, Arkansas, the Southerners had constructed a large fort on a bluff 25 feet above the Arkansas River.  The fort’s purpose was to block the Union Army’s route to Little Rock.  Manned by 5,000 troops, mostly Texas Cavalry, was in a poor state due to disease and a tenuous supply line.  President Lincoln had granted General John McClernand permission to begin an offensive against Vicksburg from Memphis.  McClernand, a highly ambitious man, viewed this as a way to attain both military glory and political gain.  His plan lay at direct odds with the plans of General Grant, Commander of the Tennessee Army.  McClernand ordered General William T. Sherman’s troops to join his in the assault, even though Sherman was under Grant’s command.  With this combined force of 33,000, he attacked Fort Hindman instead of Vicksburg as he had promised Lincoln.  On January 9^th, Union troops began landing and moving upriver. The next day, Admiral David Porter moved his fleet of ironclads into position and began bombarding the fort.  Porters ships completed an envelopment, and with McClernand’s ground attack, forced the Confederates to surrender.  The Southerners lost a fourth of their total number of troops in Arkansas, and was the largest Confederate surrender until the final capitulation in 1865.  Union losses were high and the victory did not contribute materially to the eventual capture of Vicksburg in July.  Because he had lied to the President and disobeyed the orders of all of his superiors, McClernand was recalled and Grant assumed personal command of the Vicksburg campaign.

 

On January 14^th, the CSS Alabama sank the USS Hatteras off Galveston.

 

January 20-22 saw the infamous “Mud March” as General Ambrose Burnside fruitlessly marched the Army of the Potomac through the sludge and slime of Wintertime Virginia in a vain attempt to find another crossing of the Rappahannock.  Three days later, Lincoln fired Burnside and replaced him with General Joseph Hooker.  Called “Fightin’ Joe”, his subsequent failures led a contemptuous Robert E. Lee to refer to him as “Mr. F. J. Hooker.”

 

Also on January 25^th, Union forces withdrew from Corinth, MS where they had been ordered to protect southbound Mississippi shipping.

 

On the 26^th, Lincoln sent a personal letter to General Hooker, warning him that even though Hooker had been given the command, Lincoln knew that Hooker had “thwarted him (Burnside) as much as you could, in which you did a great wrong to the country and to a most meritorious and honorable brother officer.”

 

January 27^th saw another in a string of Naval assaults on Fort McAllister, GA.

 

On January 31^st, the Confederate ironclads Chicora and Palmetto State raided the Union blockade of Charleston Harbor.  Some Union ships were damaged, but the blockade held.

Diabetes and the Curse of the Sweet Tooth*

 

Copyright 2013 by Ralph F. Couey

Written content only

 

*Johnstown, PA Tribune-Democrat

January 14, 2013

as "Sweet Offerings Sour Dining Experience"

 

We're all familiar with the scenario. We've just finished a sumptuous dinner, three courses of artistry and flavor that has filled us to the point that some are surreptitiously loosening their belt.  We are sure that no room remains in the stomach.  We may not have to eat again for two days.

 

 

Then a shiny silver cart is rolled up to the table.  Across it's top are arrayed a dozen or so plates and bowls containing things like cake, fudge, ice cream, or any one of a hundred other temptations.  Suddenly, we find there is room after all.

 

But not for all of us. 

 

For those afflicted with Diabetes, we have to turn away, ignore the plaintive cries of our sweet tooth and decline the offering.  We can't help but feel deprived, not of the food itself, but the pure pleasure of sweetness on the tongue.

 

Diabetes is a growing problem  In the United States. The American Diabetes Association estimates that 25.8 million people have the disease, a figure that includes nearly 8 million undiagnosed cases.  That's about 8 percent of the population, but there are also some 80 million who are termed pre-diabetic, whose blood sugar counts are high but don't yet exceed the gateway count of 120.  Worldwide, the World Health Organization estimates that 366 milllion are afflicted, a figure that is expected to reach 552 million by 2030.

 

Carpe Diem and the Calendar

"Write it on your heart

that every day

is the best day in the year."

--Ralph Waldo Emerson

Copyright © 2013 by Ralph Couey

Except identified quotes.

 

We're a week into the New Year, with all the hoopla and madness of the holiday season behind us.  Christmas lights are going dim and coming down, the trees undecorated.  The boxes of holiday cheer are being packed up and stored again until next December.  Life is returning to normal, albeit with some new possessions to while away the hours of the rest of winter.

 

For many of us, we have acquired some resolutions, based on some perceived flaws or failures in the past.  And like most other years, most of those resolutions, made with such fervor and promise in the early hours of 2013, will die a slow death over the coming weeks.  Life will go on; we will go on without much dramatic change.

 

It's a sad thing to see those promises wither every year.  It's bad enough when we break them to others, but it's far worse when we lie to ourselves.

 

As I've written before, I don't make resolutions until spring.  The return of life to the world around me also sparks a kind of rebirth inside myself, the kind of budding optimism that makes change much easier to accomplish, at least for me. 

 

A calendar is a handy item for keeping track of things.  The year is divided up into weeks, months, and days all laid out in a handy grid format.  Within those squares we jot notes to ourselves about meetings, appointments, birthdays and anniversaries.  It's a kind of short-hand biography, and can provide and interesting window into the past.  In the process of moving, I found a pocket calendar of mine from 1983.  I was in the Navy at the time, and the entries brought back memories of those full days, from mundane checklist items to intriguing remarks like, "Pierside Hong Kong, 13:30." 

The Epidemic of Anger

Photo by Adrees Latif/Reuters

 

Copyright © 2012 by Ralph F. Couey

 Written content only

 

It has already been a worrisome year, a maelstrom of events, economic, political, and meteorological.  For some, it has become a question of survival.  A dark welcome mat has certainly been laid before the doorway leading to an appropriately-numbered 2013.

We were worried about jobs, about money, about war.

Then on Friday morning, all that became irrelevant.

The news flashed across our consciousness that yet another school shooting had occurred. There were probably many like me who saw the headline, sighed and whispered, "Not again."

But in a time when these kind of violent episodes occur far too often, we perhaps have become inured to such news. Then we heard about the death toll.

26 were dead. 20 of them were small children.

All of a sudden, everything changed.

Stolen December Ride

Copyright © 2012 by Ralph Couey

 

Tuesday is one of my regular days off, one I try to reserve for chores, appointments, and riding, weather permitting. Today was chilly (mid-40s), but sunny so I decided to take the bike out for a spin. I plotted an 80-mile course on some roads I hadn’t been on yet, which according to Google Maps should take about three hours. Yes, it is the second week of December, but as long as it was above freezing and not snowing, that’s a reasonably good motorcycle day.

 

In deference to the chill, I dressed carefully, starting with a base layer then jeans and sweatshirt, a pair of heavy sweatpants over the jeans, then my jacket with all the liners in and chaps. Under the helmet I donned a balaclava. The final addition was a pair of heavy lined leather gloves.

 

Even with all those layers, it didn’t take long for the cold to penetrate. Still, the sun felt warm. I went west on US50 to Aldie, VAwhere I picked up the Snickersville Turnpike.

 

This historic route was the first toll road in the United States, opening in 1786. It was part of a longer route that connected Alexandria, VA with Winchester. The section between Aldie and Bluemont (originally Snickersville) is 15 miles of narrow, windy blacktop that passes through both rural farms (all carrying sophisticated names) and dense Virginia forest. At one point it crosses Hibbs Bridge, a short 180-year-old arched span of stone and mortar that roofs Beaverdam Creek. The road terminates at Virginia Route 7, which continues on to Winchester.

 

I took my time, as I always do on new roads. Traffic was pretty much nonexistent, which was good because the scenery was eye-catching. This is part of what is called “Hunt Country, home to large farm estates owned by wealthy families, some of whom have been on the land for two centuries. It is here in the fall when fox hunts are organized and attended by those on magnificent horses, wearing the traditional red coats, cream pants, and tall boots. Tradition is a vital part of this part of Virginia, and the road is lined by those incredible stone fences, the design of which date back to the very beginnings of settlements.

 

A Real Hero

Credit: Facebook/Maria Santos Gorrostieta)

 

Copyright © 2012 by Ralph Couey 

Written content only.

In these days of trial and adversity, we seek heroes, but few step up.  If you’re in need of a hero, I offer one to you.

 

Dr. Maria Santos Gorrostieta Salazar.

 

For several decades, a war has been going on just across our southwest border.  In Mexico, rival drug cartels have been shooting up towns, villages, and each other in a desperate and violent effort to dominate the drug trade.  Some 60,000 people have been slaughtered in this war, and not all of them cartel members.  They have been the number one priority of three Mexican presidential administrations, but endemic corruption and the sheer economic power of the criminals has made the fight an uphill battle. 

 

To the north, the 21 million of America’s citizens who use and abuse drugs have funded the violence, apparently too high to see the bloodstains on their hands.

 

The Mexican state of Michoacán has been one of the eyes of this storm, being home turf to several of the more violent groups.  Politicians and police, outgunned, outmanned, and out-financed, have pursued the path of least resistance, rather than risk the wrath of the drug lords.  Until 2008.

 

Maria Salazar was a physician.  Angered by what was happening to her country, she became involved in politics, winning the election that put her in the Mayor’s chair of the town of Tiquicheo.  She ran on a platform characterized by defiance of the cartels.  She won the election, and less than three months after taking office, she was sent a message.

 

She and her first husband were traveling near a rural community when their car was cut off by another vehicle.  The occupants sprang out, fired guns in the air, and warned her to resign.  Undaunted, she soldiered on.  About a year later, in January 2009, they were attacked, suffering injuries that did not prevent them from carrying on their public lives.  In October of that same year, they were ambushed.  Her husband was killed, and Dr. Salazar was wounded, but feigned death enough to fool their attackers.

 

Using Stats Like a Gumby Doll

On a New Hampshire Jaunt.

Copyright © 2012 by Ralph Couey 

For reasons that still astound me, the admission that I ride a motorcycle nearly always sparks the same response.  The other person dives into a terrible and tragic story of someone they knew who was seriously injured or killed in a motorcycle accident.  I get that there may be an on-going macabre fascination with violent death.  But there are, at last accounting, 10.4 million motorcycles in the United States, a number that increased 58 percent since 1998.  Statistics show that the average rider is a responsible adult who rides straight and sober, has insurance, and rides responsibly.  Yes, I know about the squids.  Despite their high visibility however, riders who actually engage in riding stupid are well in the minority.

 

But that doesn’t stop people from taking pot shots.

 

Fox News Latino published on November 28, an article which reported on a Government Accountability Office (GAO) study that tallied up the costs of death and injuries from motorcycle accidents.  Deftly weaving numbers in and through what was a thinly-veiled hit piece on the motorcycling community, the fair and balanced journalists (who went nameless in the byline) painted a grim picture.  82,000 injuries.  4,502 deaths.  $16.2 billion in direct costs.  

 

The tone and tenor of the writing implicated the motorcyclists themselves as being the sole cause of the entire tragedy.

 

But in this journalistic dance, the authors completely side-stepped what continues to be the most important source of motorcycle accidents.

 

Other drivers.

 

I looked through reports authored by the National Highway Traffic Safety Administration (NHTSA), the Insurance Institute of America, and some state-centric statistical studies.  They all point the finger at the operators of cars, trucks, busses, even riding lawn mowers.  Numbers vary from report to report, but between 66% and 75% of all motorcycle accidents are caused by vehicle operators who either failed to yield the right of way (turning left across the bike’s path, pulling out of parking lots and driveways), or who blew by traffic control signals (stop signs and traffic lights) bursting into intersections.

 

This is not news to anyone who rides.  Every day of our commute, or joyriding in the country contains at least one, if not more tales of motorcyclists narrowly avoiding disaster.  The problem has gotten worse in recent years, due to the explosion of cell phones.  People who used to focus solely on the road now find their attentions divided by talking, texting, checking email, or any of the plethora of tasks now performed by even budget-priced cell phones.

 

The article went on to preach about helmet laws, which I suspect was the real reason for this production.

 

Just so you know, I’ve been riding for over 20 years and I’ve always worn a helmet.  That is my choice.  I respect the rights of others to not wear a helmet, even though I know that they’d be safer.  The old arguments that the weight of a helmet would make cervical injuries more likely were blown up last year when Johns Hopkins published a study which proved that modern helmets with their lighter and stronger materials actually prevent broken necks.

Besides, no helmet ever made is going to protect you at 60 miles per hour when T-boning the bonehead who pulls out from the country lane without looking.

But there are those among us who insist on being our mothers forever.  Oddly, they same demographic that supports Pro Choice in women’s issues is Anti-Choice where helmet laws are concerned.  Some other day we’ll talk about how abortion has killed almost 40 million African-Americans since Roe v. Wade.

 

As far as costs are concerned, $16 billion dollars is a chunk of change.  What the article didn’t point out was that nearly all of that was covered by insurance.  What is also being ignored continually is that 2 million times a year people show up at emergency rooms across the country suffering from “unintended drug overdoses.”  The direct cost associated with the treatment of those patients is $193 billion per year. 

 

And how many stoners do you think have health insurance?

 

There are risks to life inherent in living.  As Al Pacino once said, “You can get killed walkin’ your doggie!”  But hand-wringing never changed a dad-blamed thing.  If people are seriously interested in reducing the incidence of motorcycle death on the streets and highways, do two things:

 

1. Hang up the phone.

 

2. Pay attention.

 

After all, whether on two wheels or four, we’re all travelers just trying to get home. 

Another Piece of Childhood Lost

Picture from Hostess Corp.

 

 

Copyright © 2012 by Ralph Couey

Written content only.

 

Looking back across the years there are always certain things that define eras of one's life.  It may be something like a baseball glove, or a certain shirt; a ticket stub from a concert. Or something that commemorates the moment when we met that person who completely changed our life.  More times than not however, it's food that whets the appetite of rememberance.

 

A couple of weeks ago, a labor-management dispute reached a critical point.  Normally, these events come and go in the news without much outside attention.  But this time, the dispute involved the bakery and confectionary giant Hostess, the maker of things like Ho Ho's, cupcakes, Ding-Dongs, Donettes, and the iconic delight Twinkies.  I won't go into the specifics of the dispute, only to note that management, rather than compromise with the union, committed an act of corporate kamikaze and announced that it would close it's doors forever.

 

The announcement sparked an immediate run on the snack products, especially Twinkies.  A box of a dozen appeared on E-bay for $200,000.  Across the country, shelves of grocery stores and convenience marts were stripped.  In Kansas City, a radio station talk show received donations of several boxes of hostess treats and auctioned them off for charity, garnering almost a thousand dollars for a pile of treats that a week earlier could have been bought for 20 bucks.

 

The nationwide reaction to this news and the instant appearance of hoarders and collectors no doubt pleased retailers.  It became clear that a latent love affair with the golden cream-filled snack cakes had been revealed.

 

On the surface, there would appear to be no good reason to eat these things.  For adults, the amount of sugar and calories make them verboten to those with cardiac and blood sugar problems.  And yet, when an adult eats one, you can see in their face the memories that have returned.

 

Kids can eat just about anything, and usually do, without seeming consequence.  I suppose that's one reason why the affection for Twinkies is so strong.  At that age, it didn't matter how many calories or grams of sugar were in them.  We ate them because...well...we could.

 

And they were so good. 

 

On Friday nights after dinner, our family would make our weekly trek to the grocery store.  I was given the empty soda bottles to return for deposit.  For those, I would receive the astounding total of twenty-seven cents.  That left me the exact amount to buy the latest Superman or Batman comic book for fifteen cents, and a two-pack of Twinkies for twelve.  Thus supplied, I was rendered happy and content.

 

Riding into the Sunset

 

Copyright © 2012 by Ralph Couey

The experience of life can best be summed up as a series of beginnings, middles, and endings. As the years pile up, what changes is that endings begin to outnumber beginnings. Some things are given up simply because we get bored and move on. Others fall by the wayside due to other demands upon our time. This is natural. Time is always in motion; things and people are always changing.

But there are those things we give up because…well, we just can’t do them anymore.

Softball was once my second religion. It was how I spent just about every summer. I can still recall the rising sense of excitement as I walked through the humid Missouri evenings toward the complex of diamonds already lit. I was never a star, but I played hard. The competition was tough and I loved every minute. But as I got older, I grew weaker and slower. Frozen ropes that once leapt off my bat became dying quails. I knew the end was coming, but it wasn’t until I suffered the humiliation of being thrown out at first base by the left fielder that I finally accepted inevitable and hung up my cleats for good.

But there are still times when I can pick up my glove, slip it on, and wait for the aroma of leather, sweat, dirt, and chalk to fill my senses and bring the inevitable flood of memories.

It was in my late 30’s that I discovered motorcycles. In the 20 years since, riding has been my source of joy, freedom, and soul-satisfying inspiration. Although primarily a commuting tool, I’ve done a lot of miles through countless countrysides, mountains, prairies, plains, deserts, and coastlines ranging from 2-hour Sunday jaunts to a 9-day 5,000 mile sojourn through the southwest.

I would tell you that I’m in the middle of this particular activity, but I have to be honest and admit that I can see just over the horizon the sorrowful day when age will force me to lay this aside as well.

I want to make one more long trip while I still can. But a few things will have to happen first.

I have to get a more capable bike. My current ride, a Kawasaki Vulcan 900LT is a great bike for commuting and day excursions. But a lack of luggage capacity and a seat that has all the comfort of a concrete block disqualify this motorcycle for a cross-country tour.

I like the Honda Goldwing, partly because it’s a Honda and therefore will run forever. Mainly though, it’s a known quantity. A few years ago, we rented one and did New England for 6 days. Though relatively gigantic, it was a dream to handle and possessed a perfectly comfortable place to park a tushie for 9 or 10 hours per day.

The passage of many hours contemplating road atlases and gazetteers has resulted in three possible trips.

Time, Life, and That Perfect Moment of Clarity

This road upon which we all travel; this path we call "life"

is one on which we can never see the end.

We cannot know the destination, or the route we must take to get there.

The only thing we can see clearly

is the path that lies behind us;

a past marked by the decisions we have made.

Copyright © 2012 by Ralph F. Couey 

This has been a busy year, to which the reduced production on this website attests.  I lost a job, got a job, moved, sold one house, bought another.  My son, anticipating a possible relocation, is selling his house, and he and his family have moved in with my wife and I.  In the press of these events, I just haven’t had the time to devote to the kind of reflective contemplative writing that I’ve done in the past.  

The election this year left me mentally exhausted and emotionally drained.  As I’ve written before, I was once very passionate about politics, but a course in Critical Thinking, and application of those strict evidentiary processes to the wares of the political marketplace revealed to me the breadth and depth of the blatant lies being sold as fact by both Democrats and Republicans.  I found within myself the startling realization that it no longer mattered to me who won.  I became instead a dispassionate observer, sort of like a visitor to a zoo.  What wore me out was the incessant pounding of my senses with statements I already knew to be false, and the apparent willingness of partisan voters to blindly follow their leaders.

I reconsidered my future over the course of several long motorcycle rides through the lovely and peaceful Virginia countryside.  I am 57 years old.  Over the next 10 to 15 years, I will slowly feel my mental faculties begin to fail.  My circle of awareness, that orb that describes the universe of my concerns, will begin to shrink.  Therefore, it matters little who sits in the White House or who controls the houses of congress.  I will eventually become blissfully unaware of the larger events of the world and stay that way until the time comes for me to board that bus to eternity.

I have a wife who needs my love and concern.  I have children (grown adults, really) whom I love and admire; who still call from time to time and ask my advice.  I have grandchildren whose only desire is to have fun with Grampa.  That’s where my attentions should lie while I still have attention to pay.

One can get so caught up in the routine of life that the passage of time becomes a forgotten thing.  Most people I know have gone through the same experience of waking up one morning and realizing that, as Captain Picard once said, “There are fewer days ahead than there are behind.”  Our bodies have grown stiffer, perhaps more frail.  I’ll never forget the last day I played softball.  I was thrown out at first base by the left fielder.  Going back to the bench, I felt very, very old.  The harsh truth is that things will get worse as the years pass.  I see people in their 70’s and 80’s plodding along the street, if they’re not being rolled in a wheelchair, age having robbed them of their vitality and intellect.  I know now that they are a mirror.  That will be me, all too soon.  

There are two rules about time:

1.  People get old.

2.  No one can change rule Number 1.

Civil War: Events of December 1862

President Lincoln, on the first day of the new congress, December 1^st, proposed three new amendments to the constitution.  The first called for a gradual emancipation of the slaves until 1900.  Secondly, all slaves freed during the war would remain free.  And the third stated that the U.S. would pay for consensual colonization.

 

Following his victory at Cane Hill, Union General Blunt realized his precarious position, 35 miles away from any support.  He ordered reinforcements to march immediately.  He set up defensive positions and waited.  Blunts reinforcements under General Herron, executed an amazing forced march and met Marmaduke’s cavalry south of Fayetteville.  On the morning of December 7^th, Herron’s artillery executed a withering 2-hour barrage that disabled most of the enemy’s artillery and forced the troops to shelter behind a ridge.  Herron decided not to wait for Blunt and began moving forward.  Two regiments were attacked on three sides by Confederate troops killing or wounding half of their numbers.  As Union troops retreated, Confederates charged, tragically straight into the maw of canister fire.  Two more Union regiments charged and were forced back.  Blunt, belatedly realizing that the southerners had moved past his flank, ordered his troops to march towards the sound of the guns.  This they did, ignoring roads and taking the direct path through fields and woods.  The burst out of the woods, surprising Hindman’s troops and driving them back up a hill.  The battle continued, charge, and countercharge, until darkness took the field.  Over the next 36 hours, Blunt reinforced and Hindman was forced to withdraw towards Van Buren, Arkansas.  On the 29^th, Blunt and Herron closed on the Confederate’s sanctuary at Van Buren, forcing the southerners to leave northwest Arkansas, as it turned out, permanently.

 

On December 10^th, the U.S. House passed a bill allowing the creation of the state of West Virginia.

 

The next day, Union forces occupied the city of Fredericksburg.

 

Between December 11^th and 20^th, a Union army under John G. Foster invaded North Carolina attempting to sever the railroad lines into Virginia.

 

Civil War: Events of November 1862

On November 2, Union naval forces tried again to neutralize Ft. McAllister which guarded the approaches to the vital Southern port of Savannah, GA.  This was one of several bombardments that took place until the fort was finally subdued in 1864.

 

Also on that day, General Grant began the first campaign to capture Vicksburg, entering the towns of La Grange and Grand Junction on the 4^th.

 

After the Confederate defeat at bloody Antietam, Union General McClellan failed to follow up the battle by pursuing and possibly destroying Lee’s army.  On November 5^th, McClellan paid the price for that lapse, along with many others, when Lincoln relieved him of the command of the Union Army of the Potomac.

 

November 6^th saw the official election of Jefferson Davis and Alexander Stephens to lead the Confederacy.  James Longstreet and Stonewall Jackson were also promoted to Lieutenant General (3 stars) that day.

 

The next day, the Union Army of the Potomac was given it’s new commander when Ambrose Burnside was appointed by President Lincoln.

 

On November 8^th, Union General Benjamin Butler was relieved of duty in New Orleans due to his brutal treatment of the citizenry.  Nathaniel Banks, the loser at Second Manassas, was appointed in his place.

 

On November 15^th, the first indications of strife within the Confederate administration emerged when Secretary of War George Randolph resigned.  Randolph was incensed at President Davis’ insistence on running the war himself.

 

One of Burnsides’ divisions under Sumner arrived on the north bank of the Rappahannock River opposite Fredericksbug.

 

James Seddon became the new Secretary of War for the CSA on November 21^st.

 

On the 24^th, Joseph E. Johnston, CSA, assumed command of the Department of the West.

 

The Battle of Cane Hill, AR was fought on November 28^th when a Southern force under General John S. Marmaduke moved north attempting to retake ground lost during the Pea Ridge battle earlier in the year.  His opponent, Union General James G. Blunt heard of Marmaduke’s approach and moved south himself.  He caught and surprised the Confederates 35 miles further south than Marmaduke expected.  Blunt, held up by a delaying action fought by Jo Shelby’s cavalry, nevertheless pursued the southerners into the Boston Mountains. 

Looking Up From Despair

Photo by Denny Medley -- US Presswire.

 

Copyright © 2012 by Ralph Couey 

Written content only

A writer never wants to admit to a state of wordlessness. Creative verbiage, after all, is our sandbox, our playground. But attempting to characterize the Chief's Thursday night tilt against the San Diego Chargers is a true test of any wordsmith.

Ugly doesn’t begin to describe it.  Even a stark and simple an expression as that utterly fails to describe what happened at QualCom.

This was beyond ugly. This was morning-after-the-bachelor-party ugly. This was medical-school-hemorrhoid-training-video ugly. This was 2 A.M.-and-the-bar’s-closing ugly.

It was even worse than Chris-Christie-in-a-Speedo ugly.

I’ve been a Chiefs fan for 47 years. What is history for many are memories for me. I was 14 years old on that early January day at Tulane Stadium in 1970, yet it seems as fresh to me as if it had happened yesterday. Every year since has been a renewal of hope dashed by disappointments too numerous to enumerate.

From that brief scintillating stand atop the NFL pyramid, it has been a long trip downhill. And after watching the Chiefs utterly embarrass themselves in front of a national TV audience, as a fan, I think we’ve reached the floor of a very deep canyon.

The relationship between the Chiefs and their Nation of fans has always been one as deeply passionate and devoted as the perfect wedding night. Now, face-to-face with the harsh reality of a completely wasted season, the love is fading. Estrangement may be imminent.

Treasure Hunting in the Junk Drawer

Mom

 

Copyright © 2012 by Ralph Couey

 

 It was a rainy day, one to leave the motorcycle in the garage.  Feeling bored and restless, I decided to tackle my junk drawer. With a sense of adventure, I slid the drawer out and carried it over to the bed, where I had thoughtfully placed a junky towel to protect the frilly-quilty bedspread. I dumped the contents and went to work.

 

I dug through the flotsam, keeping some items, discarding others.  But near the bottom of the pile, I found a folded piece of notepaper. Opening it, I felt my heart skip. 

 

It was a letter from my mother.

 

Mom contracted cancer in the early '70's. But after a very extensive surgery, it seemed she would survive. Six years later, however, the cancer started again, spreading rapidly. She underwent chemo and radiation, but it was too late and on a sad September day in 1982, she passed away. 

 

Between the two illnesses, we were gifted with 6 more years with her. Doesn't seem like much, but during that time she saw both her children get married, and was able to cuddle her grandchildren. 

 

I was in the Persian Gulf when I got the news. What followed was an epic 48-hour journey back home to Missouri, arriving just in time for the funeral.  It was a hectic few days, and before I was able to fully comprehend the event, I was on my way back to my ship.  I had been back aboard about an hour when one of my shipmates brought me my accumulation of mail. In that pile of magazines, newspapers, and letters, was that note.

 

When you lose your mother, a light goes out inside. She was the one who loved us without question or condition. That care and devotion cannot be replaced. As author Erica Jong wrote, “Motherhood cannot finally be delegated. When a child needs a mother to talk to, nobody else but a mother will do.” When you lose her, nothing is ever the same.

 

Civil War: Events of October 1862

October 3rd saw the Battle of Corinth, Mississippi.  Union General William Rosecrans defended this vital rail junction from a series of attacks by a Confederate force under General Earl Van Dorn.  Initially successful, the southerners routed the first line of Union defense, a series of rifle pits dug during the siege of Corinth in April.  On the second day, Union counterattacks repulsed and drove the Rebels back.  But Rosecrans failed to pursue and Van Dorn's force escaped.

On October 5th, Van Dorn's retreating forces were attacked by Union forces under General Edward Ord in Hardeman and McNairy counties in Tennessee.  Ord drove the Southerners back five miles to Hatchie's Bridge, for which this battle was named.  Ord was then wounded and command was passed to General Stephen Hurlburt.  A hot fight developed around the bridge, but Van Dorn's scouts found another ford across the Hatchie River, which enabled them to escape destruction yet again.

Near Lavergne, TN, a Union force under General Negley met and defeated a combined force of Confederates, including General Nathan Forrest's cavalry.  The Rebels stood their ground for 30 minutes, then fled in disorder leaving behind most of their equipment and 175 prisoners.

Near Perryville, KY on October 8th, the South's Kentucky campaign culminated with a tactical victory by General Braxton Bragg over General Don Carlos Buell.  The South won the battle, but Bragg withdrew to Tennessee within a few days.  It was the largest battle fought in Kentucky, and in terms of the percentage of casualties to troops engaged, one of the bloodiest of the entire war.

On October 9th, J.E.B. Stuart circled McClellan's army for a second time.

On October 16th, Ulysses S. Grant assumed command of the Department of Tennessee.

On the 19th, Bragg moved his army through the Cumberland Gap, effectively escaping General Buell, who, allowing Bragg to escape three times, was relieved of command on the 24th.

Samuel Heintzelman relieved Nathaniel Banks of command of Union forces protecting Washington DC on October 26th.