Choosing Not to Play*

*Johnstown Tribune-Democrat, February 14, 2008
as "Not a player in the power game"

Copyright © 2008 by Ralph Couey

“I love mankind! Its people I can’t stand!” This line from one of the many philosophical discussions from the “Peanuts” comic strip illustrates a common burden felt by just about all of us. It doesn’t really matter what we do with our day, whether spent at a job, at home, or school. At some point, we will encounter another human whose sole purpose in life seems to be spreading frustration and infuriation wherever they go. They might be a boss or co-worker, a teacher or fellow student, a stranger on the street, or that disembodied voice emanating from the fourth dimensional hell known universally as “customer service.” Whoever they are, whatever they do, or whatever they say leaves us shaking and red-faced, reduced to a state of primal rage more common to Neanderthal than human.

I became convinced that these are the people who just enjoy being difficult. They have a sadistic streak in them that creates a dark sort of joy when they’ve reduced one of us to a puddle of twitching protoplasm. Their evil is magnified by our apparent willingness to participate. They are perpetually unhappy, and will do everything they can to make sure everyone else is as unhappy as they are. They love to pick a fight and will raise the roof over the most insignificant of issues just so they can eventually walk away from the argument they created with the comfortable feeling that they are no longer alone in their self-imposed misery.

When we give in to people like this, we empower them. When we allow their misery to become our misery, we give them control. We become emotional slaves.

Standing On the Edge: A Near Death Experience

Copyright © 2008 by Ralph Couey

Through the latter part of April of 2003, I had to admit to myself that I wasn’t feeling well. I was tired all the time and was experiencing some twinges of pain in my chest. Like so many others, I lived in a bubble of self-denial. I kept silent, even from my wife, Cheryl. The chest pains became even more acute, to the point where it was difficult to walk any distance at all.

I was working at Caterpillar, doing a job that regularly involved mixing chemicals. Two days after one such mix, I was struck by a really intense bout of pain, which essentially immobilized me. I finally had to acknowledge that something was very wrong. I was driven to Boone Hospital in Columbia, about 30 miles away.

At the Hospital, they did some tests, which turned up negative for chemical exposure. They gave me some steroids and sent me home. The next day, on my way to the company occupational health doctor, the short walk into his office from the parking lot left me collapsed in the waiting area, gasping that my lungs were on fire. I was taken back to the ER. This time, they contacted my regular Doctor, who ordered a CAT scan. The results revealed the presence of six blood clots in my left lung. I was immediately admitted.

After six very long days in the hospital, the medication broke up the clots and I was released We came home on a picture perfect spring afternoon. I remember sitting in a lawn chair in the back yard, while Cheryl puttered around caring for her flowers. The sky was blue, the sun was warm, the breeze soft and fragrant. I sat in the sun-dappled shadows of familiar trees feeling very lucky and thankful to be alive.

Over the next three weeks, however, the chest pain got worse. I suggested to the doctor that perhaps the pleura, the lining of the lung had become inflamed, but he wasn’t buying it. Growing more concerned, he scheduled me for a cardiac stress test.

A Blessing for a Cherokee Wedding

The flag of the Cherokee Nation from Cherokee.org

Now you will feel no rain
For each of you will be shelter to the other

Now you will feel no cold
For each of you will be warmth to the other

Now there is no loneliness for you
For each of you will be a companion to the other.

You are two persons
But there is only one life before you

Enter now into the day of your togetherness
And may your days be good and long together.

This Family Named "Couey"

The de Coucy Coat of Arms

Copyright © 2008 by Ralph Couey

Written content only

Author's Note:

This posting contains all the information I've been able to collect about the Couey family history.  I update this post whenever new data is found.  At the end of the post is a list of the family members in my line going as far back as I have been able to locate.  As you will see, there is a significant gap in the history between roughly 1450 and 1704.  If any reader can help us close this gap, I would appreciate your sharing that information.

Thank you, and enjoy the Family History!

A few years ago, I began to take some interest in my family’s history. It began as idle curiosity, keyed by an argument between my sister and I as to whether we were French or Irish. She preferred France, I preferred Ireland. This idle interest eventually became a fascination. I think it’s perhaps a symptom of upper middle age, since this was about the same time my father began to do research. I guess the fascination lies in discovery, finding mentions of the family name in the oddest places, and reading about individuals interacting with some of the larger events of history.

Another reason lies with the wondrous appearance of grandchildren. While they are very young still, I have come to recognized the responsibility I have to pass along to them some information about their past. For me, discovering the past has help to provide context to my present, and meaning to some of the urges that have driven me through the years.

I realize that there’s nothing more boring than someone else’s family history, but I’ve noticed lately that this blog is getting hits from France and Ireland, where my family has a strong history. So in the interests of providing some information to them…

The earliest mention of my family was out of an obscure French history text written in the early 19th century. The brief item described someone named “de Couey” in northern France around 946 A.D. (or C.E., if you prefer). A few texts describe a fortress of some kind that existed between 900 and 950 A.D., but apparently was destroyed. A castle was built in 1225 on a piece of land overlooking the Ailette River about 17 km north of present-day Soissons. The castle survives today, although it bears the name "Coucy." 

The point at which the name changed is unclear, but different history texts describe men with identical first names and birth/death dates as either "Coucy" or "Couey."  The clan apparently rose to prominence because there are other mentions of various “de Couey’s” and “de Coucy’s” as Knights who led military actions in the 10th, 11th and 12th centuries. One of them, a youngster named Raoul de Couey, who also was known as “Chatelain” (perhaps a title of some kind), was a troubadour who also volunteered to fight with Richard the Lion Heart in the Third Crusade. He met a violent end in 1190 at the hands of Saracens during the Siege of Acre (what is now the port of Haifa, Israel). One of those interesting snippets of history comes from, of all places, a book entitled, “What We Hear in Music” A course of study in Music History, by Victor Talking Machine Company, Mrs. Anne Shaw Faulkner Oberndorfer, 1921:

"Among the twelfth century Troubadours was a French knight, Chatelain de Couey, whose tragic fate has been often a theme for poets, the Ballade of Uhland being founded on his history.

"He loved the wife of another, and realizing his duty, departed for the Crusades, where he lost his life. To comply with his dying request, his heart was embalmed and sent to the fair lady, whose husband intercepted the gift, and it is said caused it to be served to his wife for dinner. After she had unsuspectingly eaten of this gruesome dish, her lord informed her she had eaten the heart of her lover. To this, she bravely replied that as she had consumed that which she most dearly loved she would never again eat of any thing inferior, so she declined all food and shortly after died. The words are:

"You're Eyes Can Deceive You; Don't Trust Them"

Cochise Head Peak, on the SW New Mexico border.   Look carefully.  See the face?

Copyright © 2008 by Ralph Couey

Blanket condemnations are rarely useful. They are the root of prejudice and can be the conveyance by which bad feelings are transmitted widely. The ironic thing is that most times such condemnations are based on emotion and very little on objective fact. This is especially true of the public’s view of the motorcycling community.

It is thus with amusement that I read articles claiming how a rider’s legal choice to not wear a helmet limits the rights of the public at large. Journalists will throw a few carefully selected statistical findings into the article to give their conclusions an air of legitimacy and then fire that cannon into the air.

Now, I’m not a journalist. If you were to give a title to what I do for a living, I guess the closest description would be “research geek.” I’ve done this long enough to know that research has a very real and very dangerous trap. You can dig deep enough to substantiate a pre-conceived notion, or you can dig even deeper to find the truth. The trick is knowing which is which.

Public Schools: Drastic Action for Critical Times

Picture from the Discovery Education website

Copyright © 2007 by Ralph Couey

Written content only

People agree that elements of our Public Schools are broken. Researchers and professionals have offered plans for repairing the system. With the hustle and bustle of the holidays over, and with time hanging heavily on my hands, I thought I’d chime in.

Time: Research regarding unlawful behavior of children and adolescents, including drug abuse, shows that most juvenile offenses occur between the end of school and bedtime. Schools in the U.S. dismiss between 2:20 and 3:30 in the afternoon. It would seem that some kids have way too much time on their hands.

I would suggest extending the school hours to perhaps 5 p.m. and using that time for elective classes that kids would find fun and interesting. Students who are struggling would probably benefit from extra tutoring during this time. Or, with the rise of childhood obesity, organized physical activity, such as intramural sports or classes in dance would keep them active and healthier.

Classes with a point: Every kid is unique. They have their own strengths and interests which should be encouraged. In our society, we have people who want and need college, and others who can succeed just fine without it. Computer scientists and brain surgeons need university degrees. Automotive technicians and carpenters don’t. Yet all four professions are absolutely crucial to our economy. Vocational education needs rejuvenation. It’s relevant and honorable, and needs to be taught. There will always be a need for craftsmen.

Small businesses provide the lion’s share of jobs in our national economy and are the backbone and lifeblood of communities. That hard-won knowledge and expertise of starting and running a small business should be passed along to those with the entrepreneurial spirit. Make it fun, make it hands-on, make it relevant, and students will come in droves.

There should be classes teaching life skills. In one high school, administrators were concerned that no boys were signing up for class called “home economics.” In a stroke of pure genius, they repackaged the course under the title “Bachelor Living,” and suddenly found they had to beat the boys off with a stick. It wasn’t just learning how to cook, but also how to craft and live by a budget, the dangers of credit, how to negotiate for the purchase of a car, how to wash clothes, how to clean house, how to look for an apartment, interview for a job. all the survival skills that a young person needs to know in embarking on their independent lives. Far too many young adults lack those basic tools.

Human Relationships: Bullying has expanded beyond the bathrooms and hallways with the help of technology. IM, cell phone texting, email, and social websites have all been used as platforms for unbelievable cruelty. Kids used to find sanctuary at home. Now, the cruelty reaches behind that door, giving the child a feeling that there is no safe place to go. Every human, regardless of appearance or station in life is deserving of dignity and respect. We are universally horrified by violence; we should be equally horrified by the verbal and physical abuse that has become a daily part of so many kids’ lives.

Uniforms: “Clothes make the person,” the saying goes and nowhere is this more apparent than among students. Clothes separate kids into economic and social classes, and also serve to define criminal activity as well. A uniform could be as elaborate as a coat and tie for boys and dresses for girls, or simply coveralls decorated with school patches, such as the comfortable, affordable, durable, and functional clothing worn by the Navy. Uniformity in appearance promotes unity in the ranks.

Parental involvement: Kids can’t raise themselves. Raising a child is a pro-active, hands-on, full-time task. This includes talking to teachers and being involved at school.

In recent years, researchers have amply demonstrated that the adolescent brain is underdeveloped in those areas of behavior control and risk assessment. Therefore, parents need to hover constantly. Don't be afraid to snoop. Don't hesitate to ask pointed questions. Insist on meeting their friends. Check on them to make sure they've gone where they told you they went. Will they get mad? Sure. Will they hate you? Oh, yeah. But our job is to get them through this time successfully. And alive.

These ideas probably seem drastic. But these are dangerous times. Deluding ourselves into ignoring things has only made things worse. We’re in danger of losing our kids. We should, therefore, lose our fear of drastic change.

Their future is, after all, our future as well.

Castle of Dromore

The Castle of Dromore, apparently from the Maloney family collection. Posted on various websites without attribution

A haunting traditional Irish lullabye. To satisfy the curiosity of the purists, yes, I composed and added the second verse. This follows the version sung by Kate Power.

The October winds lament around the castle of Dromore
Yet peace lies in her lofty halls, my loving treasure store
Though autumn leaves may droop and die, a bud of spring are you

Sing hush-a-bye loo, low loo, low lan
Hush-a-bye loo, low loo

Come to me and rest peacefully in the Castle of Dromore
The fears of night the gates deny, safe in loving arms you’ll lie
Though the night be cold and the lonely winds blow, the Angels watch over you.

Sing hush-a-bye loo, low loo, low lan
Hush-a-bye loo, low loo

Dread spirits all of black water, Clan Owen's wild banshee
Bring no ill wind to him nor us, my helpless babe and me
And Holy Mary pitying us to Heaven for grace doth sue

Sing hush-a-bye loo, low loo, low lan
Hush-a-bye loo, low loo

Take time to thrive, my ray of hope, in the gardens of Dromore
Take heed, young eaglet, till thy wings are feathered fit to soar
A little rest and then the world is full of work to do
A little rest and then the world is full of work to do

Sing hush-a-bye loo, low loo, low lan
Hush-a-bye loo, low loo

The October winds lament around the castle of Dromore
Yet peace lies in her lofty halls, my loving treasure store
Though autumn leaves may droop and die, a bud of spring are you

Sing hush-a-bye loo, low loo, low lan
Hush-a-bye loo, low loo

Sing hush-a-bye loo, low loo, low lan
Hush-a-bye loo, low loo

Remember

Flight 93 Memorial
Shanksville, Pennsylvania

Heroism is latent in every human soul, however humble or unknown.

In great deeds something abides. On great fields something stays.

Spirits linger, to consecrate the ground.

And reverent men and women from afar, and generations that know us not,

shall come to this field to ponder and dream;

and the power of the vision will pass into their souls.
--Joshua Lawrence Chamberlain

October Days*

*Johnstown Tribune-Democrat October 14, 2007
as "October is a time that awakens some souls"

Copyright © 2007 by Ralph Couey

There is no season when such pleasant and sunny spots
may be lighted on, and produce so pleasant an effect on
the feelings, as now in October.
- Nathaniel Hawthorne

Everyone has a favorite time of the year, something in a season that touches us in a deeply personal way.

Spring is it for many, because of the sense of new life and renewal. It is a return to the open feeling of blue skies and sunshine after a long winter indoors. Flowers begin to bloom and the healing warmth of the sun sinks deep into the bones.

For others, summer rules. The days are long and warm and everything is green and growing. It’s a time when the memories of childhood are born. People enjoy the “good tired” of a day of hard work or play. Family vacations produce high adventure and the enjoyment of just being together. And in the evenings, folks relax on front porches, enjoying cold lemonade and good conversation in the long, purple twilight.

Winter lights the fire in some of us, with the beauty of snow, on the ground sparkling like a field of diamonds in the bright sun, or falling in huge, soft flakes from leaden skies. It’s a time of holidays, families gathered amongst love and lights. Sledding, skiing, even hiking fills the short days. And afterwards, the magic of a fireplace, hot cocoa, and the One you love sharing long, intimate evenings.

For me, autumn is the time when my spirit comes alive. Having grown up in Missouri, summer was a time to be endured. From mid-June through mid-September, temperatures regularly soared into the 90s and beyond, accompanied by humidity that had to be felt to be believed. In mid-September, when the first fingers of Canadian cool pushed away the heat, we celebrated.

9/11: Making it Personal*

Firefighters carry Father Michael Judge from the rubble.

Photo credit: Reuters.

*September 11, 2007 Johnstown Tribune-Democrat
as "On this day, remember life's fragility"

Copyright © 2007 by Ralph Couey

“Time is passing. Yet, for the United States of America, there will be no forgetting September the 11th. We will remember every rescuer who died in honor. We will remember every family that lives in grief. We will remember the fire and ash, the last phone calls, the funerals of the children. “

“Now, we have inscribed a new memory alongside those others. It’s a memory of tragedy and shock, of loss and mourning. It’s also a memory of bravery and self-sacrifice, and the love that lays down its life for a friend–even a friend whose name it never knew. “
- President George W. Bush, December 11, 2001

These words spoken by President Bush will be echoed by many on this day. Six years ago, in the space of 2 hours, the world was changed; our nation was changed; we were changed. 9/11 has become a watershed event in history, defining two separate worlds – the one before, and the one after.

For the world, the memory of that day is a shocking visage of death and destruction unparalleled in modern human history. For Americans, the attacks were more than the sum total of damage and loss of life. Collectively, our myth of invincibility, our illusion of invulnerability, our delusion of safety was shattered.

But in the midst of the death and destruction of that day, a great light broke through. The darkness was dispelled, illuminating this nation from border to border and sea to sea. We, the people of the United States found our unity. For a few brief, precious moments in time, we stood shoulder to shoulder; arm in arm. We spoke with one voice. We felt with one heart. We proved to the rest of humanity, and to ourselves, that the phrase "United We Stand" is not mere words, but the singular defining element of what it truly means when we say "We Are Americans." And the world stood back in awe.

“Wisdom enters through the wound,” and in examining the harsh lessons learned, changes since have been made, and our ability to respond has improved. It is perhaps important to note that since September 11th, 2001, over 9,000 terror attacks have occurred worldwide.

But not one on American soil.

Fairness Is As Fairness Does*

Rush, from the DittoCam

*Johnstown Tribune-Democrat 7/12/2007

Copyright © 2007 by Ralph Couey

Recently, the rumblings of support for the so-called “fairness doctrine” have begun to surface. The goal, according to the proponents, is to somehow legislate into existence some kind of counter to the 900-pound gorilla known as conservative talk radio. Air America Radio was intended to be that agent of balance, but despite the infusion of millions of George Soros money and the Star Power of Al Franken, it has been unable to gain nationwide traction with listeners or advertisers. AAR has lost several stations and last October filed for bankruptcy.

Faced with this failure and the continuing strong growth of conservative talkers like Limbaugh, Hannity, Beck, and Savage, progressives seem intent on legislating what the free market failed to deliver.

The Fairness Doctrine was adopted by the FCC in 1949 in a time when frequencies were limited and the Commission was being flooded by license requests for new stations. In 1949, media outlets were considered “public trustees,” instead of private businesses. As the Museum of Broadcast Communications explains, “…broadcasters should make sure they did not use their stations simply as advocates with a singular perspective. Rather, they must allow all points of view. That requirement was to be enforced by FCC mandate.” (http://www.museum.tv/archives/etv/F/htmlF/fairnessdoct/fairnessdoct.htm)

“A Serious man; to be treated with respect…”

Kansas City Star 6/24/2007

Copyright © 2007 by Ralph Couey

Larry Johnson’s frank interview with Jason Whitlock has predictably raised eyebrows, and in some cases, hackles among the Chiefs Nation. Part of the reaction has to do with the usual response that a blue collar fan base has when a perceived millionaire complains that he’s not making enough money. The other reaction has to do with Johnson’s brutal pragmatism toward the profession, or game, where he earns his keep.

Up till now, we fans have expected to hear the language of cold, calculating business emanating from the front offices. Oh, we hear the platitudes about the value of a particular player to the organization and the community, but I think we all realize that the people who run these teams at times look at their locker rooms with the same coldly appraising eye used by a cattleman eyeing his herd. Now we hear those same coldly calculating words, only it’s coming from a member of the herd.

Larry Johnson is an anomaly. There really hasn’t been anyone like him for quite some time. “He runs angry” is the description we hear most often. Although he has nice moves for a big man, he is never afraid to take on a linebacker, daring the opponent to stop him. Christian Okoye was also a big, bruising runner. But to the press and public he was always “a nice guy.” LaDanian Tomlinson is a “nice guy.” Emmit Smith was a “nice guy.” Johnson, in contrast, is the dark side of The Force. He is Darth Vader, saying, “I find your lack of faith disturbing” to coaches who suddenly feel short of breath.

The Worst Hard Time*

Black Sunday

Dodge City, Kansas

Ford County Historical Society, Dodge City, KS

*Book Review, Amazon.com

Copyright © 2007 by Ralph Couey

Written content only

The Dust Bowl.

Those words describe a catastrophic era in American history. More than that, they convey a sense of hopelessness, the oppressive cloud that drifted through the lives of people already laid low by the depression. The years between 1930 and 1938 saw record drought and heat, this on the heels of wild undisciplined land management, saw the soil of the central plains take flight on the winds, and along with the soil, the dreams and hopes of the people.

As the greatest generation ages and passes from this life, the memory of those years has begun to fade from our collective consciousness. Today, when people think of The Dust Bowl, they think of an unparalleled assault on humans by nature. Very few understand that the cause lay mostly with poor farming techniques and speculation agriculture that left the soil open to the incessant winds. And fewer still can speak with any intelligence of the cost in human lives.

Timothy Egan, a reporter for the New York Times authored a book entitled “The Worst Hard Time.” It is a history of those years, true. But Egan goes deeper into the human tragedy and at the end of his 312 pages the reader not only understands the historical events, but acquires a seemingly personal relationship with the individuals and families who were made to suffer.

The Darkest Part of Night*

*Johnstown Tribune-Democrat, April 16, 2009

Copyright © 2007 by Ralph Couey

When the phone rings at 2:30 in the morning, it’s never good news. It's not the lottery or prize patrol. Nobody is calling to salute your character or stroke your ego.

Most of us have experienced it; that moment when we are yanked unceremoniously out of what was a deep, restful sleep by the jangling sound of that accursed marvel of modern technology. For a moment, you are disoriented, caught between dream and reality. Then, startled to full wakefulness, you lunge for the nightstand and fumble for the handset. Usually, it's a wrong number. After a brief conversation you hang up, drop an expressively colloquial bomb or two, and go back to sleep.

But, life is uncertain and fragile. And one dark night, a disembodied voice turns your life upside down. On the other end might be a child in trouble, a relative sick or dying.

Or, a police officer steeling himself for the delivery of some very bad news.

Finding a Future*

The next generation; from the eCycle website

*Johnstown Tribune-Democrat 6/8/2007
as "Technology, peace go hand in hand"

Copyright © 2007 by Ralph Couey

Written content only

It used to be fun to sit back and contemplate the future. I remember with great clarity those Popular Science and Popular Mechanics magazine covers from the late ‘50’s predicting that the 21st century would be a technological Disneyland, a life free from the mundane and stressful, having conquered poverty, racism, and a host of political and social problems. Those gleeful futurists wrote with great flourish about automated homes, controlled weather, and every husband commuting to work in his private helicopter, leaving behind a picket-fenced Eden in the country.

These were quaint visions, the Leave It To Beaver culture recast into the Wi-Fi age. Of course, reality has been far crueler.

The loss of innocence began with the ‘60’s; lost even more luster during the gas crisis of the ‘70’s and culminated in the soul-draining drug-fueled glitz and glamour of the ‘80’s and ‘90’s. We’ve seen violence and poverty explode across the globe and our own country become the torn field of a political and ideological battle, a war waged with a hateful ferociousness unequaled since the Civil War.

Against that background, it probably shouldn’t surprise us that our view ahead has become universally gloomy and pessimistic. The future, once a place of gleaming technology and bucolic lifestyles now is populated by visions of conflict, disaster, and privation. Now we have people predicting that our planet has only five years left. And while I’m inclined to doubt short-term predictions that are cast in round numbers, there is nonetheless the distinct feeling that time is indeed running out.

Consolidation and the Dead Horse*

Picture from the Johnstown Convention and Visitors Bureau

*Johnstown Tribune-Democrat 5/25/2007
as "Wanted: True leaders not afraid of consolidation"

Copyright © 2007 by Ralph Couey

At times we are compelled by mysterious forces unknown to us to engage in a seemingly futile exercise colloquially referred to as “beating a dead horse.” With all respect and apologies to the equine enthusiasts among us, here we go.

Consolidation. I can hear those groans already. I know these arguments have been put forward again and again, always seeming to find them shattered on the rocks of politics. I can’t help but notice that those who campaign the hardest against the idea are the ones who stand to lose their personal slice of the political pie. But, I digress…

I could talk about how consolidation would level the tax burden on homeowners throughout the area.

I could talk how the patchwork of municipalities and governments, laws and regulations do more to drive businesses away.

I could talk about how that lack of opportunity is hemorrhaging the valley’s population.

I could point out that Balkanization (the subdivision of a country/county/city into small isolated units) never creates prosperity or economic growth.

I could talk about having one fire department, one police department, and one municipal government is inherently more efficient and less costly than maintaining the 10 or 15 in place now.

I could talk about a lot of things, but those are arguments that have been made ad nauseum, arguments to which people here seem intent on turning a deaf ear, seemingly happy with maintaining the status quo. Look, history is a good thing; heritage is a good thing. But hanging on to outdated and outmoded things just because it’s always been that way is not a good thing. It’s like insisting on wearing a cast on your leg months after the bone has healed. All you end up doing is weakening the leg.

The Circle of Life*

Crystal and Andy, glowing.

*Johnstown Tribune-Democrat April 29, 2007

as "Another family is created in circle of life"

Copyright © 2007 by Ralph Couey

There are certain events that, as they occur in our lives, serve as markers, signaling the end of one thing and the beginning of another. Graduations, marriage, births, and deaths are some of the events that mark the passage of time.

On a certain weekend in early April, I found myself in a church standing in front of a couple, a young man in a rented tuxedo and a young woman in a long, white gown. The young woman was my daughter and it was my responsibility that day to seal the covenant of love between them.

A minister (or priest, or rabbi) is someone who becomes intimately familiar with life-changing events, since we seem to be involved in so many of them, both joyful and sad. We officiate at weddings and funerals, baby blessings, we conduct spiritual counseling during troubled times, occasionally contributing prayer at a graduation. We spend a lot of time in close proximity to the raw edge of human emotions, so it becomes our duty to always be the source of serenity in the face of life’s storms.

As anyone who has been a part of one can attest, the run-up to a wedding is a maelstrom of events, often seeing the ship of careful planning founder on a storm-tossed sea of the unplanned, unpredictable, and unavoidable. Sometimes, the wedding itself almost seems a let-down after the muss and fuss of the final few days. Some late RSVP’s led to a renegotiation with the reception caterer and the inexplicable bankruptcy of the restaurant where the rehearsal dinner was supposed to take place added to the general chaos.

I did my best to be that rock for everyone else, despite suffering from my one and only cold of the entire winter. But on that day, as I faced my daughter and her husband-to-be, I found myself to be struggling with emotions of my own.

When Tomorrow Starts Without Me

This picture of Chris Carstanjen was taken by an as-yet-unidentified member of the Internet Pacific Coast Riding Club (IPCRC)

Christoffer Carstanjen, a beloved member of the Honda Pacific Coast Motorcycle Community, left Boston on a sunny morning bound for the West Coast to join the annual Pacific Coast Highway ride.

His flight was United Air Lines 175.

The date was September 11, 2001.

When Tomorrow Starts Without Me

By David M. Romano, adapted by Margaret Tait & Rick Elderkin

When tomorrow starts without me, And I'm not there to see,
If the sun should rise and find your eyes, All filled with tears for me,
I wish so much you wouldn't cry The way you did today,
While thinking of the many things, We didn't get to say.

But when tomorrow starts without me, Please try to understand,
That an angel came and called my name, And took me by the hand,
And said my place was ready, In Heaven far above,
And that I'd have to, thru a tragedy Leave those I dearly love.

But now I've walked through heaven's gates, I feel so much at home.
When God looked down and said to me, From his golden throne,
“Today your life on earth is past, But here it starts anew.
This is life eternal and all I've promised you,

Here there’s no tomorrow, But today will always last,
And since each day's the same day There’s no longing for the past.
You have been so faithful, So trusting and so true,
Though, at times you did some things, You knew you shouldn't do,

But you have been forgiven
And now at last you're free,
So won't you take my hand now
And share eternity with me?”

So when tomorrow starts without me, Don't think we're far apart,
For every time you think of me, I'm in your loving hearts.
So ride the roads without me And see what I can see
I'll be right there beside you In peace and harmony

But remember me from time to time And speak to me at night
When you sit in solitude in the glow of soft starlight,
Tell me all your journeys And where they've taken you
So I may share the happiness And thrills life has for you

The world will smile upon us as we journey here and there,
And freedom lays it’s blessings for we are without cares.
Go ride for peace; Go ride for joy; never asking why,
For tomorrow starts without me, with the sunrise in the sky.

The Power of 5

The Purest Swing.

(From the Internet without attribution)

Copyright © 2007 by Ralph Couey

Written content only

One Friday morning, I sat down at my desk, flipped on the computer and surfed over to the Kansas City Star’s website. After a cursory glance at the headlines, I drilled down to the sports page to see the image of George Brett at spring training. Not that such a picture is unusual. Every year since he retired, Brett has gone to Florida in the spring, laced up the spikes and pulled on the jersey with the familiar number 5. I’ve also seen pictures of George in a suit and tie, but somehow the sight of this leathery-faced warrior wearing a Royals jersey is the one that fits him the best.

The Royals have been a major league franchise since 1969. I can still remember the excitement of that first year at Old Municipal, the clean look of blue and white erasing forever the taint of another team in garish green and gold that foundered in the American League basement until they left Kansas City, moved west and began winning World Championships. The Kauffman’s were a breath of fresh air; they looked like everyone’s favorite grandparents. They loved their city, they loved their fans, and they loved their team, smothering it with a sincere care and nurturing that helped the Royals mature into an early contender.

Despite the giddy excitement of those first few years, one could arguably make the point that history of the Kansas City Royals really began in 1973. That was the year that a young tobacco-chewing Californian with untamed hair and a reckless disposition donned a Royals uniform for the first time. Over the next 21 seasons, George Brett and the Royals would make history. Once he retired in 1993, the team receded into history. New York fans will always remember Joe DiMaggio, another number 5, as the Quintessential Yankee. Likewise for Royals fans, George Brett was not just a Royals player; for almost all of us, he was the Royals. And 13 years after his retirement as a player, he still is the face, and the heart of Royals baseball.

In Consideration of Grandchildren

Copyright © 2007 by Ralph Couey

I’ve been watching my grandson for the past few weeks, marveling at his exploration of his still-new world. One of the things that fascinates me is the speed at which he learns. Of course, every grandparent thinks their grandbaby is brilliant. And I’m sure they all are. But, every day, he has learned something new. 

Human children are unique, in that they are born completely helpless. But they have the capacity to rise to the position we all hold as the most advanced lifeform on the planet. To me, that is an amazing thing. Even a monkey is born with far more strength, agility, and independence, but at the end of his life the only thing he’s accomplished is to swing from trees and eat bananas. And although I’ve had days where I wished all I had to do was swing from trees and eat bananas, I know that we humans alone of all of teeming life on Earth, have the intelligence, capacity and the ability to change our world.

As a father, I am familiar with the sensations of holding a new baby, that moment where we look at this tiny little human and ask, “Where will you go? What will you do? Where will your life take you?” And in that moment felt the weight of heavy responsibility.

The Meaning of Meaningless Death*

*Saint's Herald May 2008

Copyright © 2007 by Ralph Couey

1 Peter 3:18 For Christ also hath once suffered for sins, the just for the unjust, that he might bring us to God, being put to death in the flesh, but quickened by the Spirit.

John 11:25-26 I am the resurrection, and the life: he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live: And whosoever liveth and believeth in me shall never die.

"If there is a God, why does he allow all the suffering in the world?"

The eternal question; the stumbling block most Christians run into when trying to explain God. It is also the attitude of many who have suffered the untimely loss of a family member or friend. It is the question that intrudes into the consciousness of even the most devout believer when confronted with the awful reality of violence and cruelty. It is the question that haunts me when reading reports of the unspeakable tortures inflicted on innocent people during the Rwandan civil war, the diamond wars in West Africa, and over 100 million people worldwide put to death by regimes of oppression and aggression throughout the history of civilization.

The easy, quick answer is that God doesn’t allow such suffering; we allow it. God’s gift to us of free will and agency puts the responsibility for controlling such acts squarely on the shoulders of humans, both individually and collectively. Although succinct, such cold logic fails to embrace the larger picture.

9/11: This Generation's Waterloo*

Photo by Thomas E. Franklin, The Bergen Record, Passaic, NJ

*Johnstown Tribune-Democrat September 8, 2006

Copyright © 2007 by Ralph Couey

Written content only, except for song lyrics

“Have you forgotten

How it felt that day

To see your homeland under fire

And her people blown away?

“Have you forgotten

When those towers fell

We had neighbors still inside

Goin’ through a living hell?”

– DARRYL WORLEY

Sept. 11, 2001.

No one needs to explain the date or how our lives were changed on that late-summer morning. On this, the fifth anniversary of the most devastating attacks on American soil, a tragedy seared into our minds by the clarity and immediacy of television, the memories should still burn bright. There were comparisons to another day of infamy, the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor, on Dec. 7, 1941. But beyond the most obvious parallel, the two events have very little in common.

The immediate aftermath of both attacks left a shocked and angry nation eager for retaliation. In the case of World War II, that passion sustained Americans through 41/2 years of combat. Despite the early setbacks and the mounting casualties, Americans remained resolute, unwilling to accept any result short of victory. As evidence, I cite the public and political outcry that resulted in 1945 when President Harry Truman indicated in one of his communiqués to Japan that the Allies would not insist on deposing the emperor, long the symbol of the Asian nation’s aggression, as a condition of Japan’s surrender. Through their protestations, the American people made it clear that not only did they want Japan defeated, but they wanted its military-run government dismantled. This stalwart stance was rewarded. The emperor, seeing no hope of a negotiated settlement in the united will of the American people and the Allies, ordered the Japanese Imperial Government to accept the Allies’ terms.

But 60 years later, the change is starkly dramatic.

Troops Outrank Career for this Aussie Singer*

(Unattributed photo)

*Johnstown Tribune-Democrat 12/3/2006

Copyright © 2007 by Ralph Couey

Written content only

As we go through our lives, we hear a lot of songs. But every once in a while, we happen across one that strikes a chord deep inside. That happened last week when I heard for the first time an Australian country singer named Beccy Cole.

She apparently is popular in the land of Oz, or was until last year when she made a Christmas visit to Aussie troops stationed in Iraq. Some of her fans were outraged by this act, equating the visit as an endorsement of the war itself.There were even a couple of public events where her CDs and posters were burned.

One can imagine, knowing the fragile egos and insecurities of most performers, what her response could have been, ranging from public anger to abject apology – anything but firmly standing her ground.That certainly is what we’ve come to expect from her American counterparts.

But instead of a public rant, Cole’s response was measured, mature and adult. She wrote a song called “Poster Girl.” Its heartfelt lyrics express a certain sadness about the divide between her and some of her fans. But they also firmly state her belief that regardless of a person’s stance on war, supporting the troops is the right thing to do.

Cole would much rather be a poster girl for troops fighting for freedom than for the self-indulgent and self-absorbed back home.

It Will Always Be a Field of Dreams*

Camden Yards

*Johnstown Tribune-Democrat, April 3, 2008

*Ada, OK Evening News, April 4, 2008
as "Signs of new life, and baseball, spring forth"

Copyright © 2007 by Ralph Couey

Green grass; blue sky; soft breezes. The sunshine caresses the shoulders with gentle, welcome warmth. All around us, life is springing forth. The tree branches, once so stark in their winter outlines now seem a bit fuzzy with the buds of future leaves, dappling the sunlight as their shadows dance with the winds. The grass loses its monochromatic dullness to the richly verdant green of new growth.

In our homes, the windows, for so long locked tight against winter’s relentless cold, are joyfully thrown open, the soft breezes dispelling the months of mustiness and gloom. It’s time to be outside; the spirit awakens; smiles come easily.

It is the season in which we are drawn to lovely green diamond-shaped fields. There, we breathe deep and smell the familiar earthy aromas of dirt, leather, and chalk.

Winter is over; spring is here. Baseball is back.

To the purblind and the visionless, it is only a game. But, for the rest of us, it goes much deeper.

Baseball is a game meant to be played under clear skies and sunshine. It is spring and summer, freed from the clock-driven tension of the other sports. And although there are moments of excitement, most of the time the mood is easy, even pastoral. As one wag described it, “6 minutes of excitement squeezed into two-and-a-half hours.”

There is a timeless element to this game. Each day is longer and warmer. The long season renders yesterday’s loss a forgotten memory replaced by the eternal hope of tomorrow. It is of the moment, yet firmly linked to a nostalgic past and an unquenchable hope for the future.

The Ballpark is a sanctuary, one of those increasingly rare places where we’re shielded from the grinding complexities of the world. We can lose ourselves in the sun, the sky, and the game. No one’s said it better than James Earl Jones in the iconic movie “Field of Dreams::”

Tornados and You

Picture from NOAA

Copyright © 2007 by Ralph Couey

Written content only

Information for this article was taken primarily from “The Tornado” by Research Meteorologist Thomas P. Grazulis, who is the director of The Tornado Project, a private research and archive organization. Additional data was taken from the websites for the National Oceanographic and Atmospheric Administration (NOAA), The National Severe Storms Laboratory, and the National Weather Service.

Tornados are nature’s most violent windstorms. Born of powerful thunderstorms called supercells, their powerful winds and unpredictable nature pose a very real threat to life and property. According to the National Weather Service, the U.S. gets more tornados than any other country, around 1,200 per year. And while most seem to occur in Florida and the swath of Midwestern states known as ‘Tornado Alley,” all 50 states have experienced these storms. Anywhere supercell thunderstorms can form, the threat for tornados exists.

Hurricanes, in comparison, are enormous storms, covering thousands of square miles. But even the winds of the most powerful hurricanes ever recorded, Camille in 1969 and Allen in 1980, both 190 mph, were equal only to a medium-sized tornado.

The question of how and why tornadoes occur is still being investigated. Scientists know there are conditions within supercell storms common to tornado formation, but as to exactly what the actual trigger mechanism is, no one yet knows. Some supercells might spawn several tornados, while others with measurably identical parameters won't even form a single wall cloud.

Identifying and understanding that trigger mechanism also holds the key to determining how long a particular tornado might stay on the ground. Some have only touched down for a few minutes, while others might roar across the landscape for an hour or more. The infamous Tri-State Tornado of 1925 was reportedly on the ground for an incredible 219 miles across parts of Missouri, Illinois, and Indiana, leaving in its wake F-5 level damage and 619 dead. In recent years, meteorologists have begun to doubt that this was actually one tornado. In 1998, storm spotters recorded on video one instance where, as one tornado dissipated, another formed and strengthened within the same wall cloud. Although there were two separate twisters, the resulting damage path was uninterrupted. Some researchers suspect that this mechanism was at work in that Tri-State storm.

No one, not even an expert can rate a tornado by looking at it. There's simply too much variability in the twister's appearance to make such an assessment reliable or accurate. Tornados are rated according to the Enhanced Fujita Scale, which gauges storms based on a comprehensive damage assessment done after the tornado has passed. Such damage to a well-constructed frame home can range from shingles and windows for an EF-0 to complete obliteration in an EF-5.

The Town Too Tough to Die*

*Johnstown Tribune-Democrat 2/25/2007

Copyright © 2007 by Ralph Couey

The sun was sliding towards the horizon, its butter-colored rays beginning to cast long shadows as I motored up the winding road from Sierra Vista. The sunlight, passing through the prism of dust on the horizon, painted the desert in a myriad of beautifully subtle hues. Cresting the last hill, I entered the legendary town of Tombstone, Arizona.

Tombstone began life as a mining camp in 1879, when early prospectors began mining high-grade silver. In less than two years, the town boomed, bringing in elegant hotels and fancy saloons. Within a few short years, however, the boom went bust. The price of silver fell from $123 to less than $10 per ounce and the mines flooded when the aquifer was breached at 560 feet. The mines could no longer turn a profit, so investors pulled out, businesses failed, and people left, leaving behind a dying community. But the Tombstoners who stayed were made of stronger stuff. The “Town Too Tough to Die” survives today on the strength of an epic tale.

In October 1881, a political crisis in Tombstone climaxed when the leaders of two factions faced each other across the narrow confines of a small empty lot called the OK Corral. On one side were the Clantons and the McLaureys, fronting The Cowboys, a loose band of rustlers and robbers who controlled the county government and the courts. On the other side were three lawmen named Earp and a tubercular dentist named Holliday, professional gamblers all, backed by the town’s business interests. In a flurry of gunshots over a few seconds of time, men died and legends were born, searing the name of Tombstone into the annals of history.

"Killing Rage"*

The late Eamon Collins
Unattributed photo from the Internet

An IRA soldier
(unattributed photo)
*Book Review: Amazon.com

Copyright © 2007 by Ralph Couey
Written content only

“KILLING RAGE” By Eamon Collins
Reviewed By Ralph Couey

“Killing Rage” vividly recounts the compelling personal journey of Eamon Collins through the violent morass of Northern Ireland politics; the evolution from committed Republican, to terrorist, to an activist for peace.

For most Americans, the dominant impression of the war in Northern Ireland would be a confused mélange of news video images, reports of exploded bombs, and dead women and children. With little exception, the violent tactics of the Irish Republican Army have met with universal condemnation. Even a basic understanding of the roots of the conflict and the reasons for its perpetuation would prove quite beyond the ability of most to recount. For the first time, however, the words and passion of Eamon Collins provide an honest, if chilling account of his involvement in the conflict as a member in various capacities of the Provisional Wing of the Irish Republican Army between 1978 and 1987.

The book opens abruptly and brutally with a detailed description of Collins’ first operation in December 1978, the killing of Major Ivan Toombs of the Ulster Defense Regiment (UDR). As Collins works to gather intelligence on his target he takes us through the process of dealing with a very human conflict::

“For me, the more I found out about him, the more admirable I found him. I liked him and felt that in other circumstances we might have been friends.” (Page 20)

“...to strike at Toombs was to strike at an ancient colonial system of elites. Killing Toombs would also be a symbol of our dogged resistance to inequality and injustice...” (Page 23)

“He was an idea, a force, not a person with a face. He had no humanity for me.” (Page 17)

This apparent moral conflict occurs repeatedly throughout the book in Collins’ continual debates with himself over the effectiveness of political violence. Collins also spends some time discussing the roots of the Irish conflict, which began as a growing dislike between the Protestant majority and his Catholic minority, which he characterizes as “... (The) Catholic underclass, marginalized, on the periphery of society, jobless, poorly educated, powerless and voiceless.” (Page 12) Students of the American Civil Rights Movement might recognize some clear parallels between life as a Catholic in Northern Ireland and life as an African-American in this country. Indeed, Collins recounts several incidents during both his and his parent’s childhood of acts of discrimination and outright violence committed against Catholics by Protestant civilians, police, and military. As might be expected, this violence went largely unpunished. It was out of this atmosphere of hate that the Republican movement gained strength. Over time, however, it changed from just a civil rights movement to “...a very ultra-left kind of Marxism.” Collins continues,

Boomers and Aging*

The Author at Deal's Gap

*Johnstown Tribune-Democrat, May 28, 2008
as "Seize the day - Live life to the limits"

Copyright © 2007 by Ralph Couey

Turning 53 can be one of three things: A day of celebration, a day of mourning, or just another day. On my last birthday, my brother-in-law called and with his usual Aussie bluntness asked, “Well, do you feel old?” My reply was that since my hair was still dark and largely all there, while his is snow white and in full scale retreat, no; I didn’t feel old.

Attitudes towards aging are connected to our personal view of life. If we have accomplished most of the things we set out to do, then regrets tend to be few. On the other hand, if all we see are missed opportunities and failures, then age becomes a terrible burden.

Star Trek’s Captain Picard described aging as the moment when one realizes that “…there are fewer days ahead then there are behind.” That realization strikes in moments when you least expect it. In the giddy hours after closing on our house, I was struck by the realization that if we held this mortgage through to its conclusion, that we would be 80 when the thing was finally paid off.

Baby Boomers have been described as “the ageless generation.” Thanks to modern medical technology and our generation’s funding of the home fitness industry, we will probably live longer and most likely work more years than our predecessors, not because we have to, but because we want to. In our youth, we rebelled against conformity and rallied for our independence. That attitude has carried us through the decades. Although we are aging, we refuse to act our age.

Flight 93: Forever Remember; Never Forget*

*Johnstown Tribune-Democrat 2/16/2007
as "Always remember, never forget"

Copyright © 2007 by Ralph Couey

Several hundred thousand people annually find their way to the temporary Flight 93 Memorial near Shanksville and those numbers will likely increase after the permanent memorial is built.

The plans have been finalized, after clearing up the apparent misunderstanding about the four extra commemorations scattered throughout the design. The new memorial will no doubt be a place of beauty and reflection. But the stark simplicity and the spontaneous expression of what stands there now will be lost forever.

I go to the memorial several times a year. Each visit keeps fresh in my mind the memory of that day, a day that left an indelible mark of history and tragedy on us all. The fleeting sense of unity we felt that day has, as anticipated, dissolved and left us bitterly divided, perhaps irretrievably polarized. But, standing there and gazing across that field, I recall that for a few short, precious weeks, all of America walked shoulder to shoulder; we spoke with one heart.

Saying Goodbye...*

*American Motorcyclist 5/2007

Copyright © 2006 by Ralph Couey

There comes a time in a relationship when parting becomes the necessary, even logical thing to do. For riders, guys especially, the time we spend with our bikes is less "ownership" than "relationship." Over the years and the miles, a bond develops between us and our machines. It's difficult to articulate exactly why this is so.

In most cases, riding is viewed as a solo activity. Whether it's a ride through spectacular natural beauty, a vigorous prosecution of hairpins and switchbacks, or simply time spent clearing one's head, the experience is an internal one. Ronald Reagan once said, "The best thing for the inside of a man is the outside of a horse." Change "horse" to "motorcycle" and most riders would sagely nod in agreement.

A motorcycle, despite our willful anthropomorphizing, is a mechanical construct; an engineer's vision executed by an assembly line. The unenlightened insist that it is a soulless collection of metal and plastic parts. But riders can feel the collection of parts rise in concert and transcend themselves to a higher plane of existence, taking us along for the ride.

Riders change, acquiring more skills as time goes on. The bike that was such a challenge to us in the beginning now seems to be unable to follow us to the places our skills can take us. "Upgrade" is the operative word here. Our habits change, as well. At first, maybe we were content to commute and take rides in the country over the weekend. Now perhaps we feel the horizon calling and need a bike that can haul camping gear and a couple changes of clothing. Also, we have a desire to share the things we love with the people we love, which means that person needs to have a comfortable place to enjoy the ride. Whatever the reason, we will find ourselves one day ruminating about Making a Change.

My Lake Superior Adventure

Copyright © 2006 by Ralph Couey

For every person who gets into a relationship with that two-wheeled heartbreaker known as a motorcycle at some point the road beckons. Not the afternoon ride, or even the weekend junket; but a true epic journey covering several days and many thousands of miles. It’s inevitable, especially for an American kid who grew up watching the lone hero on horseback ride through countless westerns. We, all of us, go through our days feeling the ties of obligation and responsibility. And we all dream at least a little about shucking off those burdens for a feeling of freedom. For me, that first urge hit in the late summer of 2001. More and more, I was finding myself perusing road atlases, unconsciously choosing routes and stopovers, measuring the miles with my eyes and imagining what it would be like to watch the road unwind beneath my wheels.

I chose the Labor Day weekend, adding a couple of days on either end. And after weighing my available time and pondering the direction of my soul, I chose the destination: Lake Superior.

Lake Superior was gouged out of the tough hide of the Canadian Shield during the last great Ice Age. It is the largest fresh-water body by surface area, and the third largest by volume. It’s very name reflects its place among other lakes in North America. Shaped like a stylized wolf preparing to devour Minnesota, it is a place of heart-stopping beauty. It is also a place where, in the late fall and winter, Mother Nature unleashes her wrath with storms of terrifying fury. Hundreds of shipwrecks lay in her depths, most notably the ore freighter Edmund Fitzgerald. Along her shores lie forests of deep green and rocky shores bearing mute witness to the power of her waves. As I read about the area, I knew it was a place I had to see.

DAY 1

A Wild West Ride on a Wyatt Earp Pilgrimage

Jornada del Muerto, New Mexico

Copyright © 2002 by Ralph Couey

"Cross the most rugged and daunting peaks
in utter darkness,
the heavens pouring forth their fury
while you grapple for control,
guided by a feeble ray of light barely visible
on a highway black as death.

"Traverse endless, blistering deserts,
the sands a roaring furnace below
and the sun a pitiless, burning firestorm above.
Follow the tortured paths left behind
by those who pioneered the way,
seeking to tame a wild land and forge a better life.

"Pass alone through vast and terrible chasms

hewn and rent from the living rock

by the unassailable forces of nature,
treasuring the feeling of insignificance and mortality.

"Merge in perfect union with a stunning cloudless sky
and breathe deep the fragrant prairie zephyrs.
Follow the sinuous course of a thundering river
to the humble streams that form its source.

"In every moment, feel the sublime and awesome hand of God

and in your soul a Communion with the eternal.
Look then to the dark sky

and thrill to the promise of the unrisen sun
that will soon shine upon the hook and crook

of a gnarled mountain trace,
knowing in your heart the machine’s power

to exalt life or render death.

 "In the quiescence of the deepest night

gaze in wonder upon the machine;
 your accomplice, partner, and soul mate.
In your innermost reflections
you see the machine as sinister and yet seductive;
soulless and yet transcendent;
ordinary and yet unique.

"Know that even though you own the machine,
the machine possesses you.

 "The Horizon is calling;

"Heed the call.

 Go Ride…”

 --Original Author Unknown
Additional Material by Ralph Couey

I like maps. Maps are the sketchbooks upon which I plot my fantasies. Open roads, new adventures, alien landscapes, all become a part of the dreams that float through my mind, much as a high plains thunderstorm glides across the horizon. Most people see a road map as a myriad of lines, dots, and words. For me, however, the lines, dots, and words spring into a pseudo-three dimensional reality; limitless plains, powerful mountains, shifting deserts, and countless shoreline highways. My eyes follow the multi-colored lines on the page, but in my mind, I feel the sun on my shoulders, the wind in my face, and the reassuring rumble of a V-twin engine. In the summer of 2002, the urging of those dreams put me on the road to chase my horizons.

I spent much of my youth chasing about the southwest, first with my father and then as a summer employee of a Texas-based cattle operation. During those years, I fell in love with the wide-open skies and the many-textured and multi-hued terrain. It was so different from my home state Missouri, where the rolling hills made the horizon seem much too close, almost claustrophobic. The west seemed limitless. Even when mountains became the horizon, their dramatic angles and features gave them an aura of eternity. With this land of wide horizons, I also had a deep personal connection. In a youth spent searching for meaning and the answers to questions eternal, the west had given me perspective; a perfect backdrop upon which the musings of a young man’s mind could range as far as the stars and nebulae that populated the night sky, with thoughts as personal and intimate as the inside of a sleeping bag. The memories of those priceless days brought me great comfort over the years during those times when reality became a burden.

The Magic of the Open Road*

Johnstown Tribune-Democrat 7/30/2006

Copyright © 2006 by Ralph Couey

The other day, I was passed the URL for the website of an acquaintance, actually a list member of the Internet motorcycle group I belong to. He embarked on a trip that is the stuff of legends. Between July 2 and August 13, he rode 10,000 miles.

According to his online log (updated daily courtesy of WiFi) he traveled from Tennessee all the way up to Dawson and Skagway in Canada’s Yukon Territory and back.

Most of us in the motorcycling community know someone who has taken long, epic trips. I think for the rest of us the reaction is universal; a tinge of envy, yet sharing the excitement of the journey, and with today’s global interconnectivity, living the day-to-day adventure, if only vicariously, via the Internet. For those of us left behind, the walls and ceilings that make up the invisible boundaries of our individual lives seem to close in. For the first time, we sense the prison of obligation and responsibility we’ve built.

A Song of Wyoming

Music and Lyrics by John Denver

I’m weary and tired, I’ve done my days ridin’
Nighttime is rollin’ my way;
The sky’s all on fire and the lights slowly fading,
Peaceful and still ends the day.
Out on the trail night birds are callin’
Singin’ their wild melody;
Down in the canyon the cottonwood whispers
A Song of Wyoming for me.

Well, I’ve wandered around the town and the city,
Tried to figure the how and the why.
I’ve stopped all my schemin’;
I’m just driftin’ and dreamin’,
Watching the river roll by.

Here comes that big ole prairie moon risin’,
Shinin’ down bright as can be;
Up on the hill there’s a coyote singin’
A Song of Wyoming for me.

Now its whiskey and tobacco and bitter black coffee,
A lonesome old dogie am I.
Wakin’ up on the range,
Lord I feel like an angel;
Feel like I almost could fly.

Drift like a cloud out over the badlands,
Sing like a bird in the tree;
The wind in the sage sounds like heaven singin’
A Song of Wyoming for me,
A Song of Wyoming for me.

--John Denver