A Tradition Dies .....

Every year, for the past ten years or more I have taken a day off between Christmas and New Year to read the new W.E.B. Griffin book that is always released in that period.  I would brew a pot of coffee, make myself comfortable and then settle in to lose myself in the work of the poet laureate of the American warrior class.  Over the years, Griffin has re-told in fictional form the legends of the U.S. Military from the beginning of World War II right up through the war on terror.  Told with a confidence born of experience, Griffin became the voice of our warriors then and now.

So, it is with great reluctance that I will not buy Griffin's latest work, The Hunting Trip, a sophomoric romp revolving around a set of complex plans to allow the protagonist to commit adultery with a friend's wife.  That sad decision was based upon three factors. 

The first factor was the declining quality of Griffin's work.  The last couple of offerings from the franchise have been almost laughably bad.  Granted, they were co-written by Griffin's son who obviously lacks the breadth of the elder Griffin/Butterworth's experience.  But, once burned is forever forewarned.  I read only a few pages of Amazon's online sample of his latest offering, The Hunting Trip, before deciding that Griffin no longer had anything to say that I wanted to hear.  It read like a bad Fannie Flagg novel.  So much so actually that Fannie Flagg gave it a glowing review. I almost asked for my money back after reading his disastrous attempt to mimic the voice of Janet Evanovich.  That mistake and the withering reviews that followed it should have ended his apparently deep seated need to feminize his voice.

The second factor in my decision might explain why Griffin's latest reads like the work of a confused, sophomoric southern society lady wannabe.  Along with the release of this book, Griffin also revealed that for several years he has also written lesbian romance novels under the pseudonym Blakely St. James.  That might explain the gender confusion in the voice of his latest offering. 

The final factor however went to the heart of Griffin the man and the difference between him and his characters.  Griffin's characters were always gentlemen with a capitol "G."  His latest work is anything but gentlemanly, from the annoying "Expletive Deleted's" overused to the point of distraction to his willingness to trash the memory of his first wife.  No gentleman would do that to his children or for that matter to a woman that he chose to be his wife.  A gentleman would let sleeping dogs lie. 

This year, on this final day of the year, I may go back and read something from The Corp's series which introduced the current generation to old breed Marines, or something from the Brotherhood of War series which did the same thing for the old, upper class Army officer corps.  I might even pull out one of the Presidential Agent series and follow the exploits of the new class of special operators.  But, I won't be reading the gender confused, immoral, literary vomitus that Griffin is now producing.
 
I want to give credit where credit is due.  For decades, Griffin produced some of the best military/historical fiction ever written.  His earlier work deserves a place alongside C.S. Forester, Bernard Cornwell and the other masters of the genre.   Having said that, I will mourn for the writer that was who has now passed and politely refuse to become involved with the disappointing character he has become.

Another Incident On The Homefront .....

Last night on our way to our daughter's house for dinner, we stopped at Braum's on Sheridan near 15th to pick up ice cream for dessert. I parked near the door and Sheila went in. After a couple of moments, a thin, twenty-ish, meth addict looking white male came up the sidewalk to the door, staying close to the wall as he approached before entering the store. At the time, I thought he looked hinky but decided to just watch the door.  Half of the people in that area look hinky now.

After a while, I began wondering "What in the world is taking Sheila so long just to buy a half gallon of ice cream?" Eventually, she came out and as we drove off she told this tale. She said that as she was getting ready to check out the suspicious looking man in question came in the door. When he did, the checker said, "Oh my God, that's the guy that always robs us."The checker then headed to the back and hid until he left. The perp apparently decided not to rob the place after the clerk fled and locked herself up in the back.

But, SHEILA JUST STOOD THERE through the whole thing. She said she thought about

texting me to come in with my gun. By this time, my mind was screaming, "WHY DIDN'T YOU JUST LEAVE?" She said she was in a hurry and was just thinking about getting checked out and on her way to dinner. This is what I told her after I got my emotions under control:

(1) Take armed robberies very seriously. They happen every day in our neighborhood. The fact that you haven't been caught in one yet doesn't mean that it can't happen to you. If the clerk is afraid you should be too. If you don't like the way a situation looks JUST LEAVE. 

(2) If you can't leave, hide. Go to the bathroom and lock the door. Follow the clerk into the office. At least get down behind something out of sight. Get as many barriers as you can between you and the trouble. Stay quiet and try to make yourself small.

(3) After you have done everything you can to flee or hide THEN call for help. Don't TEXT unless you have no other option. It takes too long and I don't always look at my text messages immediately. This is a life or death situation CALL the nearest help available unless speaking would put you in further danger.

In 1980 when Sheila and I moved back to Tulsa from St. Louis, we were incredibly relieved to move away from a big, dirty old city where street crime, random violence and a blase' attitude toward it all especially by law enforcement and city leaders the order of the day.  Unfortunately, Tulsa has become a big, dirty old city that is just as tough and just as dangerous as St. Louis or even New York. We Tulsans who live north of 51st Street can no longer afford the luxury of letting down our guard while we go about our daily lives. 
Sheila and I are going to have a long talk about personal safety soon.  Our hometown has lost its innocence and now unfortunately, we all have to as well.

Christmas At Bill and Sheila's

This has been a strange but good little Christmas.  There were times when I seriously wondered if Sheila and I wouldn't be celebrating it in bed .... due to our injuries ..... not ..... well ..... you know.

It all began when I decided to make Sheila's long time desire for a kitchen remodel happen.  I convinced our long time friend and part time contractor, Bret Keathley, to take the job on the week before Christmas.  He agreed to come in in the evenings and after hours to do the hard stuff like building the new cabinets, installing the new counter top and sink, installing the new garbage disposal, etc. while Sheila I worked around him in shifts doing to the little stuff like painting, laying the new vinyl plank floor, etc.  

Bret is really very talented in this area and has helped us make the best use of just about

every square inch of our tiny, 1940's style kitchen.  He is still finishing up on a hutch with triangular shelves built around our over-sized modern fridge.  We have even re-purposed the old telephone nook into a tiny, European style coffee station.


My old friend and coffee drinking partner Tom Brock, who is a professional quality painter, came over a couple of mornings and helped me paint the walls.  With his help it only took a couple of hours.  Sheila was working half days last week, so when she came home we painted trim and she helped me lay flooring as Bret cleared a space and moved on. We got it down to a system.  I would get on the floor and stay there so I didn't have to get up and down.  She would remain upright and fetch tools, materials,etc.  Our faithful son in law Robert showed up yesterday afternoon and got more work done in a couple of hours than Sheila and I would have accomplished in a day.  


During the process, I twisted a shoulder getting up and down off the floor.  Sheila's knees .... well, need I say more.  By last night, we were both about all in.  But, by noon yesterday, there was enough finished so that we could have Christmas dinner in Sheila's new kitchen.

We kept the menu simple, savory roast pork loin with mango chutney, garlic mashed potatoes, roast green beans and butternut squash dressed in olive oil and coarse salt, hot rolls and southern vin ordinaire aka sweet tea.  Michelle and Gwenda brought desserts.  Michelle's apple pie was about the best I have ever tasted.

After dinner, we opened presents.  As usual, I was a little embarrassed by the amount of stuff that changed hands, remembering the years of my childhood when I would receive one or two gifts, maybe a toy truck or a cap pistol and there would be nothing for Mom and Dad but a good meal.  It should be noted that my grandson, Little Ben, gave me a big old red remote controlled toy sports car that I suspect we will get much pleasure out of when he is at our house.

Sheila and I will be spending the day in bed today for the most part or at least in our

chairs.  The kitchen is not finished and Bret will be coming back in to finish up the built in storage on the other wall, install new light fixtures and clean up the various details.  But, aside from little painting, our big work on the project is over except for cleaning up after the fact. 

There will be another "Christmas" Sunday when Robert's daughter from a former marriage, Ella, flies in from Texas for visitation.  So, there will be another meal, more presents to be opened etc.  But, all we have to do is show up for that one thank heavens.

Yes, we are a little battered and bruised but I have to say it has been an adventure and Sheila will soon have her remodeled kitchen.
 

Another Letter to Little Ben At Christmas

Ben,

You are a little young to appreciate one of your presents this year and I might not be around when you are old enough to understand it so a hard copy of this

blog post will be attached to the back of the frame to explain the history of your gift.

I have given you a collection of mostly old knives.  I say mostly because there is one brand new knife in there, an Old Timer 180T, the perfect, high quality, "first" pocket knife for a boy when he gets old enough to carry one. This knife was given to me by one of my clients who is a dealer.

The next knife is a bone handled Schrade "Uncle Henry" from the 1960's.  I found it in your great grandmother Rubeye Kumpe's effects after she passed.  She kept it with her sewing and quilting materials and while it had rusted, it was still razor sharp when I found it  twenty years after it had last been used.  This was a pretty high quality knife for the time and I am surprised that my mother had it.

The center knife is a Camillus from probably the 1960's or so.  Your great grandfather William Kumpe carried this knife everywhere he went.  He kept the sharp pointed blade cleaner than the rest because that was the blade he used to dig splinters and shards of steel out of his hands with after work.  The round nosed blade was usually used to "doctor" livestock.  That could mean anything from lancing an infected spot on Bossie's hip to doing a castration.  Your dad can explain that last word when you are old enough to understand it.  The big blade was used to cut the twine on old fashioned square hay bales and for just about everything else.  I have seen the knife in my dad's hands more times than I can remember.  It was a valued tool that he used daily.

The plain metal, silver colored knife with "US" stamped on the side is also a Camillus.  It is a military issue utility knife.  Camillus began making this knife for the US military in 1957 and continued until the plant closed in 2006.  This particular knife is a Desert Storm veteran.  I acquired it to replace the identical Viet Nam Era model that I carried throughout my years in the Navy and unfortunately lost a few years ago.

The big knife on the bottom is a KaBar folding hunter.  The blade is real, old fashioned 440, stainless.  It is a solid brass framed knife with rosewood handles.  A very high quality knife.  I carried it during the years I was driving truck.  That knife has been to or through the vast majority of the United States at one time or another.

The large knife standing vertically is, like your great grandfather William Kumpe, a World War II veteran.  How he, a soldier in the Army's 45th Division, acquired a  KaBar Marine Corps fighting knife is probably an interesting story that died with him.  This is my guess.  Dad made five amphibious landings, four of them under enemy fire.  He spent considerable time on amphibious ships of the types I served on later during my generation's war.  USMC equipment was pretty common on those ships.  Dad probably bartered for it on one of those ships the same way that I acquired my Camillus during the Viet Nam years.   

That old knife had quite a life after the war.  It traveled around with Dad until he married Mom and then became the family butcher knife.  It was made of far better steel than any civilian butcher knife and would take a razor sharp edge.  I have watched Mom chop everything from cabbage to chicken's necks with that old knife.  She wore out the handles and did a pretty good job of wearing out the blade as well.  She used it as her butcher knife until she could no longer take care of herself.  I found it in pretty bad shape in her kitchen and did my best to stop the rust and stabilize it.

So Ben, there is a lot of family history in that box that I gave you this Christmas.  Each one of those knives was carried by your ancestors who used them daily.   Maybe you can pass the collection along to one of your sons someday.

Your Grandpa,


Bill

 

Bill and Sheila Re-Decorate

Sheila and I's "big" Christmas present this year is a kitchen re-do.  It's been going on for three days now.  Our tiny kitchen is a giant tangle of air compressors, power tools, paint, brushes and rollers, drop cloths and building materials.

We are working around the schedule of our incredibly patient contractor, Bret Keathley, a family friend and one of my former Sunday School kids.  Bret is incredibly talented in this area.  He worked with us to squeeze every square inch possible out of the tiny 1940's designed space.

We paint and do the little stuff in shifts before Bret comes in and after he leaves for the day.  My faithful friend Tom Brock is helping me paint.  

It's actually been quite an adventure.  I wouldn't have it any other way.  It means more when you have a relationship with the people doing the work and have some sweat in the project yourself.

One of these days when we are gone, maybe our daughter Michelle will look at that kitchen and remember that our friend Bret built those cabinets.  And maybe she will tell little Ben that her grandfather and his number one coffee drinking buddy, Tom Brock,  painted everything while sitting on stools and listening to old time radio programs from an MP3 player. 

Those are the things that tie you to a place and make it more than address with a roof over it.