Christmas Tales, Past & Present

Merry Christmas one and all. Twas the night before Christmas and all that stuff. Thought I'd tell a tale or two for your enjoyment and the perpetuation of family legends. The first goes back to Christmas morning of 1958 when I was 8 (the year before my pickup was made). Grandpa Jones gave me a Gene Autry two holster pistol set and the proverbial dime-novel featuring, you guessed it, Gene Autry. So there I was with Christmas debree surrounding me all over the floor, wear my flannel PJs (sans-booties, I had out grown them so Mom cut the booties off for me) in the big old Lions-Head rocking chair, wearing my dual pistol set, and reading about Gene and his adventures. I kept coming to this one word that I couldn't sound out using those bull-crud phonetics they used to teach. Seemed every time Gene got into trouble or in a fight he used his Wee-Ah-Pons to get out of trouble, and I couldn't figure out what it was. So finally I asked Grandpa: "Grandpa, whats this word here, what is a Wee-Ah-Pon?" Of course Grandpa didn't have any idea what I was talking about, so he had me bring my book over to him so he could see what it was. I pointed it out, and Grandpa started belly-laughing. He says, "Butch, that's his weapons boy, his weapons. You know, his guns and knifes." I had used those damned phonetics rules and sounded out that damn word and instead of weapons had gotten Wee-Ah-Pons. I betcha hes still sitting up there right now laughing about that.

Then there was the Christmas of 1968, just about 10 years later. By then I was enjoying my stay in in Dothan Ala-By-God-Bama as a guest of Uncle Sam. Krista had sent me a Christmas package then written a letter to me telling me it was on the way. Three buddies and I decided that we were going to try to get home for Christmas. We couldn't afford to fly so we were going to car pool. One guy lived in Evanston, Wyoming, two in Salt lake, and them me down in Orem. So we left Ft Rucker on the 22nd of December with a plan to drive diagonally towards the west-north west to Oklahoma City, then North through Kansas, and Nebraska, and catch I-80 west to Evanston. Their were big blizzards predicted for the Rockies so we figured that travel by the shortest route would be problematic. The plan was to drive straight through, trading off driving and riding in a 57 Chevy. All went well through the first long day and afternoon. By evening we were almost through Kansas and approaching the Kansas-Nebraska border. The weather had been getting progressively worse as the day wore on. By mid-afternoon we were driving through interim sleet, and by that night we were in a no kidding plains snow storm. We crossed over into Nebraska near a town called Bothelo (or something like that) and were north of town in a convoy of four or five cars. The lead car was a station wagon, it started to swerve around, did a 360, then ended up sitting perpendicular to the road blocking both lanes. The driver tried to get back in his lane but his tires just spun. So everyone in our car and drivers from a couple of others got out and we pushed this guys wagon back into position. By the time we got him straighted around everyone elses cars were drifted in, no movement possible. Looking off in the distance I saw a farm house with lights on, so my buddy and I started walking though the fields headed for this house. I thought I'd never get there and was frozen solid by the time we arrived. We explained our predicament to the farmer. He called the state roads guys, sat my buddy and I down by the fire place while his wife fed us hot coffee; then he went out and cranked up his big old closed cab tractor and towed everyone into his barn yard. We all sat around drinking coffee and coco until the state roadies arrived. They came out with two huge snow plows and cleared the road to where we were at. Then they escorted us back to town. Turned out that just about the time we left town they closed the road. All of us refugees were housed in the town churches recreation room. Everyone in every vehicle in our little convoy turned out be soldiers or soldiers families trying to get home for Christmas. So now its the 23rd and then the 24th and were stuck in Nebraska, and looked like we were going to be there for Christmas. We had all been able to call home so folks wouldn't worry, but we weren't going anywhere. In the wee-hours of Christmas morning, long before decent folks are up, a guy comes busting into the church wearing a big plaid coat and one of those hats with ear flaps turned down and tied under his chin, and rubber boots up to his knees. He starts asking around and for someone and we finally find out that he's asking for one of the guys traveling with me. This guys wakes all four of us up, gets us to pack our gear out his 4 wheel-drive international, and then he hauls us all to the airport in Omaha and gives each of us an airlines ticket. Turns out that my buddies Daddy is some kind of a wheel in the Masons, and he had pulled some Mason strings and arranged for all of us to fly home. I got home on Christmas Day at about noon. Now hows that for a Christmas miracle. The second half of the miracle is that exactly one year later when I was in sunny southeast Asia, Christmas of 1969, Krista's box of home made divinity candy caught up to me. By then it was rock hard, but everyone loved it. It was like pure hard rock sugar candy that dissolved in your mouth.

Now lets jump forward to Christmas 1973, Leora and I had been married about a year and half and Little Leora was about six months old. the plan was to go to the Tingeys for Christmas. I had to work on the 24th so we were going to make the 3-4 hour drive on Christmas morning. So away we go, in my 69 Firebird 400. the going was great from Orem up Provo Canyon through Heber, but it turned out real foul as we headed up Daniels Canyon. Some where between Strawberry and Duchesne I had to give up, I was literally pushing snow with the front end of my Firebird, the snow was rolling up over my headlights and off the sides of my fenders. I told Leora that I simply wasn't pushing it any further, so we turned around and headed back home. Leora kind a cried off and on all the way home. I decided to treat her dinner before taking her home, so went to the only restaurant open in Provo-Orem on Christmas day, it was that Chinese place that used to sit at the bottom of the Provo-Orem hill. Both Leora and Little Leora boo-hooed all the way through dinner. In all the years after that we never went back to that Chinese place, Leora just didn't want to go.

Saving other stories for other times, lets jump forward to now. We're doing fine. All of you are each in your homes this year, and that's OK. I hope that you each have wonderful Christmas full of memories for future tales. My main event was getting my 59 Chevy today. Here's a few pictures. My buddies tell me that sounds better than my Harley. It definitely has throaty rumble.

Merry Christmas, Happy Hanukkah, Happy New Year, Happy Quanza, or what ever it is that your celebrating.

Love, Dad :-)

On the Lighter Side

Today we stopped in at Wally World for the very last item we needed to procure for Christmas. It was around noon so the crowds weren't too bad. Many would be shoppers were packed into the surrounding eateries. We found our gift and move to check out and actually found a check-out counter that was totally empty and moved right in. I unloaded our single item from the cart and my lovely Bride bellies right up to the card scanner, whips out her card and gives it a good swipe and then ....
It was rejected!
The scanner told her that her debit card was no good. So she masterfully swipes it again ... with the same results. So she brings her problem with the machine to the attention of the checker, who accepts her card and attempts a swipe herself, like the third time is the charm, While waiting for the pending reject message shes turning the card over in her hands and then smiling and in a very sweet and helpful voice she says, "excuse me Mame, but I believe this is your Safeway Discount Card, We don't honor those here at Walmart".
My Lady Fair was trying to use her Safeway Discount Card as a Debit card. The checker said, "Now I think this is a first." So now me lady digs out the real debit card and pays for our goods.
Merry Christmas! :-)

An American Christmas Tale

This morning was a learning morning for me. I always get a kick out of the chance to learn something from the past, some tidbit of history that jumps up and teaches me a principle, a concept, or an idea. Today started out like most any other Sunday. I woke-up, got a hug from my Lady Fair, scratched the dog behind his ears, took care of my daily constitutional, broke-out the ironing board and a white shirt, and turned on the TV to “Music and the Spoken Word”. Of course the order varies according to the specific urgency of the day, but that’s generally the first few minutes of my Sunday morning.
And yes Virginia, he does iron his own shirts. Don’t ask me how a manly-man of my stature comes to a point in life where he finds himself ironing his own shirts because I simply don’t know. If I were honest with myself about it I would likely come to the conclusion that my Lady is smarter and craftier than I give her credit for. But ones manly ego does not allow ones thoughts to travel in such spheres, so lets just say that I find its something I prefer doing for myslf.
Today, while listening to “Music and the Spoken Word” I was treated to some of American History that bears contemplation in today’s world (… conflict and strife) and our seasonal situation (i.e., most corporations drawing to a close their fiscal accounting, celebration of the birth of Jesus Christ, and contemplation of next years resolutions). There’s cosmic irony in the relationships and influences that these three impose on each other. The older I get the more important and worthy of contemplation this seasonal period merits on all three counts. Today was an inch-stone event, as verses a mile-stone event. Minor from the perspective of ones totality, but well worthy of mention.
As I’m sitting there listening and ensuring that the cuff pleats of my shirt sleeves are “just-so” I hear the narrator (not the normal host) telling a personal history of one of our nations greats from circa 1860. He explains that our nation was embroiled in an unpopular conflict that had resorted to military action. One that pitted brothers and cousins against each other, even Fathers against Sons, both physically and mentally. The financial burden of the military conflict was immense, a burden felt by all citizens throughout our nation. Many thought it to be at an irrevocable cost that could not be born by the nation. It seemed that not everyone fully understood the true issue that was being tested by the conflict of arms; this issue being what price would American citizens be willing to pay to help define “freedom” on both a national and international basis?
Its curious to me that this issue must be defined and redefined at least once in every generation; some of us get the opportunity to hold true and participate in the definition of Freedom twice, and sometimes three times in their lifetime (i.e., the Civil War, Indian Wars, WWI, WWII, Korea, Vietnam, Boznia-Hertzgovina, Gulf War I and Gulf War II, dare I say Afghanistan).
In our hero’s era we learn that in 1860 he looses his house to a fire. While the house is in flames he is severely burned in an attempt to safe his beloved wife Fanny; he succeeds in retrieving her mortal body from the fire, but not her life. He is bedridden for a very long time due to the burns he received in the rescue attempt. His wife is buried three days later on the anniversary of their wedding while he lays in his bed critically ill due his burns. Our hero recovers but is melancholy, and is finding it hard to face life and continue on as the sole surviving parent to his children.
In 1861 he must endure another loss. He receives notification that his eldest son Charles, a soldier in the war, has been critically wounded. He travels to Washington D.C. to be near his son and to bring him home for recovery if possible. It takes him several days once he arrives at Washington to locate his son; and when he does he finds that he has arrived in time to be near his son for the last few hours of his life. In his grief he utters the now well known phrase… “There is no peace on earth, for hate is strong and mocks the song, of Peace on earth, good will to men."
Our hero moves through life a sad and pitiful sole that puts on brave face for the sake of his remaining family, but feels the loss of his wife and son to the marrow of his bones. Then on Christmas morning of 1863 he awakes and tells us that he felt the physical presence of his wife in each and every room of the house. He came to realize that even after death she remained with him, and would be there for him throughout all time and eternity. As he sat there basking in his new found zest for life he heard the bells tolling in the church’s throughout his town and his heart swelled with happiness and understanding. His feelings of warmth, happiness, family, and a fullness of life inspired him to pull out a clean sheet of paper and capture his feelings in prose. Today we know these words as the lyrics to “I Heard the Bells on Christmas Day”; the hero of our story is Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. Here’s the timeless words of inspiration that Henry had to say:

I heard the bells on Christmas Day Their old familiar carols play.And wild and sweet the words repeat Of Peace on earth, good will to men. I thought how as the day had come The belfries of all Christendom Had roll'd along th' unbroken song Of Peace on earth, good will to men. And in despair, I bow'd my head: "There is no peace on earth," I said,"For hate is strong and mocks the song, Of Peace on earth, good will to men." Then from each black, accursed mouth The cannon thundered in the South, And with the sound the carols drowned Of peace on earth, good will to men. It was as if an earthquake rent The hearthstones of a continent, And made forlorn, the households born Of peace on earth, good will to men. Then pealed the bells more loud and deep;"God is not dead, nor doth He sleep; The wrong shall fail, the right prevail, With Peace on earth, good will to men."

Many lyricists have modified the lyrics over the years. However, I believe that when you understand the history of the original version you’ll love it best. I find this Christmas Tale to be moving and full of inspiration and hope for each of us today. The circumstances that we find ourselves in are very much a parallel to Henry’s. We're a nation that is having a hard time redefining ourselves to fit the era we’re living in. We’re not sure as nation the price we are willing to pay for the Freedom of Mankind; and many of us have forgotten, if we ever knew, that the freedom of choice for man kind is the crux, the heart and sole of all Christendom. We’re in a financial crisis that only in part was brought about by the cost of war, but mainly has to deal with the shifting of the entire finical structure on an international basis. Many Americans are so wrapped up in “me firstism’s”, the concept of entitlements (ergo, I am entitled to…(add the term dujor)…) that they can’t see their own demise on the horizon.
Both temporal and theological history teaches us that if any of us attempt to carry this accumulative burden individually, by our self, we are doomed to fail. The saving grace, the lesson to be learned, is that collectively we can endure, and through endurance succeed where others fail.
So as you face the new era, the new year, or simply the new day, remember that you are not alone. You have brothers, sisters, cousins, parents,….”Family”….., that you can rely on in. Remember that your family extends beyond blood lines to your Spiritual Family and from there to your National Family. And most of all keep the concept of Freedom and individual choice as a guiding principal in your life, and listen to that small still voice when making your choices. After all, isn’t that what Christendom is all about, Family and freedom of Choice? And that to me is why we celebrate Christmas.

Merry Christmas!

Gettin Ready

Today after church we broke out the Christmas decorations, lite-up the house and trimmed the tree. The boys and I took on the outside while the Ladies took care of the inside. Just thought I'd share a little Christmas Arizona style. The first two pictures are of the house. The third is last years christmas tree. For the last several years we've done the live tree thing then planted it outside afterwards. We had a couple of strings of lights left over so the boys lit-up last years tree again. The last two are of the living room after the ladies decorated it. Enjoy! And Merry Christmas.

Triple Dunker

Today was a red letter day here in the sunny southwest. Today Corbin became Brother Martinez. That's right, it was baptism time. To make it even better the other Brother Martinez gave the Holy Ghost talk right after the baptism and before the Stake President spoke. He did a stand up job; better than I can report for his Grandfather. We had a "triple dunker" and not because of unforeseen floaters, but because Grandpa kept messing up the words: forgot "Amen" the first time; used commissioned "by" in lieu of the correct commissioned "of" on the second attempt, and got it right finally on the third. But Corbin hung in there like a real trooper. The irony of it all is that just before we left Corbin asked if anyone in the family that had to be dunked more than once. We now know the answer is yes, and he holds the record. Grandma tells me the confirmation blessing was beautiful, I couldn't say, I don't really remember what he was blessed with. But then, that's the way its supposed be isn't it. Here's a few pictures of this memorable day.

BTW, Corbin has to talk in Primary tomorrow. Naturally he will recylce portions of his brothers talk and tell the other kids how he felt about today. He's got some tall shoes to fill after the fine job that Sky Buddie did today. We'll find out if he to is a gifted speaker like his brother and his cousin Caitie.

Like the fat man said, Merry Christmas to all and to all a good night!

Waking Song

Did you ever wake-up with a song in your head that just wouldn't go away. Well that happened today. The odd part is that it's a Baptist Children's Sunday School song that I haven't heard for over 48 years. Somewhere in the back of my brain some nerve ending just decided to start firing away. Thought I'd share in hopes that doing so would get it out of my mind, here goes, if you know it sing along with me:


This little light of mine
I’m gonna let it shine
This little light of mine
I’m gonna let it shine
This little light of mine
I’m gonna let it shine
Let it shine, let it shine, let it shine

Down in my heart
I’m gonna let it shine
Down in my heart
I’m gonna let it shine
Down in my heart
I’m gonna let it shine

Ain’t gonna make it shine
Just gonna let it shine
Ain’t gonna make it shine
Just gonna let it shine
Ain’t gonna make it shine
Just gonna let it shine
Let it shine, let it shine, let it shine

This little light of mine
I’m gonna let it shine
This little light of mine
I’m gonna let it shine
This little light of mine
I’m gonna let it shineLet it shine, let it shine, let it shine

Hope you enjoyed that!

Happy Thanksgiving!

Tales of Thanksgiving

The holiday season always makes me sit and think, especially when I should be working. This time of year always makes me think of several memorable Thanksgivings. The first was back in
the 1961. The whole fam-damly was on a convoy to the farm to have Thanksgiving Dinner with Grandma Jones. There were to many of us to fit into one car, so Mom and Dad, Jenniffer, Peter, and Raymond were in one car, and Sherry, Krista, Jennell and I were in the second car. We were headed along what is now the back-way to the farm, southwest out of OK City, through Binger, and through what we thought then were canyons (we hadn't been out west yet) towards Oney, or Albert, depending on which side of the 4-way stop sign you lived on. We had made it past Binger and were cruising along; as I recall Sherry and Krista were debating about which radio station to listen to. Krista was winning because Sherry was way too safety conscience to think about trying to change the radio station while she was driving. I was leaning forward from the back seat with my arms crossed under my chin on the back of the front seat, no-one even considered safety seat belts back then. When all of the sudden there was great big square thing covering the windshield, then there was a tearing sound, and then it was gone. All of the sudden Sherry is frantically trying to stop the car. Dad's doing the same in front of us, then backing up. I didn't know what it was, but I knew it wasn't going to be good. And Krista says; "Dad's going to be really mad about that." It turns out that when we had stopped at the service station earlier that the hood hadn't been closed properly, the hatch had released and it had flipped open, the sheared its bolts and flipped backwards over the top of the car. Luckily no one was hurt. I don't recall Dad being mad about the loss of the hood. But I do remember Sherry being really shook up for the rest of drive in. The only other thing I remember about that Thanksgiving is that this was the last time I ever had Grandma Jones "Grape Cobbler". She made it from wild grapes that she had picked and canned. It had big chunks of dumplings mixed up in a thick grape sauce with whole grapes floating around it. It was one of my favorite deserts when I was a kid. Funny what you remember about holidays.

The next one that I remember was Thanksgiving of 1963. That was the year that President Kennedy was assassinated. Almost as memorable to our family was that this was the year that the Florida Seminoles had demonstrated and taken over their BIA office in a sit in. These two events will be forever linked in my mind. Naturally all the demonstrators had been arrested and hauled off to jail. Dad had sympathy for them and felt that he should do his part to support them. One evening when he was feeling the benefit of John Barley Corn and not thinking as clearly as one would hope, he decided that the best thing to do in support of his fellow Seminoles was to call President Kennedy speak his piece of mind. Naturally, he was not allowed to speak to the President; but he had managed to vent his ire to whomever it was they had eventually linked him up to. A few days later President Kennedy was assassinated. I was in Social Studies class at John Marshall High School when it happened. History was a telecast block of instruction, a new experiment for OKC schools, and all 8th graders attended the same class in the auditorium, a class of about 300 hundred of us. There was one lead teacher and several assistant teachers that monitored us as we watched the instruction on televisions. I recall the TV going off and the auditorium was dark for a second or two; then the lights came on and Mr. Devaughn was standing on the stage with a microphone. He made the announcement that the president had been assassinated, and then they turned the TV back on, only now to NBC news and we watched developments for a few minutes. By the end of that period the Principal came over the loud speaker and called for a moment of silence; and then school was dismissed for the rest of the day and we were told to to go home and be with our families. On the evening of the next day, after Dad had come home from work, there was a knock on the door. I answered it and standing there were literally two men-in-black, holding their hats in their hands. They asked if Dad was home, and then asked to be allowed in. These men were from the FBI, as a result of the assassination all "anomalies" were being investigated. Dad's stunt the week before had placed him in their radar and now they were there to check out his abilby on the day in question. I don't think I've ever seen the old man so humble, it was a truly sobering event, in that when they left he was sober. The one thing that I remember clearest about it was that Dad did not bad mouth them after they were gone. He had been impressed with their forth right manner, the accuracy and level of detail they had available, and the way they validated events and come to a no-harm conclusion. That year was the first time I saw the "FBI Story" with Jimmy Stewart in the staring role. For a while there my ambition was to become an FBI agent when I grew up.

Next is Thanksgiving eve 1968, Fort Rucker, Alabama. Myself and my fellow classmates in the Door Gunner Training Center had been tagged for KP duty the day befor Thanksgiving. We were just glad that we had dodged the bullet for the next day. In addition to the duties normally associated with KP duty we had been tasked with much of the preparations for Thanksgiving. Included were baking a lot of extra goods and pre-cooking several hams. They wroked us right up to 9 PM that night, and we had gone on shift before 5 AM that morning. The Mess Daddy had fed us our dinner meal just prior to feeding the troops, so we had dinner around 3:30 that afternoon. My partner, Danny Kink, and I started thinking around 7:30 when it became clear that we were not going to get out of there until late. So all of us, there were about 8 of us from our class, each smuggled something out and hid it before we got off shift. After we got off, everyone gathered their goods up and met-up back at the barricks. We had managed to smuggle out a ham, a tray of rolls, butter, a couple of pies, and a two or three gallon box-bag of chocolate milk (milk in plastic bag, inside a box, that was used to fill a milk machine). Once back in the barracks we had our very own, pre-Thanksgiving feast. Once done, we snuck the dirty pans back and stacked them up outside the mess hall where they could be found the next day. The next day being a holiday we were allowed to sleep in. I have to tell you, that was one of the most enjoyable Thanksgiving meals I think I have ever had. A bunch of stinking dirty GI's hunkered down in the back of the barracks enjoying ham sandawiches, pie, and choclate milk as a bed-time snack!

Now move to the early 70's, I don't remember exactly which year it was, but I think it was Thanksgiving of 1974. Leora, little Leora, and I had traveled to Grandma and Grandpa T's for Thanksgiving day. It was about a three hour drive up through Heber and Daniels Canyon, past Strawberry, across Duchene Valley and into Vernal. On this particular Thanksgiving Grandma T had a brand new "Amana Radar Range" microwave oven with a rotating table. It was the newest wonder in kitchen technology and Grandma was just dying to try it out on the holiday bird. Well, she prepared that bird, stuffed it full, greased it down, strapped the legs and wings up tight and wedged that big old bird into the Microwave. I swear, if that bird had been an ounce bigger it never would have made it in the oven and we might have been better off for it. Then she commenced to zap it! Well about an hour later, the recommended time for bird zapping by Amana's user manual, we pulled it out and looked it over. It smelled about right, but it didn't look like any bird we'd ever seen cooked before. In fact, it looked down right RAW. So back in it goes again for another hour. Grandma wasn't concerned because microwave cooking takes less time than conventional roasting, or so the manual says. At the end of the second hour out it comes again for inspection, and its still looks pretty raw. About now Grandma T is getting a little concerned. We still had time, but this just wasn't how it was supposed to go. So back in it goes for hour three, then hour four, and finally hour five. At last this bird is starting to look like a roast turkey is supposed to look. So Grandma hands it over to me and tells me to slice it up while she and the other ladies start putting the rest of the food on the table. I'll never forget it. I took her carving knife and fork in hand and stabbed that big old fork into the bird. I can remember thinking, this feels like a tough old bird. And then I made the first slice, about 1/4 inch thick. As the slice of meat comes off of the bird and gets laid onto the serving tray I noticed that the slice of good breast meat seems a little dry and a little dark. So I make the second slice, and it was tough to cut. As I laid it over onto the serving plate the inner side of this slice is down-right brown in color, I thought, now that's odd. So I made the next slice and here I cut into some true charcoal gumbo. I mean, it wasn't even recognizable as meat. Grandma had zapped that poor old bird into a cinder. We learned right then and there that a microwave oven cooks from the inside out, the closer we got to the core of that bird the worse it got. Sooo, Grandma went down into the cellar and brought up a 5 lb canned ham, and I sliced and micro zapped that real quick and that's what we had for Turkey Dinner! To my knowledge no one in the family has tried cooking a holiday dinner in the microwave since.

Time moves forward and its now the day after Thanksgiving 1983. We had stayed at home that year because the weather forecast was for a terrible snow storm. It started snowing on the evening of Thanksgiving Day and snowed off and on all night long. By the day after Thanksgiving there was already two feet of snow on the ground and it was still a steadily coming down. By the time that storm ended we had well over three feet of snow. I had to shovel snow off the roof after that storm to keep the roof from collapsing. One of the maintenance buildings roofs on post actually did collapse because of the heavy snow. So its the Friday after Thanksgiving and we were house bound. No traffic anywhere that we can see, all is quiet, and white, and cold. The kids were just dying to get out into the snow and play, but Leora and I had kept them in all morning. Around noon I had a brilliant flash. I dug out the Cross-Country Skies for Leora, Rachel and myself and I told Mom to break out the Christmas decorations and to make some Hot Chocolate. Then with Leora and Rachel in tow I took off for the Ace Hardware store in town on Cross Country skies, it was a trip of not much more than six blocks, but less than a mile. When we got to Ace the girls and I picked out a nice 6 foot tree, I bought some rope, and rigged a harness to tow the tree with. And then the girls and I towed that tree back to the house. The wind had picked up while we were gone and it was near blizzard conditions by the time we got home. But there was Mom, Angie, and Hank, waiting for us on the porch, all excited about the snow, a Christmas Tree, Hot Chocolate, and life in general. Now that was a fun day. By the way, the next Monday, after a week end of continual storms, I Cross Country Skied into work, about an 8 mile trip. I was one of a very few people that made it in that day. But I was able to organize the few folks from the Equipment Management Division where I worked that did make it in and we were able to get the Depot roads cleared for folks to come back to work the next day. Then I Cross Country Skied back home. The Base Commander was needless impressed with his new Second Lieutenant.

The next year, at the most the second year after that we were at Grandma and Grandpa T's for Thanksgiving again. While Grandma and Aunt Debi were fixing Thanksgiving Dinner I took Leora and the kids up on the mountain near Flaming Gorge Damn and went Cross Country Skiing. Up on top, just South of the damn there is a great big bowl shaped valley. We parked the truck on the shoulder of the road and skied down into the valley for an afternoon of frolicking in the snow. The snow conditions were just great. After a couple of hours the clouds started gathering, the temperature dropped, and the wind started to pick-up so we decided that the prudent thing to do was to head back. Naturally it was all up hill back to the truck. Rachel had been ill a couple of weeks earlier, and apparently the days outing had been too much for her and she quickly got exhausted on the way back up the mountain. Leora and I talked about the options, and I decided that the easiset, quickest solution was for me to carry Rachel out. So I knelled down, and she climbed up on my back, arms around my neck, with my hands hooked under her knees with her still wearing her skies; and up the mountain we went. That was some trek on cross country skies. It was particularly hard to maintain my balance, and more than once I wrenched my back trying to stay upright on my skies. We finally made it back up to the truck. All of us were pretty well heated up from the work out except Rachel, and she was starting to show signs of hypothermia. We cranked the heat up in the truck and sat her on Leora's Lap and wrapped in a blanket. By the time we got off the mountain she had finally warmed up. But all told, we had a really great day of Cross Country skiing.

Now as we approach yet another Thanksgiving Day, I find myself sitting here smiling as I ponder Thanksgivings past, and wonder, what new adventures this and future Thanksgivings have in store. Here's hoping that no mater where you are, or who you're with, that you've taken the time to gather as many of the family as you can around you, and to enjoy this wonderful holiday. I hope you're all telling your version what ever memories are dear to you, as you are creating new memories for a new generation of family.

(All photo's are from the Flamming Gorge Cross Country Outing: #1 = Leora Nad Angie; #2 = Rachel; #3 = Leora, Angie, Rachel, Marie & Tah-Tey-Ze; #4 = Leora; #5 = Angie)


Happy Thanksgiving!


Dad

Beans, Bullets, and Butter

Did you ever really consider the value of a dollar bill? After all, the modern dollar is just a piece of paper. Its intrinsic value can't be much more than a cent, maybe even a fraction of a cent. In days gone by it was backed by silver bullion held in reserve by our government, they were even called silver certificates; but we stopped doing that a long time ago. Oddly enough a silver dollar is now worth something like $7.20. A Silver Dollar is 3/4 of a Troy ounce and an ounce is currently worth $9.61, down from $13.90 about the middle of last month. Another measure popular today is gasoline. Locally it's still valued at $2.17 per gallon, down from a high of $3.99 per gallon just about a month ago. I remember when I came home from Vietnam in 1971 buying gasoline for $0.25 per gallon. I could fill my Fire Bird 400 for less than $5. Today a tank of gas for my truck cost me $43.40.

I've got a friend in the construction business. Lately he's doing more home repair and remodeling than new construction. He was telling me that for some time now he has been trying to figure out a barter system for his services. He's built a spreadsheet that includes all of the things that he needs to keep his family afloat; so much food, so much fuel, etc... He's built his spread sheet in such a way that he can accept either money or tradable commodities. He got this idea from his Grandfathers journal. His Grandfather had lived through the depression of the late 20's and 30's. Apparently his Grandfather did as much work on the barter system as he did on the money system. He used cash to pay his bills when he couldn't trade other goods, but provided most of his families needs and amassed real property by bartering his services. Apparently he came out of the depression better off than he entered it.

I've got another friend that has taken the food storage concept to the extreme. He figures that he has enough bare essential food on-hand to keep approximately 50 people alive for a year. I asked him what that was about? Didn't he have troubles rotating stockage? What about spoilage? His response was that pigs and chickens really don't care about the quality of what they eat. And that he was planning on sharing his food with those really in need. Only they had to work for it daily. He also has many seeds stored up. His idea is that 2 or 3 man-hours of soil preparation and garden tending is worth a meal. He plans on putting several acres into produce and small live stock and to in turn barter his yield for other things he might need. Here in Arizona we have an extremely long growing season and he can likely get two crops a season as long as water holds out.

About now your wondering where's this old man is going this time. Its my believe that we've got about 6 to 9 months before things really melt down economically. I believe that we will face the real crisis about the time we come to end of this fiscal year (1 oct to 30 Sep). That's the governments funding cycle, a fiscal year. We, the American people, have allowed ourselves and our nation to transform our entire economy to a credit based system vise a value based system. In my opinion the start point was a few decades ago when we moved Social Security funds into the general budget and made it available for more than Social Security. Now we have a whole generation of Boomers (old farts like myself) who have paid into a system all our lives that has nothing showing on the balance side of the budget. The solution that politicians in power keep promoting are "entitlement" based welfare programs. We keep paying out more than we have, and we keep proposing socialized solutions that spend even more. My advise to you, my family, is to get serious about food storage over the next few months if you haven't been already. Figure out a way to put aside or ensure an emergency house payment or two. If you can, set a little cash aside also. Notice I said cash, not money in the bank.

There is an old adage out there that tells us to study history to understand the future. Think of the 30's with bank failures, or 9/11 when banks closed for a day. How about California with their fires of the past week. Had things been just a little worse they would have had a power black-out for a few days. Our entire banking system is based on the availability of electrical power, same issue with your credit card. No power basically means that the check-out counter every where is shut down and banks are inoperable. Where are you going to get your cash for a few days/weeks at a time if we have regional power failures?

The bottom lines is that you can survive any economic turmoil that comes your way if you're actively preparing for it today, mentally and physically. And if it really gets tough, I expect each of you to be prepared to bring your siblings, cousins, etc... under your wing, or at least help them to get here if nothing else. Like my Daddy always said, "There's nothing holding us back but Fear and lack of Common Sense." Lets take proactive actions today so that we can hold our collective own in the future.

A Pittance of Time

I'm attaching the lyrics of a song that I've just heard. Its amazing. A friend sent me a video clip of the Author/Singer performing his song. It brought me to tears. You can find it out on the internet by looking up "Terry Kelly's" web page. It is worth your time. The story behind the song is Mr. Kelly was in a store when over the PA they announced that at 11 O'Clock (symbology, the 11th hour) they wanted their patrons to take two minutes of silence to honor our veterans. At the appropriate time there was one man with his daughters that refused to take two m inutes, who insisted on arguing with the clerk. It made Mr. Kelly so mad that he went home and wrote this song. (BTW...The photo is yours truly circa 1969 recieving the Bronze Star. I suspect that none of you have seen this photo.)

Here are the lyrics. The music has a kind of Irish meleody to it.

Its a Pittance of Time

By Terry Kelly

They fought and some died for their homeland

They fought and some died now it’s our land

Look at his little child, there’s no fear in her eyes

Could he not show respect for other dads who have died?

Take two minutes, would you mind?

It’s a pittance of time

For the boys and the girls who went over

In peace may they rest, may we never forget why they died.

It’s a pittance of time

God forgive me for wanting to strike him

Give me strength so as not to be like him

My heart pounds in my breast, fingers pressed to my lips

My throat wants to bawl out, my tongue barely resists

But two minutes I will bide

It’s a pittance of time

For the boys and the girls who went over

In peace may they rest, may we never forget why they died.

It’s a pittance of time

Read the letters and poems of the heroes at home

They have casualties, battles, and fears of their own

There’s a price to be paid if you go, if you stay

Freedom is fought for and won in numerous ways

Take two minutes would you mind?

It’s a pittance of time

For the boys and the girls all over

May we never forget our young become vets

At the end of the line it’s a pittance of time

It takes courage to fight in your own war

It takes courage to fight someone else’s war

Our peacekeepers tell of their own living hell

They bring hope to foreign lands that the hatemongers can’t kill.

Take two minutes, would you mind?

It’s a pittance of time

For the boys and the girls who go over

In peacetime our best still don battle dress

And lay their lives on the line.

It’s a pittance of time

In Peace may they rest, lest we forget why they died.

Take a pittance of time

Sunshine

A long time ago, in time before time, lived a young warrior fighting in a land now lost. The hero of our story was at an all time low both spiritually and physically. The days were long and brutal, and the nights way too short and often wrought with a few minutes of sleep interspersed with a lifetimes of exhilaration and fellowship in his brotherhood of arms; mixed with instances of stark terror that lasted seconds that left you sapped of all strength. All too often when one would hope for a soft bed and sleep our warrior found himself standing his turn on guard duty on the base camps perimeter. At times like these the only thing that kept him safe, sane, and alert was to place the physical here and now on auto alert while one segment of the brain contemplated a better future in the home of the brave and the land of the free. Having recently received a “Dear John” letter from his first love, our warrior’s mind often wandered to trying to determine what the woman he would like to spend the rest of his life with would be like. Being a lustful young man, many of the desired attributes initially identified described an attractive woman, easy on the eyes with a womanly smell and a pleasing feel when held in a close embrace. Further contemplation defined a woman of good demeanor, one that could pleasantly hold her own regardless of her surroundings. One that enjoyed life was adventurous, and willing to share all of her self. Over the span of many weeks and months these musings about the perfect woman became a checklist of sorts that could be recalled, reviewed and contemplated on a moments notice regardless of what was going on. Even in the thickest of combat he would find one segment of his brain contemplating what could be while the rest of his being was engaged actively in self defense and survival.
Eventually the Gods smiled upon our young man and he found himself riding on that great silver freedom bird that returned those lucky few that survived, physically unscathed, to their homelands, to family and friends, to attempt to regroup themselves and live as other free men lived. Upon his return he learned the lesson that all surviving warriors learn, you can never truly return home. You’re changed from what you were into something different, larger, and more complex. Your values are more finely honed; your beliefs more deeply felt, your drive more intense, and our sense of time more immediate. And most of all, he learned that very few who had not experienced what he had experienced understood who he was, or why he was. More importantly, few wanted to understand.
So our wandering soul returned to his homeland a changed and driven individual on a personal quest to discover who he had become and find hearth and home. For it truly was a quest. Many times our warrior feared that he would fail in his quest and be doomed to wander aimlessly throughout the remainder of his life. He met many new people along his journey. Many fell to the wayside; a few, lost brothers in arms like himself became fast and true friends. Friends that would be close him to the end of time. His friends and family introduced him to many eligible, beautiful young damsels in hopes that he would find himself through interaction with the fairer sex. At each occasion our hero would find himself within minutes of meeting a new Lady Fair evaluating her against the checklist he retained in his head. Each time, without fail, no matter how fair, how bright, or how comely, each would fail to measure up. Days turned into weeks, weeks into months, and soon a full year had gone by.
Then one day in the late fall of the year, he was introduced one more Lady Fair. It was a simple meeting, in a very untraditional environment. From the very first second our young man was smitten. Here was a beautiful young woman with eyes of blue that seemed to shift to green, and then back again to blue; with long blond hair and points of her own way up high. She had a very pleasant smile and was captivating, alluring, yet demure in her own way. Without a thought he quickly ran through his mental check list and found her to be fully without fault in his eyes. Numb with anticipation he checked his list, not once, not twice, but time and time again, all in an instance.
Circumstances and distance keep them apart through that first long winter; but in the spring of the year they were brought back together again. At the first opportunity he took her into his arms and pledged his love for all time, and announced his intentions to make her his wife. At first she was unsure, astounded at the brash, bold, and unforeseen announcement; yet she also sensed that his pledge was sincere and heartfelt.
Their courtship was a whirlwind affair that lasted a few short weeks. The hours that they were apart seemed as days, making their reunions all the more wonderful. Within what seemed to be a lifetime, but measured in a few short days by mortal man, our hero proposed; and to his great relieve the Lady Fair accepted his pledge of love.
In the fall of the same year that wed, and by the next summer were blessed with their first born, a bright eyed baby girl that was given a name of “light” after her Mother. Their family quickly grew to three young maidens and one stalwart son. Over the years they have shared many an adventure, and have traveled the world together. Now nearing the 4th decade of their marriage our warrior is no longer young, but his heart is still true and his love for the Lady Fair is even grander if that be possible. As they near the six and fiftieth anniversary of her birth our now old and long-in-the tooth warrior wished the world to know Sunshine is one true love, the love of his life, and the woman for him through time and all eternity.

My Friend FEMA!

On the cusp of the election today, I experienced on a personal level yet one more example of high-handed big brother at work. Upon my return from visiting with Mom in Salt Lake I had two registered letters waiting for me. The first was my annual summons to Federal District Court Jury Duty. This is the fourth year in a row. I wish they would simply call me so that I can be done with it for a while. Every Friday for a month I have to check in to see if they want me to report; and if I get called to report in then I have to travel to Tucson for a day to sit through questions to find out if I have been selected. For four years now I have been called to work my way through this drill only to be non-selected. Enough is enough, either call or be done with it.
The second letter was from our friends at FEMA and the National Flood Insurance Reform Act. It seems that some pin-head has just completed a study that declares that my house resides in a flood zone. What really makes it curious is my flood zone is rated at the same level of risk (read higher insurance premiums) as New Orleans. In other words, the pin-head that did this study thinks that my house has the same probability of being submerged as the homes in New Orleans that sit below sea level.
Think about that!
My house sits somewhere between 4,500 ft and 5,000 feet above sea level. We’re about 5 miles from the San Pedro River, the nearest body of water, and at an elevation of several 100 feet above the river level.
Now I am aware that some areas in Arizona are subject to seasonal sheet flooding. The last house we owned over on the Kendal Lane (aka, Kendal River) did have a problem as shown in the attached picture. This was taken about 15 minutes after a monsoon rain storm 3 years ago. The house was high and dry, but the road that was about 4 feet lower elevation than the house as you can see became a river. In the picture I’m standing in the middle of the road. THAT’S WHY I SOLD THE HOUSE AND MOVED!
This house, the one we’re in now has no such problem. This was the wettest year we’ve had in over ten years and we had no issue with water here. So here’s how my day went. I first called my insurance company, USAA, to find out what this was going to cost me. Before they would tell me how much they first made sure that I understood that I would pay the same rate no matter where I went because our good friends at FEMA have “fixed” the rates nation wide. When I finally got a rate out of them I was told that the rate would be $4,665 per year. You got it, over $388 per month. And the continuing good news is that the first years premium had to be paid in full up front, then the monthly rate could magnanimously be added to my escrow account on a monthly basis for subsequent years; lucky me!
Further research on my part, not volunteered information, was that if I took a $5,000 deductible (I pay the first 5 grand in the event of a claim) I could reduce the rate to $3,500 per year, same payment policy for initial year and follow-on as previously stated. Digging deeper I found that you could hire a surveyor to do an “Elevation Certification” for $400 and “maybe” get your rate reduced some more. The idea being that if you are able to demonstrate that the your ground floor was sufficiently higher that grade elevation to mitigate the risk of any flooding you might get a rate reduction. Digging further and presenting the fact that I have experience in survey work I discovered that anybody can self-certify their property if you down-load from the FEMA web-site the Elevation Certification form.
So I did that and turned in the signed Elevation Certification Form and then called my Insurance Company back to verify their receipt of the form by email. They had received it and were able to refigure my annual rate right then. By completing the form I was able to reduce the rate down to $613 per year, a $4,052 overall reduction from my initial quote.
Think about that! In just a few hours I was able to reduce my quote by over $4,052 a year. Had I not been a suborn, insistent, and demanding guy our government would have bilked me out of $4,052. Upon Leora’s return from work I discovered that the government is doing the same think to us with respect to our second house that the Tingey’s live in. The only difference is that the starting price is $1,500 per year. I now have to go through that drill for their house.
That got me thinking. What’s prompting this insanity? Then it came to me. This is how our government is propping up insurance company losses over New Orleans, Houston, and related coastal areas that have been wiped out by hurricanes in the last few years. In lieu of abandoning areas that we know are going to flood year after year; the answer is to spread the cost, notice I said cost, not risk, spread the cost of coastal flood damage across the whole nation. As it turns out, my share in this insanity has been determined to be $613 every year; aren’t I lucky? I suspect that this is just another Democratic attempt to “spread the wealth”; in reality, another model for taking money away from those who earned it and have enough sense to not live in a flood zone and give it to the idiots that don’t know enough to move out of a flood zone once they discover that they’re in one. I figured it out, and I moved out. Why shouldn’t I expect the same from them?

Thoughts from a Native Son

Did you ever ponder upon the changes that society has undergone in the last few decades. Did you ever yearn for the way things used to be. Think about it for a minute. It wasn’t that long ago when men were men, women were women, regardless of whether or not they were good or bad people. One thing you could count on was that gender lines were pretty clear. When a person’s gender was in question they weren’t typically accepted in society and were typically pitied, or laughed at in a good humored way.
Did you ever wonder when exactly it was that children could no longer play on their neighborhood streets without adult protection? When you were a kid didn’t you get to wonder down to your friend’s house for hours at a time without your parents having to deliver you, have positive hand-off to another adult, and then return to pick you up? Would you think about such actions today for more than a split second?
In my youth and even later as a young man words had consequences. You could pretty much say what you wanted as long as you were willing to stand behind what you said. In fact, you were expected to stand by your words. If you didn’t you weren’t tolerated very long. It was to be expected for a fellow to knock your pud in the dirt when you got in his face and were offensive; in fact you were respected if you did and considered to be something less than manly if you didn’t. If a man were disrespectful to a woman all men present stood up in her defense whether they knew her or not. By the same token, inappropriate conduct by a woman pretty much set her outside the protective boundaries of polite society. Today I find that many, possibly most people respect me because they know that I stand by my word. By the same token I’ve been told more than once that adults many fear me because they know I stand by word. The irony is that there seems to be growing numbers at senior levels that fear rather than respect a man of integrity.
In the fifties and earlier moral issues were pretty much black and white, everyone knew where the line was drawn. The difference between then and now is that we still know where the lines are drawn, but in many cases society in general doesn’t care if you cross the line; and in most cases there is no temporal penalty if you cross it. Now I suspect that my generation gets a fair share of credit for much of the change in this area; I mean the sixties surly fall into our collective laps.
Through my formative years as a young half-breed Indian in Oklahoma I was taught that this was the land of the free, home of the brave, a land of promise, and that the “American Dream” was alive and well if one was simply willing to work for it. It seems that the phrase du joir is “entitlement”. It appears that somewhere along the line we’ve lost the concept and expectation that we are expected to “earn” our slice of Americana; and in its place is the idea that “everyone is entitled” to anything-everything without lifting a finger to earn it.
About now you’re wondering where this meandering diatribe is leading. It’s simply this. I believe that voting is both a responsibility and a privilege. Throughout our ancestry in every generation in “all” branches of our family free thinking men of our family, all the way back to your 5th Great-Grandfather who served under General George Washington, have risked there all to ensure you have the privilege, the responsibility to vote. It’s not an entitlement, someone who came before you earned and re-earned it time and again and passed it along to you as a sacred privilege. Don’t squander what they have worked hard to give to you.
As you exercise this gift, think about the things that I’ve discussed above. Think about the fundamental bedrock moral issues, not the trendy hype that all politicians (both republican and democrat) spin into their campaign. Think about where they stand on morale issues like what constitutes a marriage and should a third trimester abortion be allowed. Think about where, when, and how they use the word “entitlement” and determine if entitlements are earned or simply expected as a gift from our society/government. Keep in mind someone has to pay for those gifts. Think about the early years of our nation’s history and just how long it actually took for Americans to first declare themselves a nation, then to in fact make it so. That didn’t happen overnight. Ask yourself, did George Washington and the rest of our founding fathers have an exit strategy when they entered into the revolutionary war? Or did they in fact have only one clear goal in mind, “Freedom” for “all” men. Now ask yourself what that means to us as a nation and you as a citizen of that nation today. When you’ve done that, walk into the Voting Booth with your head held high and vote for the candidates that the combination of your heart and your head tell you to vote. If you do, it won’t matter to me who you voted for, only that you gave it your best shot and in fact acted upon your responsibility as citizens of this Grand Land and a member of this family.

True Blue #4

TRue Blue #3

TRue Blue #2

True Blue Pics #1

True Blue

I've decided to follow my kids and my baby brothers (...Baby... he's in his mid 40's) lead and enter into the 21st century with a blog page. Back about 10-12 years ago I used to write all of you on a near weekly basis, even though most of you never wrote back. Well, here's the 21st Century version of those letter, enjoy. So for any of you reading out there, this is dedicated to my "family" and is meant for all of my extended family. Those of you related by blood and those of you who are related by fellowship. I don't know why, but sometimes these are closer relationships than some family members. At any rate, here's to all my "Kith and Kin!"

For those of you who know me, you know that my Dad, HallaWeSheMo, in his own words, was a builder of beautiful bodies. To him this meant two things, his kids and his cars. We weren't always sure which took precedence, but we always knew we were in the top two (... not quite true, but sometimes we wondered if we weren't #2). For many, many years I have wanted to take a vehicle and restore it from the ground up, much like Dad did. Some how or other life always got in the way. Well, I'm at the cusp of achieving that goal. A lot of credit goes to the love of my life for allowing me to redirect household dollars that I'm sure she would have rather seen go elsewhere; and a fair amount of credit goes to my #3 son, Hy, who found the vehicle that became the start of this project. This has been just about two years in the making and now looks like it will make its debut in the next week to 10 days.

The first year was mainly spent in dreaming about it. Hy found my 59 Chevy Apache pickup, I bought it, and it sat for a year or more. I finally drove to Kansas and brought it back here to Arizona this time last year. My plan was to get it drivable and then slowly fix this, then that, and spread the expense across several years. My original plan was first the drive train, then the brakes, then the interior, then maybe some suspension work, and finally the body.

So much for the plans of "mice and men." First the I discovered that the clutch was worn out and needed replacing. I really wanted an auto transmission any way, so I decided to convert to the automatic transmission that had originally came with the 1967 327 cubic inch high performance Corvette engine that was in the truck when I bought it. Then I discovered that the Chevy 350 automatic transmission had rusted over the years and needed a complete rebuild.

Next, the carburetor died, and while repairing the carburetor I discovered the manifold had a crack and needed replacing.

The brakes were plenty soft so decided to have them adjusted. Then right after I had the old shoe style brakes adjusted I discovered that the brake cylinder need replacing when the brakes failed while going around a curve in traffic. So I decided that while I was working on the brakes to give them an upgrade to disc-power brakes. While doing this I discovered that the passenger side front end hub's inner race was shot, naturally we couldn't find a replacement, and that the new power brake module interfered with the front end steering. That lead to completely replacing the front end with a new rack and pinion power steering.

This lead to removal of the transmission and engine again. In the process the old exhaust manifold suffered some damage leading to replacement of the exhaust system (exhaust manifold, pipes, muffler, and tail pipe extensions).

As it moved along I discovered that I now had to buy 5 hole rims for the front end to accommodate the new front ends axle, while retaining the older 6 hole rims in use on the rear end,

I had already ordered an antique car air conditioner conversion when I bought the truck. So while it was all torn up I had them install the air. In the process we learned that entire water pump assembly and fan set up had to be replaced to accommodate the air conditioner conversion.

When I bought the truck about 1/2 of the wind shield wiper assembly was missing. Matching parts became a real pain, so I replaced the whole system to get to a standardized repairable wind shield wiper assembly.

Next it was time to get the truck painted. I contracted for a "off-frame" painting. Basically they take the body parts apart, restore any small ding/dent, paint it and then the truck is reassembled. One step in this process is removable of the wooden pickup bed. My highly skilled staff of mechanics decided to use a torch to cut off the rusted bolt & nuts that assembled the bed. Their intent was to simply replace the rusted bolts and nuts with new material upon reassembly. The only problem being that the process burned holes in the wooden slats of the bed. The only available solutions to replace the old wooden bed with a new one.

I also had a problem with the bench seat in the cab. The one that came with the truck was not stock, and it didn't fit. After searching for 15 months I finally had to buy a 58 Chevy Apache just to get the Bench Seat. That cost me $700, but I was able to sale what was left for $400. But of course the seat out of the 58 was worn out and need to be restored/reupholstered.

When my mechanics got the truck back from the painter and went to reassemble the dash board we discovered that instrument panel/gauges were inoperable, and that the wiring harness was old and brittle. So much so that it was unusable. In lieu of replacing the old gauges I chose to upgrade to a new digital instrument panel. It was only $50 more than replacing the original with an after market instrument panel. And of course I had to buy an entire wiring harness to replace the old brittle one.

Well, we're getting close. I expect to get the truck back from the mechanics this week. The only thing left is to replace all of the glass and the weather stripping in the driver and passenger doors. Hopefully sometime this month. Wish me luck, here's some pictures I took along the way. Enjoy, I know I will.

XOXOXO,

HallaKeySheMo