Tuesday, June 16, 2015

Guest Post -- Karyn (Mirehouse) Groskopf





Jim Mirehouse flew F-105 Wild Weasels in Vietnam. Those who know, KNOW. I knew him almost exclusively as my friend Karyn's Dad. Only talked aviation with him one time. Always meant to get back to that conversation. Karyn called me the other day to tell me he was in Hospice. Yesterday she said he was fading fast and sent this along:


1935; this year was a very important year. Here are some facts.


-Franklin D. Roosevelt was president.
-Babe Ruth was the baseball legend.
-Parker brothers released the board game Monopoly.
-Bob Hope was the main entertainer. 
-First canned beer made its debut.  
-Alcoholics Anonymous was founded.
-Penguin produced the first paperback book.

Many famous people were born: Julie Andrews, Elvis Presley, Sonny Bono, and Woody Allen, just to name a few.

My personal favorite though; My Dad, James Howard Mirehouse was  born. 

James Howard Mirehouse  "Jimmy Howard" and/or "Jim" was born on January 15, 1935 to Gilman and Susie Mirehouse. He grew up in Augusta, Montana where he accomplished many things and graduated from high school in 1951.

Words that come to my mind right now are driven, hardworking, successful and strong. He was so many things. Being a Lt. Colonel in the Air Force, a fighter pilot in Vietnam, a proud Businessman, a Husband, Brother, Friend/Father; my Dad knew and experienced so much.

Through my eyes, though, the only man I knew him to be was my Dad; one of my role models.

When I was young I thought he was the coolest, when I was a teen he was far from being that and now he is an inspiration. He taught me so much and prepared me for my future the best way he knew how. He showed me right from wrong and was always there for me even if it had to be through voice. He always had a sense of humor and one of his "old school" sayings like "hogwash"  always made me smile. I could continue on telling many stories and memories of my past with him for miles and miles. He was that influential.

I knew this day would come as I have been preparing myself- trying to be strong. I hate for this to happen as anyone should. I just have to accept that it is his time. He lived a very successful life. He did a phenomenal job here on Earth; being my Dad who kept me feeling sure.

Whenever I had a question he would have an answer.

He was my best ever walking brochure. I love him with all of my heart and he will always be with me. I am so glad he got to be a Grandfather. Fallyn met him and enjoyed his company if only for a short time.

God has gained another angel; one who is unique and will never be exchangeable!!!   

This morning Karyn called early. "My Dad died at 5:15." A little while ago she sent this:

My mind is blank. All my emotions are tied together in one.

Grateful is a feeling I have, even though the grieving is hard.

My dad passed away this morning. He was the greatest, smartest and wisest guy I know. He always had a plan and knew what he wanted to do…hero in my heart right from the very start.

He grew up in Augusta, Montana; a place he still called home. He was a determined man proving that he could accomplish anything he tried. I cannot imagine my life without him. He will always be with me through all the fond memories I have. He accomplished his lifelong dreams and tasks living his incredible dash. He was loved much by friends and family and made an awesome impression on all. It has been a bittersweet year. My emotions running wild as I was "Daddy's girl" and still am. He is now in peace with the angels. I mentioned I feel grateful! I am so grateful that my title for him was Dad.

"Death never takes the wise man by surprise; He is always ready to go."

James Howard Mirehouse, 1-15-35 to 6-16-15 RIP


 6-16-15

Monday, June 8, 2015

Brown Chitis





Sometime back in the depths of the cold war I came across a list of medical malaprops. One was "Smilin' Mighty Jesus" (spinal meningitis). Another was "Brown Chitis" (bronchitis).

Well, my chest cold went to Brown Chitis. I'm on the mend and back to work but it was a crappy few days in there. Oh well.

I did read Herbert McBride's "A Rifleman Went to War," a memoir of an American fighting with the Canadians in The Great War. A kindle bargain at only $2.53 or something.

Couple of cattle vids, just for fun.









Have a great navy day!






Monday, June 1, 2015

...like thunder





At 0420 I was out of the rack and by 0450 I was where I needed to be, checking cattle and preparing to treat a pair of sick calves. It's the life of a rancher.

For the first time in weeks the sun came up without having to fight through an overcast. Reminded me of...

June!

After such a long, wet, damp, cloudy time, I can't tell you how wonderful the sunrise was this morning.

As the sun came up I thought of a couple of things. Kipling's Mandalay for one, and in particular this line:

"An' the dawn comes up like thunder outer China 'crost the bay!"


S
Mandalay
Rudyard Kipling
1892


By the old Moulmein Pagoda, lookin' lazy at the sea,

There's a Burma girl a-settin', and I know she thinks o' me;
For the wind is in the palm-trees, and the temple-bells they say:
"Come you back, you British soldier; come you back to Mandalay!"
    Come you back to Mandalay,
    Where the old Flotilla lay:
    Can't you 'ear their paddles chunkin' from Rangoon to Mandalay?
    On the road to Mandalay,
    Where the flyin'-fishes play,
    An' the dawn comes up like thunder outer China 'crost the Bay!



'Er petticoat was yaller an' 'er little cap was green,
An' 'er name was Supi-yaw-lat — jes' the same as Theebaw's Queen,
An' I seed her first a-smokin' of a whackin' white cheroot,
An' a-wastin' Christian kisses on an 'eathen idol's foot:
    Bloomin' idol made o'mud —
    Wot they called the Great Gawd Budd —
    Plucky lot she cared for idols when I kissed 'er where she stud!
    On the road to Mandalay . . .



When the mist was on the rice-fields an' the sun was droppin' slow,
She'd git 'er little banjo an' she'd sing "~Kulla-lo-lo!~"
With 'er arm upon my shoulder an' 'er cheek agin' my cheek
We useter watch the steamers an' the ~hathis~ pilin' teak.
    Elephints a-pilin' teak
    In the sludgy, squdgy creek,
    Where the silence 'ung that 'eavy you was 'arf afraid to speak!
    On the road to Mandalay . . .



But that's all shove be'ind me — long ago an' fur away,
An' there ain't no 'busses runnin' from the Bank to Mandalay;
An' I'm learnin' 'ere in London what the ten-year soldier tells:
"If you've 'eard the East a-callin', you won't never 'eed naught else."
    No! you won't 'eed nothin' else
    But them spicy garlic smells,
    An' the sunshine an' the palm-trees an' the tinkly temple-bells;
    On the road to Mandalay . . .



I am sick o' wastin' leather on these gritty pavin'-stones,
An' the blasted Henglish drizzle wakes the fever in my bones;
Tho' I walks with fifty 'ousemaids outer Chelsea to the Strand,
An' they talks a lot o' lovin', but wot do they understand?
    Beefy face an' grubby 'and —
    Law! wot do they understand?
    I've a neater, sweeter maiden in a cleaner, greener land!
    On the road to Mandalay . . .



Ship me somewheres east of Suez, where the best is like the worst,
Where there aren't no Ten Commandments an' a man can raise a thirst;
For the temple-bells are callin', an' it's there that I would be —
By the old Moulmein Pagoda, looking lazy at the sea;
    On the road to Mandalay,
    Where the old Flotilla lay,
    With our sick beneath the awnings when we went to Mandalay!
    On the road to Mandalay,
    Where the flyin'-fishes play,
    An' the dawn comes up like thunder outer China 'crost the Bay!


The other thing I thought about was A Dawn Like Thunder and June 4, 1942. How many June mornings have been savored by free men and women, paid for, in part, by those men?


Torpedo Eight. Wickimedia Commons
VT-6, Enterprise, June 4, 1942. Wickimedia Commons
Well.

In truth, this morning I felt awful. Bit of a chest cold, and chest colds are hard on me for various reasons.

But when the dawn came up like thunder I felt better, and when I thought about Kipling and Midway and about forty-'leven other things I felt much better.








This little guy (if 175 lbs is little) didn't feel so good. He needed some antibiotic and electrolytes and an anti-endotoxin shot.

Which perked him up a bit. He's still sick, but on the road to recovery.

And with that out of the way, time to get going on the rest of the day. May you all enjoy yours!
Yes, I do have Popeye forearms. No, I'm not wearing a dress.






Sunday, May 31, 2015

Wildflower Week





Today is the second day of Nebraska Wildflower Week, which is generally the first full week of June bookended by the preceding and following weekends.

Today is also the first day the sun has been out in full force for about seven weeks. That's astonishingly unusual for this neck of the woods. Eight inches of rain in May compared to the 2.75 average, 4.5 inches in April compared to the 1.25 average. With five months in the books we've accumulated more than 13 inches. Our normal annual precipitation has averaged 16.8 inches since 1893.

There's a good chance I'll be putting up mucho hay this year.

With all the cool and wet the flowers haven't really taken off yet, but here are a few (clickbignify).

Shell-leaf Penstemon (Penstemon grandiflorus)

Western Salsify/Goatsbeard (Tragopogon dubius)

Western Wallflower (Erysimum asperum)

Western Wallflower and Yucca (Yucca glauca)
Also, just for the hell of it and in honor of the Triple Nickle, calf number 555.

Ya'll have a fine navy day and don't forget to stop occasionally and smell a flower.

Tuesday, May 26, 2015

The day after Memorial Day





Just as it's become popular to "thank a vet," so too has it again become popular to to describe the sacrifice of many of our fallen military heroes as "a waste."

I understand the sentiment. I agree that many of our fellows choose to squander the gift they've been given, to take the supreme sacrifices for granted, to be selfish and sectarian and unprincipled and thoroughly malignant.

But those things have nothing at all to do with the selfless sacrifice of our American heroes. Their sacrifice can never be a waste, because they died supporting and defending this:


Not you. Not me. The Constitution of the United States. The codification of the greatest idea of all time, the last best hope, the heart and soul of the state of being that is America.

Which allows for this, times about 217 million. 24/7/365 (and a quarter).













Monday, May 25, 2015

Corpsman Chronicles VI: The First and the Last





Our helo was on the outbound leg of a standard plane guard orbit. The boat was shooting jets and preparing to recover aircraft from the first go of the day. I didn't see the crash.

I heard the Boss's call though.

"PLANE IN THE WATER, OFF THE BOW!"

Our Sea King made a quick, steep banked turn, followed by an immediate call.

"Jaguar's tally, inbound."

Over the ICS, "S-3, four chutes."

In the back I was shucking out of my SV-2/LPA, flight suit and boots, and shucking into fins, mask and snorkel, and SAR vest. It was January in the Mediterranean, so I was already wearing a wet suit.

Training. The muscle memory of endless training was driving my body, freeing my mind to prepare, review, anticipate. This would be my first real swimmer deployment. Part of my mind recognized a gut filled with butterflies. Another part was icy calm and professional.

I sat in the door as we came to a hover. Twenty feet below an aviator struggled with a sodden and sinking parachute. There was blood in the water.

"Go, Go, GO," shouted the crew chief, each "go" accompanied by a slap on the back. I levered myself out and dropped feet-first into the sea behind the survivor, sweeping shroud lines aside as I plunged beneath the surface, then spinning the man to face me as I bobbed back up.

Automatic. Training.

About a third of his head was gone.

I signaled the situation to the crew chief and the helo moved off, horse collar descending as the rescue hoist paid out cable. There were three other aviators in the water.

I opened the koch fittings on the victim's torso harness and let the chute sink away into the depths. I pulled the beads on his LPA and he bobbed higher in the water as the flotation lobes filled with gas.

Then I waited, one hand clasped to the victim's harness, and watched the rescue unfold. The helo plucked one survivor from the sea and sped off toward the boat. Another helo hovered over another sinking parachute. The ship's motor whaleboat chugged past, heading for the fourth parachute.

Eventually the whaleboat returned. Their rescue had become a recovery as well. We chugged back to the ship with the mortal husks of two American heroes aboard. The other helo delivered a third hero to the flight deck.



########################################################################################################



The boat shuddered as she crashed through storm tossed Mediterranean waves. Another January in the Med. Different boat, different decade. The storm was a big one and the Ageless Warrior was closed up tight, sailing into the heavy seas. White water was coming over the bow, lashing the jets and helos chained to the deck with heavy weather tie downs. There was no flying, of course, and the weather decks and sponsons were secured. It was far too dangerous for men to venture outside the confines of the ship.


A few minutes after a particularly severe wave-crashing shudder came the "medical emergency" call over the 1-MC. The medical response team dashed off. Reports began coming in, and they weren't good.

"CPR."

"Can't get an airway."

"Defibrillating."

As the stretcher bearers bustled into the treatment room with the injured sailor, the surgeon took one look and told me to scrub.

"You'll have to rub his heart."

I scrubbed and donned gloves.

With the casualty on the table the surgeon called for a knife, then slashed the chest open on the left side.

"Spreader."

As I turned from donning my gloves I heard the ratcheting sound of the rib spreader opening, allowing access to the heart. I slid my hands into the sailors chest and clasped the heart between opposing palms. The heart should have been turgid with blood and beating, but it was flaccid and still.

"Heart's flat," I reported.

The surgeon glanced at me and mimed "heart compression" with his bloody hands, then quickly performed a stab thoracotomy on the right side of the chest. The internal pressure of hemorrhage in the chest was relieved, finally making it possible to get air in. The gas passer quickly placed an endotracheal tube and began squeezing the ambu bag.

As I compressed the heart, I could feel the left lung inflating. A good sign?

A pair of flight surgeons started large bore IV's, one in each arm, and began administering Ringer's Lactate as fast as it would flow. The gas passer injected a cocktail of medicines to make the heart beat and raise blood pressure.

Within my hands the sailor's heart began to quiver in fibrillation. Another good sign?

On the floor of the treatment room a pool of blood began to grow, supplied by a steady stream flowing out of the casualty's mangled torso.

As room-temperature Ringer's Lactate replaced warm blood, the sailor's heart began to cool.

Then it stopped fibrillating.

The senior medical officer stuck his head in the compartment.

"I've activated the walking blood bank," he said. "How much will we need?"

The surgeon glanced at the casualty and quickly, silently polled the treatment team. He sighed.

"We won't need any, Spud."





Friday, May 22, 2015

9.80665 m/s^2





And of course this made me think of this:


This one's long, but might be worth your time.








Thursday, May 21, 2015

Tuesday, May 19, 2015

What can YOU do?





We all know what Memorial Day is, right?

It’s the first day of summer, according to the rocket surgeons in major media, and one of the 15-25 or so days of the year that most government employees, bank employees, and selected others get paid to stay home to burn meat and drink beer.

Since it’s a paid holiday, some may wonder what the celebration is all about. What does it represent?

Something about dead people I think.
S
Anyway, here are a couple of points to ponder.

The other day I had a conversation with a local person who told me that it was their right to have people die for them. “I expect people in the military to die for me,” this person said, “that’s what they get paid for and it’s my civil right. It’s in the Bill of Rights, “Freedom from Fear and Worry.” (Some slight confusion there with FDR’s notion about government guaranteed freedoms).

On the same day I had a conversation with a veteran. “The only reason this country exists is because of the military,” he said. “The only reason!”

So, to cut to the chase, they were both utterly wrong.

In the first case, let’s think it through from the first founding principles of America. “We hold these truths to be self evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their creator with certain unalienable rights, that among these are life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness.”

No one is better than another, no one is worse. We are all fundamentally human. And not just human, each of us is a sovereign human being, independent and the master of our own lives. None of us are slaves, and none of us are slave owners.

Nor are we owned by the government. The very next sentence has this to say: “That to secure these rights, governments are instituted among men, deriving their just powers from the consent of the governed.”


Given the above, how can anyone believe that they have the right to have others die for them for any reason, let alone to shield them from fear and worry?

How? It’s pretty simple, really. This is what the young adult person I was talking to has been taught. This is what that person believes to be true.

This being the case, I find it hard to be judgmental. The person is misguided, and in my opinion has been used shabbily by the education system and the popular ideological mainstream narrative. Life is going to be unnecessarily hard for this person as they struggle with learning about reality and the universal truths our nation was founded on.

My veteran friend is another matter. I’m quite cross with him and quite -- irritated -- by his attitude. Sure, he served in the military, and that’s a wonderful thing. But it’s not the only thing. Where does he think his pay, clothing, food, equipment, and everything else he touched or used in the Army came from? And does he think that having served two years in the military that he’s done with serving his country, done with working hard to be an American?

This nation is not the united states of the military. It is the United States of America. We are all sovereign citizens. None of us are better or worse than our fellows. We all play vital and important roles. The neurosurgeon is every bit as good as the ditch digger. These truths are described in the Declaration of Independence and guaranteed by the Constitution of the United States of America.

My veteran friend seems to have forgotten this. I wonder if he remembers the oath he swore when he joined the Army?

"I do solemnly swear that I will support and defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic; that I will bear true faith and allegiance to the same; and that I will obey the orders of the President of the United States and the orders of the officers appointed over me, according to regulations and the Uniform Code of Military Justice. So help me God."

I wonder if he remembers that the oath of enlistment has no expiration date?

There would be no military if the sovereign citizens of this nation did not provide for it. It’s become quite popular to “thank a vet” these days, but in my view it should be equally popular for veterans to thank their civilian fellows, not only for funding and supplying the military, but for granting us veterans the opportunity to serve our nation in the military capacity.

Back to Memorial Day. Despite my rather tongue-in-cheek statements at the beginning of this piece, most Americans know perfectly well that Memorial Day is a day set aside to honor the sacrifice of those who fell in military service.

Whether Americans take the opportunity to do so is up each individual. We’re all sovereign citizens. We can’t be compelled by the government or by our fellows to yield such honor. As free men and women, we make our own choice in the matter. Period.

Now if you’ve read this far you might agree with me that the United States of America is an extraordinary place, and that to be a citizen of this great nation is perhaps the greatest boon any human can have.

You might also be frustrated and worried about the state of our nation; apathetic and selfish people, overreaching government bureaucracies, the erosion of civil liberties, the encouragement of selfishness and the discouragement of selflessness. You might be wondering, “what can I do about the mess our country is in?”

In short, you might be asking yourself, “what can I do about how messed up all these other people are?”

The best answer is the simplest answer. Do what’s on your own plate first. To paraphrase scripture, don’t worry about the speck in your neighbor’s eye until you’ve removed the rock from your own eye. In other words, be the best human being you can be. When you’ve got that mastered, then you can branch out. And when you’re ready to branch out, you’ll find that the key is to lead rather than to compel. Leadership is 99 percent example, and only one percent direction. If you do it right, when you’re ready to branch out and start fixing the mess, you’ll find that you accidentally began leading somewhere along the line.

The point isn’t to fix all the problems of society. In a land of sovereign citizens, the land of e pluribus unum, our job is to be the best Americans we can be, and to treat our fellow sovereign humans the way we wish to be treated. A equals, not as “them,” not as “the other side.” Not as helpless victims, nor as superior or special. Not as “the problem,” but as the precious human beings they are.

It’s not always easy. But it’s always right.

The problems of American society will only be fixed by sovereign Americans, the many become one, Americans living principled lives based on the natural truths of our national founding.

We can have differences. We're supposed to have differences. As sovereign Americans we respect our differences because we respect each others sovereignty.

Since we’re talking about Memorial Day...

Fred Lincoln Hewitt, III was 76 when he passed away on May 14. Fred was born September 25, 1938 in Buffalo, New York. He graduated from The Pingry School in 1956 and from Hamilton College in 1960. After graduating from college he joined the navy via the Naval Officer Candidate School in Rhode Island.
Fred Hewitt, 1938-2015. RIP Shipmate.

Initially he served in the Guided Missile Cruiser USS Boston, followed by a stint as an instructor at NOCS. His next assignment was flight training at Pensacola, Florida. Fred had been due to get out of the navy, but decided to stay in after thinking about President Kennedy's famous speech "Ask not what your country can do for you. Ask what you can do for your country."

At that time he did not know if he would make the Navy a career, but he felt he could "give more years to his country." Later on he survived 205 missions over North Vietnam in the Grumman A-6 Intruder and had 352 carrier landings. He served in A-6 squadrons VA-42, VA-85, VA-75 and VA-34. Fred was awarded the Silver Star, two Distinguished Flying Crosses and 16 Air Medals.
Punchers, 1967. Fred Hewitt is back row, 8th from left.
After 13 years, Fred decided to leave the Navy in order to spend more time with his family. From 1973 through retirement, he served as a high school Athletic Director, history teacher and ice hockey coach, both here in the states and overseas.

Fred married and had a family. He leaves behind a wife of 53 years, four daughters, and eight grandchildren. He also leaves behind the legacy of a sovereign American citizen who lived a great American life. There simply weren’t many days in Fred’s life when he wasn’t leading by example, making a difference, serving his nation and humanity as a whole.

So on Memorial Day, if you’re so inclined, think about and honor the sacrifice of those who fell in service to America.

And if you really, really want to honor that sacrifice, if you really want to thank a vet, then do it this way:

Be a great American. Live a big, rich, great American life.