A Scout is Reverent

There is something deeply profound in watching your children grow and learn.

A parent’s hope is that their child will be safe, healthy and successful. How often do we get the chance to help direct that hope into reality?

If you have a son in Boy Scouts, or a daughter in Girl Scouts, you get that opportunity frequently, but it all depends on how involved you want to get. It’s like anything else in life – you get out of it what you put into it.

Boy Scout Oath

For me, and two of my four sons (the oldest two are Eagle Scouts and have aged out of the boy program), the concentrated microcosm of life, an opportunity to grow exponentially, right before their father’s very eyes, comes each summer, the third week of July, at a Boy Scout camp like no other, at Yawgoog (pronounced YAH-goo) Scout Reservation, in Rockville, Rhode Island.

In the woods of West Central, RI, a ferry ride and short drive from Long Island, New York, there is a Boy Scout camp over 100 years old that holds the spirit of Peter Pan and Lord Baden Powell close. It is a magical place known only to those who have witnessed its inspiring works.


Like trying to catch lightening in a bottle, to describe the impact of the place is impossible. I can only scratch the surface, but that may be enough.

My ten year old son, newly crossed over from Webelos Scout (Cub Scouts) into a Boy Scout troop, finally getting to go to Boy Scout camp was almost too much to bear. Bouncing off the walls does not begin to describe his pre-camp status.

My wife and I tried as best we could to focus him on being productive prior to going to camp. We had him think about and prepare things to pack in his footlocker trunk. We had him complete Merit Badge packets (lengthy assignments that usually go with earning Boy Scout Merit Badges). We and his brothers told him stories of his brothers and Yawgoog past. We forced him to do laps in the grandparent’s pool in preparation for the swimming test and Swimming Merit Badge. The “I gotta pee” dances when he talked about going to camp continued, but he did everything that was asked of him and more.

His capacity for absorbing information seemed limitless. Bright eyed and very bushy-tailed, my 10 year-old son was going to simply burst if he didn’t get to camp soon.

My 15 year-old son was going into his fifth year at camp. He had just finished the final Merit Badge he needed to begin working on his next and final rank: Eagle Scout.

Several months prior to going to camp he had earned the leadership rank of Assistant Senior Patrol Leader (ASPL), right next to one of his best friends, who was selected as the Senior Patrol Leader (SPL), the head of the boy leadership for the Troop.

A week before we left for camp the Scoutmaster, someone who was counting his 21st trip to Yawgoog, asked my 15 year-old and I to come to his house to check some forms and to have a talk about camp. I suspected what the meeting was really about, but wanted the Scoutmaster to bring the topic up with my son.

We handed in some medical forms, which the Scoutmaster meticulously examined as we sat, the three of us, at his dining room table. A place I was very familiar with, as it was the place where countless Boards of Review had been held over the years.

A Board of Review is a meeting that takes place where the Troop Committee (volunteer adult leaders) considers the advancement in rank of a Boy Scout. It is semi-formal. Boy Scouts must be in full Class A uniform, from head to toe or they are sent home or not advanced.

The boy is questioned on his knowledge of Scouting, but in reality the review is an opportunity for the Committee to seek information from the Boy Scout about his Scouting experience. Open ended questions are asked in order to evoke what Scouting means to the boy. It is an opportunity for the adults to peer into Scouting from the boy’s perspective and get thoughts and feelings from the boy on how things are going in the Troop and how things might be improved.

It was at this table that the Scoutmaster asked my son if he knew why he had asked him to his house. My son, nodded, head down.

The Scoutmaster said he had received an email from the SPL’s father that day saying that the SPL’s mother, who had been battling breast cancer for a long time, was entering hospice, and did my son know what hospice was?

My son said he didn’t, but that the SPL had texted him earlier in the day to tell him his mother was not doing well. She had been in the hospital (again) and the prognosis was grim.

We explained that hospice meant the SPL’s mother did not have long to live. It could be days, and probably not weeks before she passed. Hospice was a place to make people as comfortable as possible before dying.

We let that sink in. My son’s head remained bowed. I could see by the expression on his face that he was battling tears.

The Scoutmaster broke the silence by saying that the SPL was probably not going to summer camp.

Summer camp was usually the culmination of the leadership trail for SPL’s and ASPL’s. My oldest son had been SPL for nearly a year and then led the boys at summer camp with his best friend and genius as ASPL. That ASPL later would earn a full ride scholarship to Cornell University, studying computer science and then later working on Watson, the IBM supercomputer that, among other things, can diagnose illnesses better than a team of human expert doctors. These two boys rocked Yawgoog that year. My oldest son brought his guitar and would sing to the Troop at night, accompanied by other close friend-Scouts. It was truly a magical year for him and his friends, and for all of us who witnessed it. But that was my oldest son’s personality. He is outgoing, unabashed, gregarious, ice in his veins in front of a crowd. In his senior year in high school, on a whim, he tried out for the school play, Beauty and the Beast. He won the role of Lumiere, the singing French candelabra. He nailed it, including an authentic sounding French accent that was both understandable and comical.


My 15 year-old was none of those things. He could get in front of a crowd, but his leadership style was opposite of his oldest brother. He is subtle, shy, and an assimilator. He is understated, but thoughtful, sensitive and intelligent.

The Scoutmaster asked him how he would feel about being SPL for summer camp in place of his friend.

There was a long silence.

In education (I have been an educator for over 30 years) as in Scouting (I have been a Scouter for over ten years), we learn to wait for an answer, to give the person time to think and formulate a good answer.

We waited.

Finally he said, “Well, it’s kind of out of my comfort zone, but yes.”


Relief that he answered (we don’t wait forever), and relief that he said “yes.” I was proud, not so much that my son would be leading the Troop at summer camp, but that this boy chose to move forward, in spite of the tragedy brewing with his friend’s mother. He chose to go out of his comfort zone and accept the challenge, a challenge of leadership and a challenge of the heart.

Life is hard, and is full of difficult and challenging moments, the toughest of which seem to just spring up without warning or reason. This was going to be his Crucible.


My Great Uncle Harry (God rest his soul) once told me, “M’boy, courage is not the absence of fear; it is doing what you fear for the right reasons.” I could not have been more proud of my son at that moment for his courage. Comfort zone? Terror zone. But that’s what life and Scouting are all about, going outside of your comfort zone and surviving and then thriving.

Summer camp is many things to a boy: adventure, challenge and fun. For parents who are fortunate enough to go as adult leaders and witness and participate in summer camp, it is work, hard work. But we don’t talk about that, we just do it. We do it because we love it, and the boys.


Comfort zone? There is no comfort at summer camp, no creature comforts, that is. Bug nets, heat, walking. Oh, the walking! I logged 6.7 miles on average per day shadowing my 10 year-old. All good, barking dogs and all!

The food was much better this year than in the past. The meat looked and tasted real; the vegetables, fresh and delicious. “Bake Shop,” the name for the daily cake or cookie treats, were made in the dining hall kitchen rather than in the past ordered and received from a commercial baker. The baked goodies at camp were almost always “special,” in that they were almost always birthday Bake Shop. The boys whose birthdays fall within the week are sung to by the whole camp in the large dining hall, with an emphasis on an extra (and extra loud) “YOU!” at the end of each phrase.

FullSizeRender (6)

There was always lots of singing, chants and noise in the dining hall. Some troops would get up and sing (always during the meal) popular songs by the Beatles, Monkees and others. Sometimes, out of nowhere, the boys would get up and do something that if aliens witnessed it they would keep going to another planet with sane people on it. The “SPOON!” event must be seen to be believed. Just grab your spoon and then stand and raise it over your head and yell, “SPOON!” for no apparent reason. The boys loved it, and the adults didn’t seem to mind either. Heck, how many times in your life do you get to do something completely different and not be judged? The boys have had this tradition for years, and even had t-shirts made the previous year that had a large spoon on the front that said, “It’s a Yawgoog thing,” on the front, and on the back “You wouldn’t understand.”

It was in this spirit of fun and fancy that camp got off to a normal and exciting start.

My ten year-old practically bucked out of the starting gate, and it was all I could do to keep up with him once he figured his way around. This boy is a born navigator. Wherever we go, whatever we do, he wants a map. He likes to lead. He strives to be first, no matter the situation. The kid bought a black scarf in the Trading Post (nicknamed the “407” – no one knows why) that has a map of the whole camp reservation (Yawgoog is actually three camps in one on 1,800 acres) in white on it.

FullSizeRender (4)

My ten year-old was so psyched he wanted to earn six Merit Badges! He had done pre-requisites for some at home prior to coming to camp, and was ready to do as many as he could. The average for Scouts is about three Merit Badges. First Year Scouts tend to do more, as we strongly encourage them to do at least one “as needed” badge they can complete on their own time, and then one evening Merit Badge that meets after dinner, usually Indian Lore. The idea is to keep them busy, completely exhaust them, so as to reduce the tendency for down time and home sickness. Whenever I have had a First Year Scout I have volunteered to shadow and guide all the First Year Scouts. If ever there were an achievement segment (little colorful pictographic arched patches that go on a circular felt patch that hangs on the uniform) for Herding Cats, I have earned it several times over.

FullSizeRender (3)

As fun as it is frustrating, by the end of the week, when the boys are most comfortable with you and then asking questions, and asking questions, and asking questions, patience becomes the overriding virtue of being an Assistant Scoutmaster. We pretty much “father” all the boys at camp except for our own, who we try to let be more independent. Our own sons may still spend time with us, but are encouraged to ask Scouting questions of older boys and the other adult leaders.

At each campsite, one for each Troop, there is a flagpole. The boys learn proper care and handling of the American flag in Cub Scouts, so by the time they are in Boys Scouts, it is second nature.

FullSizeRender (5)

By the second day in camp, things are organized and ready for the routine of getting up, taking care of personal hygiene, or what passes for personal hygiene at Boy Scout camp (we all know a Boy Scout is clean, right?), the boys have assigned jobs in the morning, such as latrine duty (cleaning toilets), filling lanterns, Camp Police (trash detail), Water Buckets (since everything is made of wood or canvass, at each lean-to or tent there is a large red coffee can that needs to be filled with water each morning for the potential of fire – these cans also circle the fire pit), and tidying up the living quarters. Just before heading off to breakfast and a day of fun, the SPL (my son in this case), calls the Troop to, “Fall in at the flag pole.”

The boys fell in at attention. The SPL, standing with an assistant at the flag pole unfolds the Troop U.S. flag, and then called for the Troop to give a “Hand salute.” He attached the flag and the assistant raised the flag.

What happened next astonished and surprised us, but no one moved. No one flinched. There had never been a deeper silence in this Troop, nor, I can imagine in these woods.

As the flag reached the top of the pole, the assistant slowly brought the flag down to half staff.


This was the subtle beauty of my son’s leadership style and loyal friendship. The half staff flag posting was in memory and honor of his friend’s mother, who had passed away the morning the Troop left for camp.

No one had mentioned the passing except in reverent whispers.

The boys had thought of the gesture, asked and then received permission from the Scoutmaster, who had said nothing to the rest of us.

This simple but profound gesture was all that was ever publicly said about the death of a Scout’s mother. It was all that needed to be said or done.

This was not done just once. It was done every morning, and the flag hung that way until the boys retired the colors after dinner each evening. Every time we entered or left or sat in camp, there it was, a constant reminder that one of us, one of the Troop, was in pain and mourning and therefore so were we. All for one . . . .

Camp went on. Merit badges were earned, and my 10 year-old earned his six. 135 were earned by 42 boys.  A boy earned first place in the mile swim, we won the Water Carnival, and earned the distinction of Honor Troop for the week. Many boys earned rank advancements. Most did something they’d never done before, such as catch a fish, paddle a canoe, MAKE something with their hands, learn about Native Americans, and experience deafness and blindness on the HAT (Handicap Awareness Trail) experience.


And every boy learned what it meant to be reverent. Every boy learned what it meant to be loyal. Every boy learned what it meant to honor a friend. Every boy learned what it meant, even if ever so slightly, what it meant to be a man.








This great country of ours is as diverse as each individual in it, and that in part is what makes US so strong. But there are reasons why our country is as great as it is that go back to when and why it was created in the first place.

There are places you can go to rediscover our American roots, good, bad and indifferent. And there are places you can go where it seems that you are right back there, 241 years ago and before, when we were on the cusp of coining this great adventure we call Democracy.

My wife and three youngest of five children did just that recently. With the oldest at home and working two part time jobs seven days a week, and the next oldest, a recent high school graduate, needing to attend an orientation for a summer job that started the week we were to return, the five in the majority took off for the south, not too deep, just deep enough.

On our way to Williamsburg, Virginia, we stopped for several hours in Washington, D.C. We hadn’t been there since September 12, 2006, when we attended the release party for a book I had a personal narrative in at the Library of Congress. “Operation Homecoming: Iraq, Afghanistan and the Home Front, in the words of U.S. Troops and their Families,” Random House, 2006, edited by Andrew Carroll. This is a great American wartime anthology unlike any other. I receive no royalties or residuals from sales, so when I say every American needs to read this book, it is with earnest intentions. The story, “Taking Chance,” which was made into an HBO movie starring Kevin Bacon as a U.S. Marine Corps officer escorting the body of a Marine killed in the Global War on Terror home is among the wrenching and captivating stories, nearly one hundred of them, including mine. It is unique because it includes stories from the loved ones of those deployed, the forgotten half of our military family, and the source of its sustainment.

Operation Homecoming

My piece in the book written about my middle-middle son who is now 15, but was in the story only two days old when I abandoned him to answer the call of duty just months after the tragedy of 9/11/2001. I deployed soon thereafter to the U.S military detention facility at Guantanamo Bay, Cuba, where I was the ranking U.S. Army Medical Department officer with the Joint Detainee Operations Group, Joint Task Force 160, from February to June, 2002. But I digress.

We came into D.C. through the north. Because I hadn’t paid attention to which corner of D.C. I had entered into my smart phone GPS (there are four quarters of the city) to get us to our reserved parking space, we ended up initially in North East Washington, D.C. on a wild goose chase. Not the plan, but instructive for the children, with its rundown buildings, trash, vacant lots with overgrown weeds, and homeless Americans (veterans?)  in the streets of our great (?) capital. “This country should be ashamed of this,” my wife said, thinking out loud.

I re-plotted our destination and then after a minute or two it appeared: our great Capital Dome. I asked if anyone knew what was on top of the dome. No one knew. “The Statue of Freedom,” I said. “It’s a bronze statue of a woman ready to defend her new found liberty.” I felt a pang of humiliation that my children didn’t know this. Humiliation as a parent, and humiliation for the schools my children attend. We are dropping the ball. Thank God for trips, which help remind us of these important details apparently forgotten in the classroom, and at home.


In four hours we walked over six miles, from the Washington Monument (closed until 2018 for elevator renovation), to the White House (hosting at the time an impromptu protest from across the street in front of Lafayette Park by Pakistani Sikhs against the visiting premier from India), to the majestic WWII Memorial, to the visceral Vietnam Memorial, to the staid Lincoln Memorial, to the haunting Korean War memorial, before heading back to the car. We had a pleasant picnic lunch under a shade tree on the National Mall prior to visiting the monuments, having bought deli sandwiches from a place next to the hotel where we parked. We brought bottled water and carried it and other sundries in the back pack I was issued for my deployment to Iraq (OIF III) in 2004-2005. I also wore my desert cammo boonie hat from Iraq, and a black rayon Army racing shirt from the days when the U.S. Army had a player in NASCAR, a revered sport in my house. Bath rooming was surprisingly simple. We used really nice hotel lobby restrooms, and no one ever gave us a second look. The opulence of which I hadn’t seen since using the lobby restroom at Al Faw Palace at Saddam Hussein’s Hunting and Fishing Grounds, Camp Victory, Baghdad, Iraq, in ’04-’05. All fixtures were gilded there, surrounded by fine marble and stone with many ornate mosaic Arabic writings.


The day was spectacular. Warm in the sun with partly cloudy skies, and cooling breezes that chilled the brow in shade, which was abundant along the National Mall and around most of the memorials we visited.

I made a point to remind the children that it was possible that veterans and/or their loved ones may be visiting the memorials for the wars, and that they should be quiet and respect the privacy of those people. They did splendidly and made me proud. Only whispered questions were asked here and there, and they noted every memorial feature, walking quietly among the stone, marble, bronze, steel and granite.

We arrived in Williamsburg, at a resort timeshare generously provided to us by a former pastor of ours. We met him and his family later in the week at the pool and then for dinner, a needed reunion for both families; a touch of home, far away from it.

The day after arriving in Williamsburg we visited the restored Colonial town. The last time I had been there was with my wife, B.C. (Before Children). Shame on us for not making it back in over twenty years!

The place is well cared for, and if one didn’t know better, you’d swear you were back in Colonial times, but for the sprinkling of on-going restoration projects (even workmen wore period costumes, some with power tools!). Tour guides and players in period garb and lingo made the day a time travel experience. We took tours of the Governor’s Mansion and the Capital, and listened to a freed black slave, Marquis de Lafayette and Gen. George Washington give speeches. We saw displays of weapons used in actual Indian Wars and the Revolution. The American Revolution. That’s right. We fought a bloody and long war in order to boost the royal tyrant English from our land. Our land. In the name of Freedom and Liberty.


Since joining Ancestry.com and doing a DNA analysis I have discovered over 12,000 relatives and counting, several of whom were Revolutionary War soldiers, including one, Private Jeptha Bartholomew (1755-1813), who crossed the Delaware with General George Washington, on the night of December 25-26, 1776. One was also Pocahontas, or “Rebecca” Powhatan (1595-1617). The name of the place we stayed at was the Historic Powhatan Resort. The connections added magnitude and depth to the experience.

The following day we visited Jamestown and Yorktown. First gliding through museums and watching films and then exploring re-created forts and villages and farms. All incredibly restored and recreated. We learned that the idioms, “lock, stock and barrel,” and “don’t go off half-cocked” among many others, were from the parts and function of a colonial musket – still used today! How simple life was back then, how focused on survival, both from the elements and the natives and the rulers. The children put on garments and armor from the past and watched demonstrations of colonial medicine, musket and cannon fire, cooking and games.


It was magical to watch them engage in the spirit of the times, to immerse themselves in what they were seeing and experiencing. The questions flowed. Time flew.

The next and last full day in Virginia was pure fun: Busch Gardens amusement park. We were already big fans and Vacation Club Owners of Disney, and especially of EPCOT and the World Showcase in Orlando, so the international layout of Busch Gardens made us feel right at home. We made a point to see most of the shows, including the “Octoberzest” German folk dance and song show, and the Irish step dancing show called “Celtic Fyre,” depicting the goings on before an Irish wedding at the local pub. Fresh brogues and costumes of a 1950’s Ireland, there was even an American cameo – a female jazz/tap dancer who gave the blarney’s a run for their money. But the steps, oh, the steps! Fierce, alive and succinct! Outcroppings along the edge of the stage bubbled out and were home to seated audience members nay inches from the shoes, those loud, flashing, dazzling and wonderful shoes! Breathtaking and exciting, we wished we could join them up there with some divine dancing skills just for the moment.

Oh, how I wished the shows never ended! They were perfectly performed and spectacular!


German feast, ice cream and milk shakes; lots of drinking water, though it wasn’t hot, but warm and pleasant.

Roller coasters thrilled and delighted. Animal shows amazed and tickled. Water rides refreshed. We laughed, we played, and we ran and sang. And we missed the missing two brothers.

Sunsets and late evenings at the resort pool ended daily chapters we were writing in the family history book. The next day however, we were up-and-at-‘em!

We made a decision to go home through Gettysburg, PA, instead of taking a coastal route, or traveling through D.C. again. Going through Gettysburg would also steer us toward Lancaster County, PA, on our trek east, a favorite place of ours. Detours would cost us hours getting home, but we remembered that, “Life is a journey, not a destination.” (Anonymous.)

While we were driving up to Gettysburg from Williamsburg, and before we stopped for breakfast we engaged the children in what their favorite part of the vacation was. We all had our picks, but my 15 year old said, “The vacation isn’t over yet.” I took that to mean that nothing really floated his boat, including the roller coasters at Busch Gardens.

We stopped just outside Richmond, VA, for breakfast at a Cracker Barrel restaurant (one of our FAVORITE places to eat and play; checkers games between my 15 year old and ten year old prevailed throughout the vacation – they even brought a set with them on the trip – Cracker Barrel has many LARGE checkers sets around the place, so guess who ate their meal super fast so that they could play?). My wife and 8 year-old daughter love to look at the clothes and knick-knacks, and I enjoy window shopping the military and patriotic fare. The food of course mimics homemade and is tough to beat.

At the restaurant, my 15 year-old, an avid NASCAR fan (blame me) was fididdling on his smart phone – typically verboten at table – and he looked up innocently before the meal arrived and said, “Did you know that Richmond International Speedway is only five miles away?” My wife and I looked at each other, shrugged and said, “Why not?” There was no race that day, but their website said the administrative offices were open 8:30 a.m. – 5:00 p.m.

We stopped in and were surprised to find a very sparse selection of fan items; only a t-shirt or two and a few hats. No die cast race cars for purchase. A twenty-something worker behind the glass at the front office counter, out of the blue asked if we would like a tour of the track. “WHAT?! Really?!” we all seemed to exclaim at once.

He was serious, and seriously was not going to charge us anything (my wife said this was “Southern Hospitality”). He said to meet him outside in the parking lot. He motioned us over to a pace car! My wife and daughter were not interested, so stayed in the minivan for the fifteen minutes we were gone. I told my 15 year-old sit up front, and we talked NASCAR on the way to the track. The attendant drove us around the completely otherwise deserted NASCAR track, a short one, but a banked tri-oval. In all the years I had gone to NASCAR races as a kid and I NEVER got a ride around a track, let alone in a pace car! Although the car was only going about 60 miles per hour or so you could feel the pull to the outside of the track. I could not imagine going nearly three times as fast, with other cars all around me trying to go just a smidgen faster! My son took video from the front seat, and then the attendant asked if we’d like to take photos at Victory Lane. We did!

He drove us back; I got a photo of the attendant with the boys by the pace car and then got his email address to send him a copy of the photo and say “Thanks!” before we resumed our trip. We made it a point with the boys that they needed to pass this forward in their lives. Someone was so kind and generous with them, and they needed to recognize that. They nodded and said, “Yes, we will.” I told them that they would remember this experience the rest of their lives and that they had an obligation to pay it forward. It is a Boy Scouts of America philosophy that a Boy Scout does a “Good turn daily,” without the expectation or acceptance of reward. He does it because it is the right thing to do.


I have noticed a subtle difference in the boys after we returned home; they are more eager to help their mother around the house, not complaining about chores. My 15 year-old even washed my car without being asked. A small act of kindness has sent ripples through the pond of humanity for two young boys; simple, pure and delightful.

Gettysburg was unplanned, so we stuck to the visitor center movie, museum and the miraculous cyclorama painting depicting the third and final day of the battle in Gettysburg. Painted by French artist Paul Philippoteaux and a team of assistants, the painting is 22 feet high and has a circumference of 279 feet. With the special lighting in the room where it is displayed, the features and figures appear real. My daughter kept commenting that she thought there were actual people and horses moving in the painting. We got to see the painting twice because the first time through the light show wasn’t working and needed to be “rebooted.” That turned out to be a blessing in disguise because the children hadn’t gone through the museum yet. After seeing the artifacts and learning more about the Civil War and the great battle, the painting had more meaning for them – and hopefully more influence. The movie that started our experience highlighted slavery at first, and then the important details of the battle, and finished with President Lincoln’s Gettysburg Address, which we had seen and read engraved on an inside wall of the Lincoln Memorial several days before. The greatest speech in American history was lain before my children, and the place it was given just a short walk away, along with the acres of hallowed ground that none of us could ever consecrate, we can only mourn and then inspire ourselves to preserve and defend what part of Gettysburg lies in each of us, black or white, Yankee or Rebel. In the words of actor Louis Gossett, Jr. on the eve of the 2016 Academy Awards, which was boycotted by many African American actors and entertainers, and on the red carpet, Mr. Gossett, Jr., himself a winner of an Oscar, said in response to a question about what he thought of the boycott, said, “We are all one family, the American Family.”


Despite Ancestry.com, I knew of at least one relative, my second great grandfather, Freeman Woodman (1838-1935), who fought in the Civil War. I grew up knowing one of his daughters, my great grandmother, Florence (Woodman) Merrick (1883-1989). That’s right, she passed away at 106. Just before her passing she could still tell you stories about the farm she grew up on, and of the little girl in pig tails who used to play and work on that farm, my mother. Stories of Great, Great Grandpa Woodman abounded, but they were stories taken from the man himself, passed down in a great oral tradition, that before radio and television was the main entertainment and transfer of information. We called it “conversation.”

Freeman Woodman, 1838-1935

My Grandpa Woodman left a legacy however. He kept a diary during his Civil War days and beyond (over 70 years in fact). As a young woman, my mother had written a weekly column in a local newspaper in southern Wisconsin where she grew up, in which she would share portions of the diary. Any soldier who has seen combat will tell you that war is 99 percent boredom and 1 percent sheer terror. My great, great grandpa’s diary proved this out. He marched through Georgia to the sea with Union General William Tecumseh Sherman. He was also a standard bearer for a time, picking up the flag in battle when the man carrying it in front of him fell from a Rebel musket ball. If there has ever been a time in our history when we all need to pick up that flag and rush on, it is now.

The last stop on our trip was to be Lancaster County, Pennsylvania. We have so many fond memories of Lancaster, especially of certain out of the way restaurants and shops and attractions. Our favorites were in and around Strasburg, PA, the train place. The Pennsylvania Train Museum is there, and across the street from it is a living steam engine or two, with restored period coaches, a dining car and a station/shop. This is where my older three boys got to ride the “real” Thomas the Tank Engine years earlier when they were into such things.

Just east of the station, and in sight from there, is the Red Caboose Motel, where we had stayed as a younger and smaller family on several occasions. Restored cabooses, renovated into hotel rooms, are the kitsch. Cramped and standard, these “rooms” looked better on the outside, with colorful depictions of actual cabooses that tailed great American railroad trains. The main hotel front desk and lobby is a big renovated farm house, with a shop, restrooms and a large working model train display. On either side there are restored dining cars that formed the Casey Jones Restaurant. This was to be our final stop before pushing home on Long Island, New York. We looked up the menu on line before arrival and tried to make a reservation, which they didn’t take. The menu looked enticing, with one section of normal American fair, and another section of “Amish Favorites.” That appealed to us. Comfort food and home cooking, farm fresh!

When we were seated the menu looked very different, and we inquired. The waiter, a jittery twenty-something local farm boy said with a nervous laugh, “This is a brand new menu as of two hours ago. I guess we’ll learn it together.” Yikes!

The railroad dining car we were sitting in was a restored original, and the aisles were narrow; only four to a table. We took the opportunity to have an adult table and a kids table, which makes for a very pleasant dining experience. The kids were close enough to converse with, but far enough away to at times pretend my wife and I were on a date.

We ordered and then waited, a little longer than one would expect, but because of where we were and what we could see out of the dining car window, it didn’t matter when we were served.

Our view looked west and towards the steam train station, across a recently cut alfalfa field. The crop lay in neat serpentine rows, a deep and fresh green. In the distance, we could make out a lone Amish man, fixing a team of five large and beautiful horses to the front of a bailer and flat bed trailers behind.

After a time, the team was urged forward, and the machine, most likely run on kerosene, the fuel of choice for the Amish, began to bale the alfalfa in neat blocks that plopped onto the deck of a trailer, and then organized by the Amish man into a low pyramid.

As the team came towards us, the sun sank lower in the sky, playing hide-and-seek behind large billows of dark and silver clouds threatening rain and a storm from the distance. I rose from my seat and told my wife I was going to go outside to take a picture of the team from the front porch.

The wind was blowing ahead of the storm, and there was a flag on the porch post blowing into my framing of the farm scene in front of me, as if God was saying there had to be the Stars and Stripes in this American picture. As the team got closer to us I started snapping photos.

We are transported sometimes when we can let go of who we have to be and then live in the moment. The connection with the land, the farmer, the horses, the flag, the weather, and the trains was strong. Like gravity pulling me into a vortex of Americana. I spun in my own wonder and joining with the scene, visceral and fragrant. I let it take me in.

When I returned to my seat, the food had finally arrived. Before this our dining was simple and delicious, from period cooking at Williamsburg, to local southern breakfasts, hearty and wholesome. This however was amazing.

I had ordered an American favorite: pot roast dinner. The meat, pulled apart and glowing warm with gravy was literally melt-in-your-mouth velvet, and lay atop mashed potatoes that tasted handmade, smooth and buttery but with pieces of potato floating in the pillows of goodness, filling me with warmth. This centerpiece was surrounded by garden fresh vegetables and roasted and quartered tomatoes. The tang of the tomatoes followed sweetness and complimented the heavenly roast and potatoes. I had never had such a meal. Even Mom’s home cooking from scratch was not comparable (sorry Mom!). There was something special about this meal. It seemed prepared with such care and attention to detail. Every element was perfection and came together in a symphony of goodness. I wished it never ended, and I ate it slowly, savoring each flavor in each bite; layers of nourishing virtue.

On our way out there were the working model train display, a petting zoo of farm animals (and a llama or two), a playground, and various other farm items to observe, including buggies, water pumps; barns and a silo you climb up to the top in.


We didn’t stop again until we pulled into our suburban driveway, a few minutes past midnight. Our magical and stupendous journey had ended, like Cinderella’s coach reverting back into a pumpkin, once again we faced mundane routines, left for a week to suit themselves.

But this is America, too. And it, like everything else in this life, is what we make of it. We have choices, and those choices have consequences, good and bad. We reflect on the choices of our ancestors, who lived and died so that future generations could enjoy the fruits of their sacrifices. My Grandma Woodman, 106 when she passed in 1989, at the time represented the halfway mark in the history of our nation as its own country. She was born 107 years after the signing of the Declaration of Independence, and I knew her. How very young this country of ours truly is. How tangible some of its memories.

But if you let it, our great land can speak to you, your heart and soul, from a recreated colonial town, village, settlement, Revolutionary or Civil War battlefield, to the heart of American strength and pride, working the field in the Land of the Free and the Home of the Brave. America.

Kathy Griffin: Deep State Terrorist

Before blowing themselves up, future martyrs leave behind a video for their family and friends to view in memoriam. It tells about their devotion to Allah and Jihad.

Kathy Griffin‘s version was a little different, but in it she finished with: “We’re not surviving this.” She traded the black clothes for a blue “Pussy Bow” blouse.

So, along with controversial photographer, Tyler Shields, Griffin committed a premeditated act of terror.

In fact, Kathy Griffin is a psychological warfare suicide bomber for the Deep State. Psychological warfare strikes at the deep reaches of the mind, where carefully selected images can be permanently planted for maximum effect.

You cannot un-see a bloody, beheaded President Donald J. Trump. Neither can his wife nor his children. The damage is done, and the die is cast.

Trump Melania Barron

The effects will last a lifetime, and perhaps contribute to one or more cases of Post Traumatic Stress, or Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. 11 year old Barron is most susceptible. In his conscious mind he can rationalize that it was a fake head, in his unprotected subconscious, he saw his father’s head, bloody and separated from its body.

But Kathy Griffin is a mere foot soldier in the Left Wing morass of false narratives.

As far as the Deep State is concerned, it’s business as usual: “Nothing personal, Mr. Trump, we just want our power back, by any means necessary.”

The desired effect, which I’m sure is consuming the President’s mind and soul, is making Trump think about whether or not this President thing is worth it. The act was designed to make Trump and his loved ones decide if public service is worth it.

Is it?

Is putting your loved one’s health and safety on the line ever worth it?

Trump doesn’t NEED to be President, but he DOES need his family in tact.

It is possible that Trump has discussed this kind of thing with his family, even before accepting the nomination for President. It is also possible that no one, no one could fathom this depth of depravity.

Be certain that Kathy Griffin won’t be the last PSYOP suicide bomber. She is merely a picket in a series of attack waves from the deep-pocketed Left. They will keep coming, and coming, and coming.

The attacks will all be different and unpredictable. They will target Trump and his family, friends, loved ones and supporters, all “soft targets.” They will be of the nature where he will be forced to question the loyalty of these people around him. Who are they really? What do they want from him? Why would they want to hurt him?

Loyalty is the number one most important value in the Trump empire. For without loyalty who can you trust? And without trust you have nothing, especially with family and your closest associates.

The Deep State has taken the gloves off. They are advancing an all or nothing agenda. They are trying to embrace Trump in a death grip, and they may have already succeeded. If not, they will settle for death by a thousand cuts.

Deep State

If not a resignation or impeachment, at least he wouldn’t seek a second term, nor would his associates or family. The cost would be too great.

Stress kills. Lack of sleep causes stress. Unhinged images can cause sleeplessness.

If Trump is “all-in” for being the President, and feels he can reasonably protect his family, and has already accepted his own fate and prepared his family for it, he will continue to march.

Trump has surprised us in the past, and may continue to surprise us for a total of eight years. But the road there promises to be more than any of us bargained for.

How much more can he take? How much more can WE take, or will we take?

We must understand this act was planned, from top to bottom, and that Kathy Griffin will be well taken care of for the rest of her life. She took one for the team and will be enshrined in the Deep State Hall of Fame.

She martyred herself in the same league with the worst of Islamic State murderers, taking with her many minds as casualties. For this there can be no forgiveness, and no quarter given to the newest member of the enemy’s team in the Global War on Terror.


Gitmo Trials and Unending Wars: PC Myths Prevail

In a recent article in the Gloucester Times, that covered a trip to the U.S. Military Detention Facility at Guantanamo Bay, Cuba, by Essex County District Attorney Jon Blodgett, he discussed the place and the current trial procedures against accused war criminals there. This is my reaction to the story.

Don’t fall into the trap of saying “We are now in a series of unending wars.” That ends the conversation.

The “war” is the point after all, the Global War on Terror, the “thing” over which all the PC talking heads cringe. They won’t say it, you won’t say it, and until we all say it and then talk about, it won’t go away.

Generals NEVER discuss a battle or war without also discussing an end state. Be it cyclical or linear, an objective is the goal. So here’s one for you: Until all Islamists are dead or no longer have the means or will to kill us we must defend ourselves. From that you can build courses of action, choose one and then close on the objective.

The problem is politics and PC rangers. Unless one’s political and military goals are the same, one CANNOT be successful in war. And, like anything else in life, if you can’t be honest about the problem you cannot possibly hope to solve it.

Winning the Global War on Terror will be measured in part by the lack of seeming random acts of terror. If the world does not come together to defend itself against the radical Islamists, perhaps like many countries did against Barbary Pirates several hundred years ago, then the war will seem endless due to it’s prolonged persistence over generations.


One question I have is, why are so few Arab countries actively involved in the battle against ISIS, the Taliban and radical Islam? So it will take a group effort. And those closest to it must be reminded, “You are either with us or with the terrorists.”

Regarding the Gitmo trials you neglect to discuss the major difference between what’s going on there and what occurred at Nuremberg or even Washington, D.C. in 1942, when 6 of 8 dry-foot German saboteurs were executed for nothing more than breaking the Law of Land Warfare and the Geneva Conventions. Gitmo holds murderers and terrorists. The German saboteurs hurt no one and destroyed no property, yet, less than eight weeks after their capture six of them were dead. How in God’s name did that happen?


We followed the law. Military Commissions were established – with the unanimous consent of the Supreme Court. Habeas corpus was denied. The trial took place according to the Geneva Conventions and Law of Land Warfare, giving the accused the SAME rights a U.S. soldier would enjoy in a courts martial.

Now, instead of going by the established law, we go by former President Obama’s 2009 Military Commissions Act, which gives unlawful combatants accused of war crimes virtually the SAME rights you or I would enjoy in a federal court of law. See the difference?

Lawfare is one of the techniques Islamists are taught in training if they are captured. We know this from training documents obtained from them, such as the “Al Qaeda Manual.“. They are trained to lie about their treatment in captivity, lie about their past, lie about who they are, where they are from and what they were doing when apprehended.

They are trained to demand better conditions and to demand a lawyer. And they are trained to disrupt detention operations and to threaten, befriend and wage psychological warfare on guards and others who are responsible for their fair treatment and care.

Now, sadly, we have the legal debacle on stage at the Gitmo trials.


It’s too bad we don’t have the fortitude or courage to simply do what’s right and follow the Law of War or Geneva. It worked at Nuremberg and it worked in D.C. with the German saboteurs, and it would work at Gitmo.

Maybe President Trump will get wind of this and then erase the 2009 Military Commissions Act, simply follow the Law of War and Geneva, and then move these trials along. Maybe.

Montgomery Granger is a retired, three-times mobilized U.S. Army Reserve Major, and author of “Saving Grace at Guantanamo Bay: A Memoir of a Citizen Warrior.” He has made many appearances on Fox News programs discussing Gitmo and detainees.

An Inquiry Into Values: Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance (Long read)

Robert M. Persig died recently; he was the author of the metaphysical classic with the inverted title above. I did that to the title because you almost never get the subtitle when people mention “Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance.”


Without the subtitle one gets the impression that the book is about fixing two-wheeled vehicles. The Zen part, unless you know anything about Zen Buddhism, is usually completely ignored.

For me, the most important part was the “inquiry into values.” Eventually, I got that motorcycle maintenance was the vehicle through which the author discusses philosophy with us. Values are beliefs, feelings and actions which are important to us, the most important of which are actions. I was very intrigued by this title.

The author uses motorcycle maintenance as a metaphor for defining quality. Quality in one’s life. Quality of thought, of writing, of being.

My older brother turned me on to the book in my early teens. I wasn’t mature enough at the time to appreciate the metaphor. In fact, developmentally, I could not have understood or appreciated it. I, like most adolescents and teens, lived in a literal world. Our humor was literal (MAD magazine), our vocabulary was literal (slang notwithstanding, “bad” was good), and our social world was literal (if you could touch, taste, smell, see and hear it, it existed).

Zen was as far from literal as you could get.

In my late teens I began to become more aware of perceptions other than my own. I began to be curious about existentialism. I grew as a Christian and as a young man. At 17 I became interested in motorcycles as a means of transportation.

My father was into “bikes,” and owned a Honda Gold Wing (1979 GL1000), a BMW 750 (1975) and a 1958 Zundapp (not working).


The Zundapp 250 was a German mountain climber, so had a short gear ratio that increased the torque. Once running it was fast (not quick) and did much better than its small engine size suggested. The trick was getting it running.

Zundapp 250

My father noticed my interest in the bike from the get-go. I asked him about it incessantly. I’d been driving cars (not my own) since I was 16, and the summer of my junior year in high school was coming up and my mother had gotten me a job through the university she worked for. I would be picking jojoba beans in the hot, arid fields of Southern California about 15 miles from my home and I needed a way to get to and from the job.

My father’s deal was simple, get the bike running and then I could use it in the summer.

Challenge accepted!

The clutch plates were rusted together. Rust is a bad sign when opening up the guts of a machine. It meant the bike had been neglected and left outside for God knows how long. This would later prove to be its undoing, but initially it was just something to overcome.

It took a few weeks, but I finally got the thing running. It had a beautiful, throaty sound in open throttle. Waaaaaaaaaaaaah! Not too high pitched, either, like the little rice-burner dirt bikes that everyone seemed to have. It was masculine and bold, but not unnecessarily loud like a hole in your muffler.

My father had taken the paintable parts off of the bike while I was working on the clutch plates and he’d painted the thing near candy apple blue. Gas tank, fenders and frame. It was a sight!

I could not stop at a traffic light or gas station without at least one person giving me the thumbs up with a head nodding broad smile. Conversation starter? This was So Cal. Bikes were IT. And this thing turned heads.

Sadly, it didn’t run for long, as the rust thing reared its ugly head chronically. The fuel tank was rusted. We tried pretty much everything, lastly putting an in-line fuel filter in place so I could clear the line frequently. But it wasn’t enough.

The several weeks I had my own transportation was enough for a teenager to be smitten.

I had learned the inner and outer working details of a motorcycle in a very intimate way. I understood the relationship between the parts. I learned the holistic philosophy of one thing affecting the whole, a mechanical butterfly effect.

I knew the sounds, shakes and smells necessary to diagnose issues before they became problems. I learned the limits and safe limits of the being that was the machine under me.

I learned to respect the machine. I learned that the weakest part of any system was the human part, either in design or in maintenance or in operation, the human was always the weakest link. I learned to trust what I knew about the thing, and then act on what I knew.

By the time I had started to read the book again I was already half way through it with my knowledge and appreciation. The literal layer of Zen was mine. I got it. I was it.

Then the book took a turn for me.

I had epiphany after epiphany.

What was QUALITY? How did I know?

What was EXCELLENCE? How did I know?

Big, juicy questions at just the right time in my life.

Once you learn how to question, the world literally opens up. Everything becomes interesting and a puzzle or challenge to be solved or met.

That’s about the time I went to college. Perfect timing.

The summer of my freshman year in college my father helped my purchase a Yamaha 360. An upgrade in engine size from the Zundapp, but not a perceptible improvement in power. The Yam’ was peppier, and quicker, but the speed and power of the 250 Zundapp would have almost been a match for it.


I used the 360 to go up the California coast a spell to a summer camp counseling job near Ronald Reagan’s Rancho De Cielo (Ranch in the Sky), in the hills overlooking Santa Barbara.

It was a handy machine, and a babe magnet of sorts.

In the end, when it was time for me to return to college, since I didn’t have the means to take it back to Alabama with me, I loaned the bike to a German friend of mine from college who wanted to stay in CA for another several weeks before heading back to Alabama. He left the bike with a family friend in CA before he returned to school.

Just before my third year of college I became financially independent. I got a lot of grants and loans for school, and had enough to buy my first brand new motorcycle, A Yamaha SECA 550. A four cylinder beast. Quick, fast and furious!

Yamaha XJ550 Seca

White features with red trim (my favorite color combo!). A very stylish sport bike, the 550 had an abbreviated racing faring. Just enough to hide behind while laying down on top of the fuel tank, while trying to break new land speed records, aerodynamically reaching speeds unmentionable. There are limits to a speedometer.

Every bike has a sweet spot. A speed at which it becomes one with the universe. A speed at which there are virtually no vibrations. With my Dad’s BMW it was 75 miles per hour. It was like a dream. I never rode it by myself, but rode plenty of times as a kid hanging onto my father from the back. It was a smooth ride to begin with because at that time BMW’s had drive shafts and not chains to drive the rear wheel.


The BMW seemed to float and fly at 75. I knew that was how fast we were going because I could see the speedometer over my father’s shoulder. It was bliss. Just hearing the hum of the shaft driving engine, wind winding around my helmet, fluttering my shirt and jeans.

As described in Persig’s book, you become one with your environment, you are not separated from the scenery, and you are in it, a part of it, as opposed to taking trips in a car, where the windshield becomes more of a movie screen, a separation between you and nature.

The sweet spot for the 550 was 65 miles per hour, exactly! 64 m.p.h. was no good. Shakes. 67 m.p.h. was no good. Vibrations. But at just 65 it hummed. It flew. It loved the world at 65.

I took that bike up and down the California coast. I took that bike from San Francisco to Chicago to New Hampshire back down to Alabama and Florida, through Texas, back to California and then all over again. Alone.


Literally from the red wood forests to the Gulf Stream waters, to the New York islands, this land was made for me and my bike.

The most spectacular scene in my life on a motorcycle came when I rode through the Rocky Mountains. So vivid and beautiful, as if God had saved his best work for this one place on the planet. The only comparison I could make was the Swiss Alps. Well, in America, we don’t need no stinking Alps! We got the Rockies!


As in the book, when you’re on the road lots of things can and do happen. Almost all of the things are a surprise. They are a surprise because if you take care of your bike like you take care of yourself, a beloved pet, or even a child, you know its tick’s and tock’s. You predict when it needs this or that. You pay attention to mileage and oil changes and tire pressure and chain tension. So, when something goes wrong, you are surprised, taken aback. What could possibly have gone wrong?

Nothing serious mechanically for me, ever.

Was it my careful Zen maintenance routine? Maybe. Fate? Maybe. Luck. No, not luck. Luck only comes into play when you’re NOT trying to do something. The only luck in motorcycle maintenance is self-made bad luck when you don’t do the right thing.

The book had me from “go” once I was mature enough to appreciate the concepts. The book helped me take care of my machine, and helped me develop my perceptions.

I wanted to experience arête, excellence. I wanted everything I did to be perfect, although nothing ever seemed to be that way unless I was on my bike, going here or there, on the open road, “bugs in my teeth.”

I last rode a motorcycle in 1987.

I had used up my nine lives, so-to-speak.

Thunderstorms on the open plains of Texas, with nowhere to hide. Large semi-tractor trailer trucks pushing waves of water, like shooting a pipeline in the Southern California surf, except if you wipe out on the road you are done.  You go faster in the rain and hydroplane and you’re done. You go too slow being passed by a semi in the rain and the wave pushes you over, and you’re done.

So, how do you get through it? Prayer. You pray you stay upright as the monster passes you. You pray that when you can see again you are still on the road. You pray for that lone overpass in the distance you can sprint to before the wave hits.

Heavy traffic in L.A., getting to a third job, eight lanes of bumper-to-bumper. Do you split traffic and play Russian roulette, or do you play it safe and risk becoming a pin ball? A little of each please, but go light on the splitting! Oh, and be careful of falling asleep in the So Cal heat and monotony of the thousands, no tens of thousands of vehicles, and exhaust, and dirt, and grime, and BUMP!

One time and one time only did I ever rear end anyone. It was on the 360, heading into Century City. Fell asleep for a split second, woke up to a bumper sandwich. It doesn’t take much. Maybe two or three miles per hour, and not enough time to react. I hit and the bike went over to the left. I let it go and then examined it for damage. None. Man behind me out of his car, “Are you alright?” “Yes, thank you,” I said. “Bike OK?” “I think so, thanks.”

You shake it off quickly and then get back on. Or else.

I fell asleep approaching Chicago once at dawn. The highway wasn’t too busy yet, and I had been riding for a very long time with just a few hours of sleep in an Iowa campground restroom. I had hallucinated myself through most of Iowa’s rolling hills to the east. I stopped once at a diner for food and coffee. The images my sleep deprived mind created were frightening. Winding roads fed into the giant mouths of dragons! Monsters grabbed and licked at me with chomping jaws!

I was grateful for the sun coming up. I was almost at my destination, but the sleep monster had me.

The next thing I knew my toes were bouncing on the turf of the median of the highway. My body was so stiff I had maintained my posture as the bike slowly glided off the road to the left. My hands still but barely on the hand grips, the accelerator gently returning to the off position.

I was probably going about 25 miles per hour when I woke up. I quickly pulled my feet up and could feel my whole body cringe, certain I was about to crash and then die.

I resisted the urge to apply breaks, either front hand or pedal rear. For applying breaks on grass could be the last thing you do unless going super slow.

I let the bike slow, and then gently stopped her and got off. Putting down the kick-stand I stood beside her, shaking.

Now what? I asked myself.

Now what are you going to do?

Years before, while on the 360 I was riding up the side of Mt. Rubidoux, in my home town with a childhood friend on the back. I hit a patch of gravel on a turn and had no choice but to lay the bike down. I wasn’t going fast, but I had lost the road. Once the contact part of the tires lose contact with pavement you are done. My friend hopped off, and then at the last second I let the bike go and it slid to a stop.


Without hesitation, my friend said, “Get back on.” I was just staring at the bike, heading into shock. He didn’t let me. He took my arm and led me to the bike. “Pick it up,” he said. “Let’s go.”

There was no discussion. I don’t remember saying a word.

I do remember thanking him later.

Now, standing in the grass median, which sloped gently toward the center, I remembered that Mt. Rubidoux event. I started up the bike, slapped myself hard once on each cheek, and then cursed at myself: “You stupid @#$%^#*&%$#! Do you want to die?” “NO!” I answered myself. “Then stay the %$#@ awake!”

Off I went, promising, and then keeping the promise, that I would never ride in that condition again, and I didn’t.

I kept a Walkman radio/cassette player in my jacket, and fed the earphones into my helmet. My pockets were full of tapes. To this day if I hear a song from one of them I flash back to the open road, on a bike, alone. Very relaxing.

Billy Joel. Simon and Garfunkle. America. The Eagles. Willie Nelson. Chicago. And soundtracks, Jesus Christ Superstar, Annie, A Chorus Line, Godspell, Fiddler on the Roof. I would sing to all of them, which helped me stay awake, and alive.


Too many close calls. And then finally, in 1985, after my last summer camp job before graduate school in New York City, I met my future wife in the graduate housing lobby. Smitten at first sight. Still together, and remembering that first meeting like it was five minutes ago.

The tussled helmet haired California boy meeting the cosmopolitan sheik Long Island girl. She says she “knew” at that moment she was going to marry me. All I know is that the first girl I met in New York City might as well have been the last. No looking back.

The thing was that when we started dating and I offered to spur us around the City on my bike she wouldn’t have it. She wouldn’t even sit on the thing standing still.

“Why?” I asked.

It took many times asking that question to get an answer. Finally, she told me her best friend and neighbor, a boy, had died riding a quad in the woods behind their neighborhood while they were in Jr. High. She promised herself she would never get on a quad or motorcycle and she didn’t.

After grad school I returned home on my bike, alone. My future wife was doing three masters degrees on scholarship, and I had just done one. I spent a year in California with the Seca, but grew love sick and finally sold the bike to a friend for $1, and got myself back to New York and into a teaching career.

I taught health, physical education and occasionally “Life Skills.” I was also a Dean of Students, all in the New York City public high schools, mostly in Manhattan.

Academic freedom was alive and well, so as long as I taught the curriculum I could really add whatever else I wanted.

I added values education and a unit on spiritual health. I never preached to my classes. In fact, my lessons were never about me. When asked, I would defer. “Mr. Granger, what religion are you?” “That’s not important,” I would say. “What’s important is what you think and believe and act upon.”


Robert Persig’s book played prominently in my health and Life Skills classrooms.

The discussions on quality and excellence were lively and intense at times. My students could not stop talking about the subject as they left class. Discussions would never end. I gave them projects and outlets for their awakened passions and creative thinking.

Persig said no one can define quality or excellence, but we know it when we see it.

You can set grading criteria or rubrics, but do they capture the essence of a piece of work or art?

Spelling and grammar are elements of writing, but are they essential to something being special, or excellent?

Should I give grades or subjective narratives?

Does one learn better when they know there won’t be a final grade but a written evaluation? Or does the lack of a grade confound the competitive spirit of a straight “A” student?

Are we even ready to really learn anything substantial at 18, 19, 20 or even 21 years old?

This is the meat and potatoes of Zen and the Art of motorcycle maintenance: An Inquiry Into Values.

It is a gift that keeps on giving because there are no pat answers to the questions posed. To the inquisitive mind the book is a playground, a mental Disneyland.


Persig wrote other books, even a sequel to Zen. But the first book is a standalone classic that will forever spark the memories I’ve shared with you here, and that is an excellent A+ awesome job of the highest quality!

Trump needs to get Gitmo right

President Donald J. Trump has said “We are fighting sneaky rats right now that are sick and demented,” “We’re going to win,” and it would be “fine” if US terror suspects were sent to the U.S. military detention facility at Guantanamo Bay, Cuba, for trial.


One of the President’s first actions then should be to shred the 2009 Military Commissions Act and then proceed using the military commissions’ guidelines from Army Field Manual (FM) 27-10 (a.k.a. The Law of Land Warfare), which is the U.S. adaptation of the Geneva Conventions. By that law, those accused of committing war crimes would receive the SAME rights as U.S. soldiers covered by the Uniform Code of Military Justice (UCMJ). This would be fair, just and speedy.


Currently, the Military Commissions Act of 2009, hastily written by then President Barack Hussein Obama and Department of Justice head Eric Holder, and then passed by a Democrat majority Congress, gives detainees accused of war crimes virtually the SAME rights as you or I would enjoy in a Federal court of law. Outrageous!

According to FM 27-10 and Geneva, by NOT following the rules for lawful combatants, unlawful combatant detainees actually earn ZERO extra legal privileges. That’s why these detainees are not considered Prisoners of War, they didn’t EARN the status, which carries many privileges.


In 2009, Congress provided these Islamists-who-want-to-kill-us with the full blessing of the “lawfare” they were seeking. Captured al Qaeda training manuals we read at Gitmo back in 2002, identified strategies the “Brothers” should use if captured. “Lie about your treatment.” “Claim you were abused and tortured.” “Demand a lawyer.” The bad guys know that once allowed into the American justice system they could use lawfare to their advantage and either delay punishment, or get early release. Both have come to pass for virtually all detainees.

In WWII six of eight German saboteurs caught dry foot on U.S. soil were executed within eight weeks of their capture. They had hurt no one, nor had they destroyed any property. However, they were not wearing uniforms, did not carry their weapons openly, and had the means, motivation and intent to kill Americans and to destroy U.S. property. Two of the eight captured saboteurs flipped on the others and were spared the electric chair.


Remember, those six German saboteurs who were executed had not hurt a fly nor blown anything up. They were deemed spies and in violation of the Geneva Conventions. After being denied habeas corpus, they were tried by military commission unanimously approved by the U.S. Supreme Court. Spies caught on the WWII battlefield could expect summary executions ordered by field grade officers and above. Every detainee brought to Gitmo could have been lawfully shot dead on the battlefield.

Instead, they were taken to Gitmo for interrogation to “obtain valuable information” that would “save many lives,” according to President George W. Bush, in his memoir, “Decision Points.”


What’s different now? Why did we release at least 730 known/suspected terrorists? Why are we allowing foot dragging in the court room? Why are we allowing religious garb, prayer time, Qurans, prayer rugs/beads, directions to Mecca on guard towers, use of U.S. military chaplains, halal and special holy holiday meals to known enemies?


The moniker “Club Gitmo” certainly applies. In the early days, when I was the ranking U.S. Army Medical Department officer with the Joint Detainee Operations Group, Joint Task Force 160, tasked with overall monitoring of bad guy and good guy care, I was appalled at the difference between how we treated the detainees medically and how we treated our own soldiers. The detainees had immediate and full medical attention and care. Daily visits from an Army medical Non-Commissioned Officer, who collected medical intelligence that I would scrub and then utilize for reports to the Army incarceration command and Navy medical command, provided insight into how the enemy was trying to take advantage of the system.

In the end, each detainee received the highest quality medical care available in the U.S. military. If a specialist or special equipment were needed, they would be flow in from the States. If U.S. personnel required specialized treatment, they were sent home, a medical re-tread.

Sick-call for detainees was 24/7/365. All they had to do was cry and complain about this thing or that and then ZIP! Into the internal medical facility. Signs and symptoms of an illness or disease and BINGO! Off to the JTF detention medical facility. All air conditioned, and doting-over by Navy medical personnel who did not leave their bedside manner at the door.

Operation Enduring Freedom

If U.S. military personnel needed medical attention they could NOT be taken to the Naval Station GTMO medical facility (Navy Hospital), which was reserved for permanent party military and civilian residents. JTF personnel had to first see their organic unit medical personnel (medics), then wait to see someone with more medical expertise if necessary and available. Most U.S. personnel could not find adequate transportation to take them to an authorized medical facility, as most Army units guarding the detainees had to leave their organic vehicles behind in the continental U.S. Many walked or had to take the base shuttle bus, sometimes waiting hours between buses.

This doting behavior towards detainees must stop. Detainees should never receive better care than our own troops. The goal was of course to keep them alive, but the pandering and doting was difficult to witness.

Now, the detainees are allowed to wear white robes and long beards. In the beginning, for hygiene reasons, all detainees were clean shaven and had shaved heads. I think we need to go back to orange jumpsuits and no beards or head hair. It’s cooler in the hot climate of the Caribbean and more fitting for unlawful combatant Islamists who want to kill us.

President Trump, who said he would fill Gitmo up “with some bad dudes,” could turn all of this around. He now has the chance to get it right. Let’s hope and pray that he does.

Trump vs Obama: The Gitmo Challenge

As sure as Casey Jones perished in a pile of smoke and broken steel amid the flame and fury of a head on collision between two burly and brave locomotives, President Barack Obama and President Elect Donald Trump are bearing down for a modern version of that fateful clash.


“There should be no further releases from Gitmo,” Started the determined Tweet. “These are extremely dangerous people and should not be allowed back onto the battlefield.”

With this pure and logical Tweet, almost as if on cue, the President Elect seemed to be responding to an editorial by the Washington Post earlier in the day, calling for him to close Gitmo.

His response? In your face.

Even more, it is finally a direct challenge to the President regarding his failed policy of releasing unlawful combatant Islamists back into the Global War on Terror.


According to the Director of National Intelligence, 30 percent of released detainees have returned or are suspected to have returned to the fight. And what about the other 70 percent we don’t know about, where are they?

Everyone except the President and his floundering administration knows that releasing dangerous terrorists into a world plagued by terrorism is not in the best interests of the American People, or anyone for that matter.

For a President Elect who ran on and has repeated his top priority of “America First,” his Tweet about not releasing more detainees is consistent and shows the courage of his convictions.


The President Elect has now done more than any other person, in government or out, in the last eight years to challenge and put the President on notice over his catch and release policy with regard to emptying Gitmo, most recently of the “worst of the worst,” as labeled by Donald Rumsfeld back in 2002, when Gitmo opened. These men are dyed-in-the-wool terrorists, highly trained, skilled and committed to killing innocent people of any race, age, gender or nationality.

Recently, President Obama announced the probable release of up to 22 more detainees from the U.S. military detention facility at Guantanamo Bay, Cuba. This prompted a few outcries from this law maker or that, but nothing seemed to get the President’s attention regarding the fact that we are still at war, and that releasing our enemies while that war is hot is at worst treasonous, and at best pretty damn stupid.


The gloves are off, the face slapped and the challenge laid bare. The President can run, but he cannot hide from this test of manhood made in a simple Tweet. He must face the issue or move along quietly into private life and then leave the Big Boy issues to the Big Boys.

Sending Josh Earnest to deal with this one would be inadequate, even for Barack Obama. He has got to respond, and respond in a positive way or risk any shred of rationality left in his now fast crumbling presidency.

When the President responds, he must do so without the tired and false narrative regurgitated one more time in the Washington Post article. There is no “international outcry” to close Gitmo. Gitmo has never been used by our enemies as a recruiting tool, and the Administration has never once provided evidence of this claim. There is not nor has there ever been systemic torture or abuse at Gitmo, and calling the approved and legal enhanced interrogation technique “waterboarding” torture is a lame liberal after-the-fact label that just won’t stick. The fact is that there is no moral comparison between Gitmo and how our enemies treat captives.

Waterboarding works, and maybe it saved your life. Just ask Khalid Sheikh Mohammed, mastermind of the September 11, 2001, attacks, whether or not it is effective, and whether or not he is none-the-worse for the wear.


No, Barack Hussein Obama must for once stand up, look Donald J. Trump in the eye, and then respond to this challenge of character. The same-old, same-old responses didn’t work eight years ago when he promised to shut Gitmo down, and they are not going to work now. He must capitulate.

Unfortunately for us, the President’s modus operandi related to challenges of his failed policies are either to ignore them, lie about them, or double down and make the whole damn thing worse.

Like Barack Obama’s apology tour, red line in the sand, Benghazi lie, trading terrorist leaders for an Army deserter, calling terrorism in the US “workplace violence,” “no boots on the ground,” “overseas contingencies,” “the Global War on Terror is over,” Gitmo is his failed crucible. He will die on this hill as sure as you’re reading these words.

The political world of Barack Hussein Obama is falling down, has run its course, is absent of any credibility.

Unlike Casey Jones, who piloted his locomotive to the bitter end in order to save lives, knowing it would kill him, President Obama will almost certainly jump from the train in an effort to save his own skin and fight another day.

Rumors of the President working to establish a “shadow government” upon his exit from the Presidency in just several days is both typical of his personality and fateful for his legacy. One last temper tantrum from the man who could never get out of his own way because of failed liberal beliefs, he will disappear into the twisted wreckage of his tenure as our Chief Executive, and it appears that President Elect Donald Trump is going to make sure of it, Tweet by blessed Tweet.