Christmas Dinner in the Army - Road Trip to Iraq - March 2003.

Ain't this somethin'?  I remember a few Christmas' like these guys are experiencing and can tell you quite honestly they were the best ever.  The sun is setting and there's a warm fire.  You'll notice the two on the right are leaning up against a "HESCO," a prefabricated, multi-cellular system, made of Zinc coated steel welded mesh and lined with non-woven polypropylene geotextile - then we fill it with dirt or sand.  Simply said, modern day, above ground things that stop bullets and RPGs.  On the left you can see where their food came from - they got some hot "A's," (i.e., regular food in 'mermite' containers') that are sitting on the cot.   Mermite containers are like those boxes that keep pizza warm when it's delivered but do a little better job of it.  But it's Christmas - you're with your buds.  No screaming hot metal flying around in the air.  It's not home, it's not the best place you'll ever find yourself.  But it's good.  It sucks for sure, but it's all good.

 

Shared hardships breed a comaraderie that few civilians will ever understand.  It's not just the "getting shot at" thing.  It's not just shared dangers.  It's not about that dead animal in the road up ahead that may be hiding an explosive device inside or the overpass you're driving on could blow up with such force that it will throw a HUMVV into the air and crush everyone inside.

It is in many cases shared "suck."  It sucks because it sucks.  We're here in it so just enjoy the suck.  It will eventually get better with either time or the enemy deciding they are fighting a lost cause and run back to their hideouts (because they are afraid to fight) in the mountains or to the next country over.  Or better yet, finally give permission to the women of their land to join in the Jidahist movement and become homicide bombers.  What a great place huh? 

It sucked early on for those of us in the ACP (Assault Command Post) for the 101st Division Headquarters.  We were in Kuwait for a good while in anticipation of an invasion.  Not sure what was happening but we were sure there were some last minute negotiations going on in hopes that maybe it wouldn't have to happen.  We knew better though.  So here we were on Camp New Jersey and it is in the middle of the desert.  No roads, no trees, no people (except the U.S. Army).  (Picture of New Jersey is right).  We were living in tents lined up along a pathway and it was so windy and sandy that you had to use a flashlight just to go from one tent to another.  I walked in the first night and there in my assigned tent were alot of Brigade liaison guys obviously very miserable.  And they got there only the day before. 

I got a cot and put my stuff under it and went to the Command Post.  What a mess!  Computers everywhere in this big tent with holes in it all over the place.  You had to hang your web gear and flak vests in an entrance way where a guy checked your ID Card.  So much dust was blowing when I got there the first night that they were using paint brushes to clean off their laptops.  I got stuck in the back with the Special Forces Guys which turned out to be all right and also got my first introduction to Brigadier General Ben Freakley.  A soon to be hero of mine.  Never started work without having me say a prayer...He's a hard-core Methodist Christian and lived that way every day. 

But as I continue to digress and the ADHD prompts me further, it was fairly business as usual if you consider that using outside job-johnnies for a toilet - not that big of a deal you say?  Have you ever had to use one with your full 'battle-rattle' with you?  Battle-rattle?  Web gear, gas mask, helmet, flak vest, flashlight, etc.  Do you know how hard it is to get in there and take that stuff off just to sit down?  Then, when it's off, where do you put it?  The messhall was a good 3/4 of a mile away and you had to walk there.  No wasting fuel. (picture to the left).  And of course you do not get to take your battle-rattle off when you eat.  There was a large cooking tent there where everything was prepared by foreigners the Kuwaiti government brought in.  Lots of Pakistanis, Bangladesh people who if they got paid it was almost nothing.  Most of them volunteered to come over so they could make enough money for a dowery so they could get a wife.  So we're on our merry way when one night it got unusually windy.  Sand was really kicking up and we did our best to button down the sleep tent and ensure the stakes were in deep enough to keep it from blowing over.  We thought we had it beat so got in our cots in hopes of getting a modicum of sleep.  Not the case.  The wind was really kicking and about 0100 I felt something brushing up against my nose.  Odd feeling so I stuck my little head outside the sleeping bag and saw nothing but pitch black darkness.  I lifted my head a little to look around for everyone else and bumped into what seemed like a piece of wood.  Turns out it was the inside beam of the tent.  The wind was blowing so hard it yanked out a couple of the stakes and the thing was slowly pulling the tent down. 

I yelled to the guys and we high-tailed it outside (you always slept dressed), to see what we could do.  We did our best to pull up the beams and somehow strengthen the tent a little until we could fix it in daylight.  We got it secured but it was a pain - especially since the wind is still blowing.  Wonder how dark and how much sand there was?  Check out the lamp we lit in the picture to the right.  That was taken about 0200 INSIDE the tent - note the sand.  Great sleeping weather!  People wonder why my sinuses act up and I'm the occasional grump.   We had trouble embracing this "suck." 

Shame on the Army - URWs - Gold Star Mothers

It's not an easy thing to sit and listen to an 18 year old crying while telling a room full of Chaplains about the death of her father in a helicopter crash in Iraq.  Bre's mother was there too as well as Ms. Debbie who lost her son in Iraq.  What's worse is what is on Mrs. Priestner's military ID Card.  "URW."  What is that most ignominious acronym that only the Army could come up with?  Un Remarried WIDOW! 

CW4 John Priestner to the left in his Apache.

After all these years in the Army and after so many funerals, memorials, and graveside services it never dawned on me what these widows received.   Widows of Soldiers are entitled to only 55% of their spouse's income unless they either remarry under the age of 57 or die.  However, if their husband is Killed in Action, that retirement is reduced dollar for dollar from the death benefit payment DIC - (Dependency Indemnity Compensation).  Those whose spouses were KIA and not eligible for retirement receive an across the board payment of $1,067.00 per month (TAXABLE!) -UNLESS THEY REMARRY BEFORE AGE 57!  They then forfeit that money.

I am not sure where or how this nonsense perpetuated but I am sure it's Congress.  While we dole out largess to corporations and have the speaker of the house spend $3,000.00 on flower arrangements, the amount of money that would fix this problem would be considered "budget dust" in congress.  These women are being paid for losing their husbands but then being told they are no longer entitled to his retirement which he paid for through his years of service - SINCE HE WAS KILLED DEFENDING THE COUNTRY!

Now lets figure this one out.  What would you do if your husband was killed in action, you have two kids, and you're in your late 30s, early 40s?  Let's be honest, grief can be overcome with time.  There comes a time when a person needs companionship - let's say after 5 years of mourning.  But then of course you know you will lose your spouse's benefits if you remarry.  So your choices?  Live in 'sin,' until age 57 and forfeit the right of your children having any father figure their entire life.  Who's going to give her away at the wedding?  The 'boyfriend?'  Who's going to talk to his little girls about her boyfriends?  Teach her to drive?

We bring in these Gold Star Mothers and Surviving Spouses and their children to give new chaplains an idea of what they will run up against when having the sad duty of notifying a family member of the death of their loved one. While speaking privately with one of the ladies, I learned that she would lose the majority of her benefits should she re-marry before she is 57 years old.  It is obviously a very sensitive issue with them having lost a husband and some would wonder how they could ever think about remarrying.

Well, what if the widow/er is in their 30s/40s?  I think it is very calous to tell a widow that you can not have a relationship until you are 57. How many young people who lose spouses remarry? Additionally, how can we justify divorced spouses receiving 1/2 of a Soldiers retirement benefits since the pay is "property," and then allow them to remarry and not lose the right to that property?

I am especially aware of this since the child of one of the Surviving Spouses comes to this event with her mother (all the way from Fort Bragg, NC) and she always breaks us up during the presentation when talking about her father (Apache Pilot - killed in Iraq).

I do not think it is right that her mother loses her husbands pay if she remarrys.  I think a wait of maybe 5 years is more than enough time for a person to wait - how long do we expect them to mourn?

This is not the only widow I have spoken to that has this very concern - but the nature of the discussion makes it very difficult for them to talk about it without seeming to dishonor their fallen loved one. I thought it important to bring to your attention on their behalf.

Here's what Bre said in an article she wrote for the New York Times, "Upfront" Magazine.

Fallen Soldier, Missing Father

Three years ago, Bre Priestner's father was killed in Iraq.  Here's Bre's words:

"Almost three years ago, my father died in an Apache helicopter crash in Iraq, when I was 14 and my little sister, Megan, was 10. Our parents had been married for nearly 20 years, and we had everything we could ask for. But it all was shattered on Nov. 7, 2006, when we got the news.

I woke up early that morning and was planning to stay home from school because I didn't feel well. I was lying in bed listening to music when the doorbell rang.

Mom came down the stairs to my room. She looked distraught. I jumped out of bed and followed her upstairs. Megan hadn't left for school yet. When I saw the three Army officers standing in our living room, I froze. I started shaking my head and saying, "No, no."

They asked us to sit down, and then the words came: "I regret to inform you that your father, Chief Warrant Officer 4 John Priestner, was killed last night ..."

Dad served in Iraq in 1991, during the Persian Gulf War; in 2002, he spent nine months in Afghanistan. Although he came home safe both times, we were scared when he left for Iraq in July 2006.

But we all felt that Dad could do anything, and he said he would do whatever it took to bring his unit home alive. While he was in Iraq, we talked to him using Yahoo Messenger and e-mail, and he called almost every day.

The night Dad shipped out, he told us, "If anything happens to me, do not be mad at the Army or at God." That night he called us "Team Priestner." We used that saying when he was in Iraq and we still use it, to keep us going.

Talking to other children of the fallen through TAPS (Tragedy Assistance Program for Survivors) has been a great experience for me. At Fort Bragg (near our home in North Carolina), we have support groups for all ages. Some kids don't want to talk about losing a parent; others want to know if things will get any easier, and that question is so hard. I'm just now getting things figured out, and it's been nearly three years.

I've been unfocused in everything and was diagnosed with depression. I'm getting better, but the best thing I did was talk to my mom and my counselor about how I felt.

The road we are all on isn't easy, and I don't know how anyone could think it would be. That's why it's hard when we hear a question like, "Why aren't you over it yet?"

The simple answer is that we've had a major part of our lives ripped from us. A song or anything can trigger a painful memory, and suddenly we get quiet or start crying.

Losing someone so important to you, especially when you're so young, can be devastating. Only one parent will be there for your proms, your graduations, your wedding, and to see grandchildren grow up.

But as military families, we are strong. Even though we're sometimes a little stubborn, we are survivors. Don't let anyone tell you otherwise."

"If anything happens to me, don't be mad at the Army or at God."  That's a Soldier - and a Father!  CW4 Priestner's grave is in Arlington and you can see his family to the left on the annivesary of his death defending Your freedoms. 

Famous People Who've met me...They ask me why I do it - I say, "Love of Country."

My trip to Kosovo for six months in 2001 was quite the adventure.  It was pre 9/11 so things were pretty tame in the military operations world.  We were doing security/stabilization operations and not much was going on.  Some of

the events included helping the Kosovo people re-establish a sense of community so we tried to help them have city fairs, carnivals, etc., that they were denied for so much time thanks to the Serbs and now the Albanians (which is by the way known as the most atheistic country in the world).  One event my Chaplain section got involved in was a city fair in Ferizaj, a local city with about 20,000 people, 10,000 of which turned out for a concert led by "yours truly" (picture to the right - note the UN in between the Albanian and U.S. Flags).  In the picture to the left part of the event featured these really pretty girls who did traditional Kosovo dance.  To the left in the picture is the best musician in the world, Chaplain (MAJ) Steve Cantrell who I can't say enough good about and who plays every known instrument in the world.

It was amazing.  People were trying to crawl on the stage.  Men were climbing onto apartment rooftops across the street about 10 stories up (dangerous I say), just to hear me strum away with "Johnny Be Good" and a finale with my E4 drummer singing "California Dreamin," followed by "Amazing Grace."  Hello?   But it was all good fun and we had fun doing it. 

Secretary of Defense Rumsfeld came over in May 2001 (Can't remember the month), but we were all a little like, huh? since he was really a Navy/Air Force kid of guy...the pilot 'bravado' thing.  He spoke for awhile in the big tent we had on Camp Bondsteel where we showed movies and I was not sure I'd get close to him but things transpired in such a way that I was able to jostle alongside him as he was shaking hands in the crowd.  He lost the 101st jacket fairly soon afterward. 

The big event came on 26 June 2001 when the POTUS and FLOTUS (President of the U.S. and First Lady of the U.S.) visit came about.  The planning for that on our part started almost as soon as we arrived in country.  The stuff that goes into that planning is amazing.  The First Lady came to dedicate an education center in south Camp Bondsteel and the President got a secret squirrel briefing from the General at the same time.  He would then give the traditional rousing Presidential

speech to inspire us to fight the good fight then sign the Defense authorization bill which included our raise for the next year.  The cool thing was that they were going to meet up in my chapel which happened to sit at the top of a hill on Camp Bondsteel.   They also used my chapel for their restroom break (uhhhh????) and also to catch their breath before the speech.   You know what's wierd as I sit here in Columbia, SC?  The security was almost non-existent.  We were in Muslim central.  The security they had was less than what is put upon an 80 year old trying to get through the TSA at your local airport while Islamic Terrorists slip through undetected.  

How could you get to my chapel on the hill to listen to the President?  They set up ONE metal detector at the bottom of the hill - ONE - and you had to pass through that to get to see him.   Since I had a uniform on and I told them I was the Task Force Chaplain, they let me walk around.  [I miss the good old days].   Another cool thing was that they used my chapel as the commo center so the Secret Service set up the official Presidential Phone outside my office.  I got my poor assistant Sonny Ferrell all aghast when I decided to pick it up and make a call to the commies.  See picture left.

What could be next?  One of the things that will never happen again is the kinds of people who were on the plane.  The President, his wife, his Chief of Staff Andy Card, AND his secretary of State, Condaleeza Rice, who happened to give me a 'squeeze' when I had a picture taken with her - notice the position of her right hand and my left arm.  Those two Colonels were so jealous of me afterward (COL A.J. Tata on left, now a famous writer and General and on the right COL Albert Brooks, now also a General and who served as the Pentagon spokesman during the Iraqi Invasion).    Anyway, those types of important people can never travel on the same plane again thanks to the cowardly terroristic homicide murderers.                   

The Public Affairs people were giving me all kinds of grief on how to act when the President and First Lady come into the Chapel.  Being me, and with a slightly elevated case of ADHD that day, I saw her coming up the back sidewalk and came out to give her a big hug which she returned.  I was able to actually sit down with Mrs. Bush for a few minutes before I introduced her to the Chaplains and assistants from the Task Force Unit Ministry Teams.   The picture of me at left is when I was escorting her in the chapel.  The best musician in the world Chaplain Steve Cantrell took the picture.  You don't meet many people of her calibre.  She gave me a huge hug when she left the chapel and of course her advance people had filled her in that I was a Methodist as she is.  There are classy ladies and there's Mrs. Bush who define it. 

My President came in next and I could tell right off he was a John Wayne kind of a man who was in control and who said my name as he walked over and shook my hand.   I thank God to this day he was President on 11 September 2001.  I can't imagine how Gore would have handled all that when there was no money to be made selling phony carbon offsets and the vast inexperience he garnered watching the indecision in Kosovo by his former boss. 

So how do I address the President?  I reach back and pound out a very provocative, "How's it going Sir?" 

I'm thinking to myself, "great move dip :(   And how does he respond? "Great Chaplain, how's things going with you?" then he gives me a big pat on the back.  Not alot of time to talk at that time since his people were all over and everyone who had been promised a picture with him were there.  I did get one final chance to say, "Take it easy Mr. President," to which he responded, "You too Chappie."  I pat him on the back as he's leaving to head out the front door. 

I'm always asked why do all this?  Of course it's cool meeting the President and all but when you consider the time away from home, an unknown amount of danger around you all day...They ask me why?  I say, Love of Country."

Here's a picture of the gravestone of George Rifenbary in the Newton Cemetery.  He's the father of Zida (Rifenbary) Kircher and the mother of Leon, Sr., my father.  Very little is kow about the Rifenbary Family but I have some new contacts so hopefully will learn more.

New Chaplains in the Field - I miss Wheel of Fortune again for the Good of the Country - Flashbacking to Kosovo

First of all kids - I'm drained.  We've just completed a three day field exercise we at the Chaplain School call, "Capstone."   It's an introduction for new Chaplains to what it's like living in the field.  It's not that fun and the days are long since you wake up in the dark and sleep time is usually around 1930 (7:30 P.M.).  But with all the luck I've had recently they go out Sunday afternoon to a full drenching all afternoon and into the night rainstorm followed by three full days of drizzle while we have to stand outside almost all the time.

Now for my usual digression.  While laying awake around 0200 my mind went back to 2001 and the Strike Brigade's - 2nd Brigade, 101st Airborne Division's six month deployment to Kosovo.  My trusty side kick Staff Sergeant Sonny Ferrell and I had been tasked as the "Task Force Falcon Chaplain Unit Ministry Team," which was cool since we had some really great guys to work with that I see and hear from today.  Brigadier General Bill David was the Task Force Falcon Commander and if there was ever a great boss he was it.  It was still a mess when we arrived and our mission was basically to keep the Kosovo people happy while they were trying to get their lands and homes back from the ethnic Albanians who essentially just walked in with the support of the Serbs who were Eastern Orthodox while the Kosovar people were basically Islamic.  Since we "won" the war Clinton started months too late from 30,000 feet the Serbs were in check but the damage was already done; the Albanians had moved in while the U.S. was 'weighing' whether to throw out the Serbs who were massacring Kosovars left and right - Soldiers were still finding the graves and the arms and fingers of adults and little kids sticking up through the ground - A great thought to carry around - So here we are providing fire engines, dump trucks, stability etc., to the Islamic population and feeling pretty good about it.  A nice, sunny, warm 11 September rolls around.  Some of the guys are watching the morning news in the states (we were behind in time about 7 hours), and a great movie comes on all of a sudden with planes crashing into the World Trade Centers and the Pentagon.  Planes hijacked by the same types of people we were protecting in Kosovo.  No need to go into great detail about that except to say it felt a little hairy for a few days since we were in Muslim Central Kosovo. 

Anyway - on 21 September, the unit got a call from a Senior Muslim official in the capital of Pristina.  He wanted to meet the religious leaders in the coalition.  The UN Chaplain got in touch with me and wanted me to be the lead.  "Sure, it's not like I have anything else to do that day." 

We walk into this big office type building in Pristina and there are a whole bunch of Islamic leaders around.  We sat, talked through translaters and drank some tea - mostly small talk about the similarities in our faiths.  Then a man with a white type "Fez" hat comes over and sits next to me.  It was a curious moment but I knew something was coming.  "I am the Chief Mufti of Kosovo,"  he says through the translater.  "Those people who did that to your country on 11 September do not represent the Kosovo people."  "I am very sorry for your country."   It was pretty solemn.  "I know Kosovo does not," I replied.  We all then went outside and he asked to have a picture taken of the two of us.  The picture is on the right. 

He then took us to a local Mosque to show us around - I assume to help start to heal what he must have known was something big coming on the Horizon -that would be the U.S. Military led by President Bush.  The picture of me to the left is in the Mosque and I'm standing where the Imam normally does his readings.  You don't see that very often - especially a guy in a combat uniform and no boots on.  I was trying to look humbled but am unsure I succeeded.   It was good he made an effort to do that.  So much nonsense that could have been avoided but all we can do is look forward now. 

We were in a coffee shop one day and this lady was standing outside looking in.  She obviously had no money and was hungry.  There was no food to buy her inside but we went ahead and bought her an ice cream cone and a Pepsi you can see she has tucked in her arm. 

Anyway, back to the United States.  The exercise went well.  Everyone made it through.  No one was hurt.  I decided to do something special for the new Chaplains as they marched back to the Chaplain School (about 4 miles).  I decide to line up people from the school on the sidewalk and have them cheer the candidates as they came back in.   I also had some loudspeakers put out and played Scottish bagpipes that you could hear clear across the post.  You could see their chests burst a little with pride as they walked in.  Good day in all.  But my title?  I had to miss two nights of Wheel of Fortune and Donny Osmond winning Dancing with the Stars for all of this.  Oh well, it's for the Country - the Constitution.

GameCock Football - Tailgate Crazy

Loser that I am, I finally made it to my first college football game thanks to the kindness of a friend who gave us the tickets.  William Bryce Stadium in Columbia, SC, a cool state if I may so even though they were, as Gen'l Sherman put it, "The hotbed of secession, or the 'sesech,' as the grandfathers would call the losing Southerners."   It was a cool time with USC (the real University of South Carolina) and the Kentucky Wildcats.  I'm sitting in front of a Gamecock fan who - apparently pretty intoxicated - continues to yell in my ear, "com'n boyzzz," like he's some kind of wanna-be rap star.  "I hate these afternoon games," he says.  "The 'Cocks' never do well in afternoon games when it's hot," (I can attest to that) as he reached down for his plastic bottle and another drink of 7-Up? - it was a clear liquid - I'm just sayin.'.   Pretty soon Mr. 'Cocks,' gets alot more friendly with me than I am accustomed from a man. 

Now sit for abit and ponder how 'Gamecocks' becomes a team mascot.  Especially when the use of a 'gamecock' for cockfighting is illegal in all civilized countries except Georgia where apparently Mr. Vick (watch your beagle Vicks an Eagle), uses dogs for this kind of blood - animal sport that low lifes practice.  And I'm supposed to be sad somehow that he can't have a dog for his kids and they ask, "Why daddy?" Because your daddy is a blood thirsty low-life criminal who used dogs for sport and would then beat if they lost a fight.  My kind of 'daddy.'  Run away kid - run away quickly. 

Then you sit in a public university with 80,000 fellow Gamecock fans waving their hands in the air and yelling "Go cocks," to a thunderous roar.  No Eagles flying around a stadium, no Tigers or Falcons, a GAMECOCK!   Just "Go cocks."  (sorry, I can't capitalize it out of decency).   And then an irritating "cock-a-doodle-do, cock-a-doodle-do," coming over the loudspeaker.  I'd gladly lose here just to have them shut-up that cock-a-doodle-do" sound. 

But what else?  I can't sit for the game.  We're sitting in a pretty good section off the 40 yard line about 50 rows back but everytime a play starts the guy in front of me stands up and so I have to stand up and then everyone behind me has to stand up in front of the fifteen or so 80 year old plus people with inherited blue-blood tickets giving them their seats for eternity don't bother because their knees have to be bothering them in this horrendously hot afternoon game. 

Then my new friend Mr. 'Joe cocks' behind me starts to grab my shoulders every time the Gamecocks do something good.  Then he's slapping my back while continuing to yell "Com'n boyzzz."  Things get too personal real quick.  Sandy had been gone 1/2 an hour to get one hot dog and now this guy thinks I'm his best friend and starts to talk to me.  Anyway, the game turned out well for USC and we left at the beginning of the 4th quarter since we had parked two miles away due to the tail-gaters.

We make it home and I'm in a pretty good mood so I make the wife a special salad for dinner.  I eat Profera's pizza - never tiring of it.  Can I line up olives or what?

Salerno's in Old Forge

Next - Getting insulted at Salerno's in Old Forge is just a matter of course...there really is a good pizza place in Montrose - especially since Aunt Martha paid for it...Aunt Martha became my newest bestest hero an hour later...Grant Adams is the bomb and carrier of good news - what a basement his brother has!!! 
Sunday - New York Strips - TROVATO'S MEAT MARKET CLARKS SUMMIT PA ($69.66). Leon makes sure the Travato kids got a boost for their college since Timmer told me they had the best beef for BBQ.

I mean - com'n...$70 bucks for 10 pieces of Angus beef, i.e., meat from a cow/cattle?  I don't even eat the stuff since I was the first-born boy in 50 years to the Kircher Clan (I guess that's the story - haven't bothered to add up the years).  Long sentence coming - So as not to make me choke to death my grandma Zida (Rifenbary) Kircher would not let me eat meat and no one made me eat it as it would choke me to death if I did eat meat which resulted in me having no taste for meat so my diet in the future will consist of pasta, pizza and bread.  Great carb diet when I have to maintain a low weight for the Army!

Where was everyone when I was about two or three years old at the big farm house in PA and I grabbed the hot water heater pipe by the stove and burned the crap out of my right hand where I have scars to this day?  And supposedly my Grandpa Ed Kircher poked the blisters with a pin (that felt good I'm sure) to do away with the blisters but left two scars on the palm of my right hand that the Army is keen to record as "identifying" scars.  You can see the scars on my right hand to the right.  Try getting a palm reading with those babies!

The other significant scar on my body (left forearm still visible today) came from a rope I was hanging onto out of a BlackHawk helicopter in Fort Campbell on the next to last day of Air Assault School when the balay guy who was supposed to be holding my rope tight in case I fall decides to look away for a minute while I come zinging (read ' rope burning') down a rope from a BlackHawk Helicopter 90 feet in the air.  Needless to say the rope burned through my uniform and I was bleeding like a stuck pig.  Fortunately, the wound was superficial because the next day I was required to march 12 miles in under three hours with a 40 pound pack on my back to complete the course.  I was not going to fail this course.  Age is only in the head.  I made it thanks to a Ranger Buddy whose name I can't remember who helped me keep pace.  I finished it in 2 hours and 45 minutes.  Pretty good for a 42 year old.

So on our last Sunday in PA, I start to put the gold standard steaks on the grill at Cousin Chrissy's and Kevins and there's Brother Steve in the background as I place each steak on the grill while announcing, "another Trovato kid goes to college, "another Trovato kid goes to college."  Another "ha-ha moment thanks to Steve.  Then he tells me the Finches or Fitches could have given me a better deal.  Well, how about a phone call to let me know of the 'better' place before I go to the houghty toyty (spelling?) meat palace?

Anyway - I digress.  Salernos in Old Forge.  We (I) had to stop one more time while up there to get some 'real' pizza.  Not sure of the guy who waited on us but it was noon and the wife was NOT ready to have any more pizza - even Old Forge Red Pizza.  "Whadda yas want?' Mr. Italian Salerno man says.  She orders a turkey club and me of course (using heynabonics which makes three into tree) "two-tree" cuts of Old Forge Red Pizza with a diet white birch beer soda (note the capital letters out of respect).  "Two or tree?" he asks.  It's a day before we're returning to the Southlands night of no good pizza again so I say, "Tree."  Another guy sitting at the bar by us was having some pizza too when he discovered that he got only tree cuts of red when he wanted four.  "What's the matter - heyna?"  "I don't count around here?"  "Where's my other cut?"   The 60 year old Italian Salerno man says,  "You're so damn fat you don't need a fourth cut."  "Just gimme the cut and shut your face," is the reply.  Mr. Salerno gets the guy his fourth cut then starts to ask my wife where we're from and how is the pizza.  Sandy makes the huge mistake of saying she liked the pizza we had the night before we got while visiting with Aunt Martha, Tammy, Karen and Grant at a restaurant in Montrose, PA.  That opened the flood gates.  "What's the hells the matter with you!?"  Mr Salerno says.   "You're in NEPA and you go get pizza at a restaurant that probably used to be a barn in Montrose, PA?"  She back-tracked fast saying that nothing compared to Old Forge Pizza but that she had been with family that lived up that way who also wished they could get Old Forge Pizza but had to settle for the barn like place in Montrose. 

It didn't work.  "Then why are you ordering a turkey club when you can have what your husband is having?"  She wanted something "other than pizza."  

Another bad move..."Who gets tired of Old Forge Pizza?"  Mr. Italian Salerno man points to Mr. Four cuts across the bar and says "that fat bas**** comes in here every day and has three cuts of red and today he decides to have four."  "He never gets tired of Old Forge pizza."  "Do you fatso?" Mr. Salerno says.  "Shut your fat Italian face," the man kindly replies. 

I love this place.

You can see my "tree" cuts on the left, as well as Sandy's turkey club and chips. 

Beggin' for Trick or Treators...Batman bolts - Scariest childhood moment

Wow...when you have to go and encourage a little Batman to come back just so you can give him some candy, you must be in a place so far out that Aunt Martha must be next door.

We planned on happily handing out Halloween candy this 31 October.  Not much of a big deal I say - it's candy - and if the kids are supervised and under the age of 12 with pretend uniforms of their heros purchased from Wal-Mart (probably my future employer), then it's okay. 

It's NOT okay when a busload of hooligans obviously over the age of 16 in white sheets with two holes punched in them get dumped off from the back of a truck and then the vehicle pulls to the bottom of the block waiting for the 'kids.'  They then come to your door and with a bass voice lower then Tennessee Ernie Ford want me to to believe they really mean it when he says "trick or treat." 

"Yeah, kid," trick or treat to you too.  Here's a partially eaten tootsie roll.  Make sure you have alot of toilet paper handy.

Anyway, I digress.  So we leave the porch light on in hopes of drawing some little princes or princesses (or Batmans) truly making it a night of memories - maybe I'll make them sing a song or something - ha, ha.  Trick or treaters?  Nothing.  We see some kids up the road a piece but unfortunately it looks like our house - which sits a little too far away from other houses - is not worth the walk.  Spoiled kids.  I'd walk a block for a Reese's peanut butter cup. Who wouldn't? 

But next, and wonder of wonders?  About 1930 (7:30 P.M. to you civilians), the doorbell rings and we have a prospect!  Then out jump the dogs immediately running and diving into the front glass door trying to get the little Batman guy, mostly to lick his face.  What does Batman do!  He BAILS!   I never saw an 8 year old run so fast.  Momma's comin' out of the car to catch him before he hits the road.  But Sandy - with a belly full of hope - was not going to let this one get away, he was going to get a treat.  She grabs the candy jar and runs out the door while I restrain the dog formerly known as Savannah - now playing Tasmanian Devil this Halloween.  She catches up with the little guy and assures him that the 'Taz' is contained and would he take at least two handfuls of candy...revenge for all the candy given our kids on past Halloweens.  I also encouraged him to eat all he could on the way home...no sense wasting the night sleeping.

Now, the scariest childhood moment?  Every year - at least once or twice - the Wizard of Oz with Judy Garland would somehow just pop up out of nowhere on the TV.  It's a must watch just as "It's a Wonderful Life" is at Christmas.  Two points are forever etched on my amygdala from my younger years - to include an occasional passing bout of PTSD - the wicked witch of the west doing her bicycle ride outside the flying house during the early hurricane scene and those damned flying monkies going after the fabulous four. 

I have to tell you..the monkies to the right in Baum's 1900 version of the Oz were a lot tamer and less scarier  then those of the 1939 version...

Anyway - here's a picture of the Kircher kids et. al., playing on a swing set.  I'm there in the red shirt.  Ed and Steve are clearly shown including SueAnn.  Karen (Lott) Adams is in the red dress and John A. Kircher in the swing by Ed on the left.  It's an action shot so a little blurred.

Where's Hatchy Milatchy when I need her?

A tune by Rosemary Clooney on her album:  "Clooney Tunes."   Tell you what all you NEPA people.  Once you start singing this song it will be in your head for a long time...

"There's a wonderful place that you really should see/Called the Land of Hatchy Milatchy/All boys and girls love this place yes siree/ Called the Land of Hatchy Milatchy

"Peppermint candy and ice cream is free/In the Land of Hatchy Milatchy/Soda pop fountains are under each tree/In the Land of Hatchy Milatchy

"Everyone rides on a-merry-go-round/All made of sugar and spice/ Lollipops grow right out of the ground/The moon's made of strawberry ice
"If you should run and you trip and you fall/In the Land of Hatchy Milatchy/The ground's made of rubber, you bounce like a ball/ In the Land of Hatchy Milatchy
"Oh you play the whole day and you don't go to bed/In the Land of Hatchy Milatchy/Mommies and Daddies are put there instead/In the Land of Hatchy Milatchy
"Hundreds of bunnies all lay Easter eggs/In the Land of Hatchy Milatchy/Ride on a pony with candy striped legs/In the Land of Hatchy Milatchy
"Each day is always a big holiday. Birthdays and parties galore/ Dollies and bicycles given away, whenever you walk in a store
"When I return then I never will leave/The Land of Hatchy Milatchy/If you want to go all you do is believe/In the Land of Hatchy Milatchy."

Miss Judy taught us how to tie our shoes, to be nice to everybody, and basically got us ready to be good people in a bad world...But Rosemary Clooney - wow!

Not quite like Captain Kangeroo and Mr. Green Jeans.  The three magic words anyone?

Gen'l George Patton and Leon, Sr. Sicily

You'll notice the 'almost' worried look on Dad's face as he is looking up at the infamous General George Patton.  This picture was in a Philadelphia Newspaper.  Father has his normal cigarette in his left hand and Patton is looking directly down at him.  Thankfuly it was a wound that involved blood so he wasn't going to get slapped around.  Patton's famous pearl handled pistols can be seen at his side.
Patton was interesting - Father Leon more so.  I think the main issue was placing your sons in positions best suited to their skills.  So while I liked the gas station and Joe liked the farm, dad put me at the farm and Joe at the Mobil gas station.  Problems were inevitable.  I ran away.  Joe did fine...I still haven't figured that out.  I forgot most of the stuff I did.
Anyway - dad was in some major fights that some of the historians call mind-boggling.  Notably the Invasion of Sicily.  He arrived in Casablanca in late 1942 (this is all off his Form 53-55, dated 1 November 1944, discharge papers).  His discharge papers are dated 22 August 1945 from Indiantown Gap, PA.  His permanent address being 107 Depot Street, Clarks Summit, PA.

It says he was a Technician 5th Grade, Troop A, 91st Recon Squadron  (This was an independent, armored, mobile recon unit.  Each Infantry Division has a recon unit attached to it).  Dad's would have been with the 1st Cavalry Division when they were in North Africa.  He never talked about it that I remember except the times when he said,  "joining the Army will make a man out of you."   

I took it to heart, the Army did make me a better person. 

Leon Sr. spent 1 year and five months training in the U.S.  You can see him in training at A.P. Hill Virginia in the picture to the left.  I drew an arrow over his head to show you where he is.  He arrived in Casablanca on Christmas Eve 1942 (anyone for the Humphery Bogart "play it again Sam" scene?) after a 12 days ocean crossing and left Italy on 11 September 1944 arriving back in the U.S. on 26 September 1944.  He was wounded three times receiving the Purple Heart for each wound.  His first wound was in Sicily on 26 July 1943 (probably the time he saw Patton), the second in Italy on 17 May 1944 (they let you recuperate in hospitals over there due to the manpower shortage), and the third just 10 days later on 27 May 1944 so most likely he was in a field hospital that was bombed.   He did say one time that he ran over a mine and that they found his boots a few feet away from his body so I guess that qualifies as a "million dollar wound," the one that sends you home.  He was not discharged until 22 August 1945 - plenty of time after the war ended - so most likely he was in hospital so that made it a long recuperation.  The wound must have been very serious.  I do remember seeing him the one time ever with his shirt off and there was an obvious bullet or shrapnel wound in his right side.  It looked like his skin was folded in around the entry point. 

I remember a story he once told while under the "influence," where he was in North Africa and in a battle and shot a German Soldier.  He went to look at the Soldier and saw in his helmet the name of the Soldier - "KIRCHER,"   so he may have killed a relative.  My only thought may be that it was one of Rudolf Kircher's sons (he had five) who had written to my grandfather Edward Kircher in 1923 asking for some assistance due to the low value of the Reichsmark.  Grandpa Edward Kircher sent them $20.00. 

Dad's battles were Tunisia, Sicily, Naples-Foggia and Rome-Arno.  So he made it through the Anzio beachhead landings which were deadly.  He was even able to send a postcard home from Italy - the one to the right above which I have.   Here's his discharge papers as well as a picture of the family after he returned home.  Jim Biesecker, a cousin, was a bomber pilot in the war.  You can cut and paste them to make them readable.  Zida (Rifenbary) Kircher is in front in the flowered dress.

Shaking President Carter's hand - 1980 - he thankfully loses to Reagan

It was one of the most memorable moments of my life.  It was 1980.  I was out of the Army since 1976.  My best friend at the time, B. Maury Stout, were hankering to go and see President Carter who was supposed to arrive in Springfield, MO where we were going to school.  His plane was to touch down at the Springfield, MO airport where he would make a speech.  Just a week before, soon to be (thankfully) President Reagan, was at the Springfield, MO fairgrounds near the college.  Maury and I, in addition to another group of friends, were at the fairgrounds and watched in awe as future President Reagan - the greatest President third only to Washington and Lincoln - rode a wagon pulled by mules (from his old Borax Mule Train TV Series) onto the parade field at the fairgrounds - Nancy was with him.  It was electric...this guy was going to win.  Jimmy Carter?  How would you like to sit in in gas lines for 2-3 hours at a time on a convoluted gas 'shortage,' and 18% interest rates and the disaster at Desert One where a bunch of our guys died in the desert trying to rescue the hostages held by the militant Iranian lowlife students, then the  - as Carter called it - the 'Malaise' the country was in - great leadership Jimmy! - and then - MAGICALLY - the day Reagan is elected - the Iranian 'students' let the hostages go because they knew Reagan was ready to turn that waste of a country into a parking lot (that's real strength compared to the current Obamanation apology tour). 

Anyway - we were pumped because Reagan loved the country for real.  And we all saw it at the polls.  Carter barely carried his own state.

Now to Carter.  Maury and I had motorcycles and we were intent on getting to see Carter on the night before he was going to be thanlfully thrown out of office, so it's November 1980.  We both had 100cc Yahamas that could top 50 MPH in a heartbeat - smokin.'  Carter was supposed to land at the Springfield, MO airport for a speech which he hoped would rally the last state he hoped to win.  Thankfully NOT!  We were riding to the airport on a two lane highway and apparently we were not the only ones bent on seeing the failed President one last time.   We all of a sudden ran into a huge amount of cars going that way.  So what do we do?  We get into the oncoming lane and power past all the waiting cars.  What happens next?  A cop comes up beside us off the road and we think we are for sure busted.  He starts waving to us and we thought he was trying to pull us over to give us the ticket.  He wasn't.  He was motioning us to FOLLOW him since they were making the road to the airport one way.  So we followed the cop to the airport and found ourselves in front of everybody.  On arrival at the runway we scoped the situation and Maury - being the brilliant guy that he was - noticed a rope and a podium along a building and figured that was going to be the front row seat so we parked the cycles and grabbed the rope post-haste.  He was right.  The plane landed and a few minutes later and out pops Jimmy Carter and his lovely wife!  He made his way to the right side of the podium and then the crowds figured out where he was going to speak so we had to hang on for dear life as we were getting pushed big-time.  Carter made his way to the podium and made the last 20 minute long diatribe of his Presidiency.  To this day I can't remember what he said since those long gas lines were swimming in my mind.  After it was over he made his way down the left side of the stage and started to move toward us shaking hands. 

Secret Service were all over and Maury and I stuck our hands out to shake Carter's hand.  The Secret Service at first slapped our hands down but we kept putting them back out and then Carter grabbed my hand and shook it with both his hands.  I always wondered if my hand was one of the last few he shook as President.

Anyway, it was a great time and Maury was a great friend.  I say - was.  Maury committed suicide on 11 November 2007.   Not sure if I have much more to say about him...maybe some more...He's buried in the National Cemetery in Fort Leavenworth, KS

Profera's Pizza and Pennsylvania Dutch Birch Beer - That's bangin'

Look - Columbia SC is a pretty cool town. It's the Capital, it has its own University that owns the "USC," letters, (Go GameCocks), people are really friendly down here, climate is not bad except in August when I'm out in the field in 103 degree weather, there's a great museum, lots of activities, all kinds of restaurants but few family owned, etc. But how in the world is it that you can't get a decent slice of pizza down here that doesn't come from a chain store, frozen, or put through an assembly line trolley that's called an oven?
It became my mission and one of the reasons I rented the RV to get up there to PA - space to bring back pizza supplies. My comfort didn't matter - how was I going to get as many of those boxes as I could was the issue. So I brought my 80 gallon cooler and lots of blue ice to get my prize back to SC. Of course you have to wait until the last day you're in PA since it's about 12 hours to SC with two stops in between so keeping the pizza fairly cool was a chore. I've come to the sad conclusion that there's no way to replicate making Old Forge Pizza; crust, sauce and the cheese. I've tried every possible recipe from on-line addicts to 80 year old grandma's and nothing approaches it. I'm sure it has to do with some secret Sicilian concoction started in the back of the kitchen by the 90 year old Grandma who labors over the same pot of sauce she' used for 60 years (no kidding - one guy said that). The kicker is the crust. It is very light and crunchy. The cheese sticks to the roof of your mouth.

Profera's pizza was also served in the Tunkhannock High School cafeteria on Friday's so while I was starving myself Monday - Friday in 12th grade to get down to 112 pounds for wrestling I couldn't wait until after weigh in. I'd get that cold piece of Profera out of the box and munch down around 10 slices. (Yes - it's just as good cold). Then I'd usually pester the unusually intelligent Ken Geary for an hour to get him to let me have one of his raspberry cupcakes. He always gave in - he was an Eagle Scout.

So I settled - but not a bad settlement - Profera's Pizza.  Manufactured in Moosic, (PA), a mile from Old Forge, and a staple in School cafeterias across the NorthEast - but not far south enough to make it worthwhile to ship them to South Carolina.  Man that is such a bummer.  When Grandpa Bill and Grandma Ann Swartz had their grocery store in Mill City, I had Profera's Pizza and a TAB everyday when I got my father mad enough to send me over there for a few days.  Plus, Grandma Swartz would add a slice of cheese on top which made it even more gooey.  Man she could cook.  Mom Alice also made some great pizza on Sunday Nights which was gooey like soup but it was crazy good.  I think Jeff Frank used to want to spend the nights with us on Sunday so he could have that pizza.