Memorial Day Profile: Captain William Elmo Powell, United States Air Force -1968

Today, Memorial Day 2017, I have the honor of writing about a brave airman who hails from my own home town, Gatesville, TX.

William Elmo Powell was born in Gatesville on December 10, 1942.  His parents were Charles and Tincy Powell, and his brother was Charles Powell, Jr.  I was too young to really know that much about "Elmo" Powell when I resided in Gatesville.  It was actually when I attended Kendrick Elementary in Waco that I came to "know" Elmo Powell.  Of course I, and pretty much everyone who lived in Gatesville, knew the "Powell Family."  Powell Supply and other enterprises were prominent features of Gatesville many years. 

I first learned of Elmo Powell when the Kendrick Elementary School music teacher, Mrs. Nadine Baldwin, "introduced" him to me, and the rest of my class, I think in 1971 or 1972.  That year (I was in fourth grade, I believe) on the first day of school, Mrs. Baldwin asked each one of us to introduce ourselves and tell where we were from, etc.  Upon learning I was from Gatesville, Mrs. Baldwin showed me a peculiar bracelet she was wearing and told me it was a "hope" bracelet or some similar term.  The bracelet bore the name Elmo Powell, and the date, August 17, 1968.

Although I did not know (or at least remember) Elmo Powell, I did indeed know members of the Powell family.  Mrs. Baldwin explained that she had "adopted" Capt. Elmo Powell is "her" Missing In Action (MIA) soldier.  It was during this conversation that I came to  know Elmo Powell.  Capt. Powell piloted an F-4D Phantom jet, and was the leader of a two-person crew.  His navigator/weapons officer was Arthur Hoffson.  As Capt. (then 1st Lieutenant) Powell and Hoffson flew in their 96th combat mission, their jet was struck by enemy fire over North Vietnam.  Hoffson ejected first.  Capt. Powell was supposed to eject next, Hoffson said, but the aircraft took more hits and he did not believe Powell was able to perform the ejection operation.  Hoffson watched helplessly as the jet crashed a few minutes later.  Hoffson himself barely survived, as soldiers on the ground began firing into his parachute.  Hoffson was not hit, but spent the next five years as a prisoner of war in Hanoi.

In 1973, Hoffson was released, along with (allegedly) all other American prisoners of war.  Hoffson later told American officials that Powell had not been able to eject, but because his body was not found, nor was he listed as a prisoner of war by the Vietnamese, Powell was officially listed as MIA.  Mrs. Baldwin took up Captain Powell's cause, and after "adopting" him, was never without his bracelet, even after the war ended.  I learned that Mrs. Baldwin was actually a member of a "Peace Delegation" that was instrumental in both ending the Vietnam "Conflict" and holding the North Vietnamese officials accountable for their part of the Peace Accords, that being the full disclosure of all prisoners of war and their locations, as well as the names and locations of American soldiers who had been killed in the fighting and buried, whether in North Vietnam or in South Vietnam.

The North Vietnamese denied any knowledge of Capt. Powell, although both they and American forces had confirmed that exact location where the F-4D had crashed.  Post-war searches in the area failed to turn up the Captain's body, which implied that he had not died in the crash, or, if he had indeed died in the crash, his body had been removed and evacuated from the crash site.  Either way, it was obvious that North Vietnamese officials should have known the whereabouts of Capt. Powell.  But they claimed they did not, and the years dragged on. 

The Vietnamese government (North and South were now a unified nation) was well-known for releasing information or even remains of American dead when it was most politically expedient, such as in "bargaining chips" to help move the United States toward normalizing relations with that nation.  So every few years the Vietnamese government would announce that more remains of American soldiers had been "discovered."  It was not until 1985 that one such "discovery" was identified via DNA tests as positively being the remains of Capt. William Elmo Powell.  At last Captain Powell could be returned.  His remains were buried in Gatesville, Texas at Restland Cemetery, with full military honors.  In the years between the crash and Hoffson's release, both Elmo Powell and Arthur Hoffson were promoted to captains.  A headstone at Restland Cemetery and a plaque at Texas Christian University (Elmo Powell completed ROTC there) honor William Elmo Powell as Captain Powell.

It is my great privilege to honor Captain William Elmo Powell here in my humble blog, to remember him and thank him for his service and sacrifice to and for this nation.

CAPTAIN WILLIAM ELMO POWELL
UNITED STATES AIR FORCE
LAST MISSION: August 17, 1968

"You gave the last measure of full devotion." 
Charles Powell, Jr. TCU - Nov. 12, 2005 

Vacation Day #3, or, Seashells and Random Thoughts

Vacation Day #3 was so routinely smooth that it was in itself scary.  But, nothing major happened other than excellent visitation with relatives we see only once a year or so.  In fact, the day was so calm that I had time for just some random thoughts.

First random thought, I am so honored and humbled that people from so many different places take the time to read my blog.  I have readers here in the states, and I am glad, and I have readers in Europe including Spain, England, the Ukraine, Russia, and Portugal.  Occasionally I have readers from Mexico, South America, and even Viet Nam.  Thank you all, and I hope you all will continue to check in on me every now and again.

Viet Nam, no longer North or South, just one Viet Nam.  I sometimes wonder how the people of Viet Nam can not only be civil to Americans, but even welcome us and treat us with respect.  I am not for one minute dishonoring or defaming our soldiers who served there, and who served honorably in a terrible situation.  I am proud of our veterans, my uncle included.  I was a young child when my uncle enlisted.  At that time I had no real concept of what was going on, except there was a war and the United States must win.  Of course the United States did not win.  But as an adult I learned many things about the Viet Nam war that reflected badly against the United States, meaning those in authority.  And, I learned things did not reflect very well on the Vietnamese authorities as well.  But most of all, I learned that many soldiers from both nations died needlessly there, millions of civilians died needlessly, and the people ultimately responsible for all this death and destruction mostly got away scot free, except the unlucky South Vietnamese officers caught after the fall.  And now I know that many people in Viet Nam want to let the wounds heal, and even want to have normal and friendly relations with the United States.  People outside the political drama can find common ground and can respect each other regardless of how the various "governments" may relate to their counterpart "governments."

Roger Moore has departed this earthly life.  He was my very favorite James Bond.  Sorry ladies, I know many of you were hung up on Sean Connery, but Roger Moore was always so smooth and cultured, and delivered those smart one-liners better than Sean Connery or any of the other "Bonds." 
There have been other good Bonds, such as Pierce Brosnin, but none of them, in my humble opinion, ever matched the suave and debonair Roger Moore.  Mr. Moore lived to the good age of 89, and I suppose this may have been because he was so happy in his work, and with his legacy as James Bond, the spy's spy.

After three days I have not found any "collectible" seashells.  I am a little discouraged because my time by the sea is soon coming to an end.  I feel like the sea (as does the earth) has a spirit of its own that may or may not be a separate consciousness, but either way, I always ask the sea to provide a beautiful shell to me, just one on a visit.  Whether it does or not,  I always soak up as much of the sea "spirit" as I can during these brief visits.  I have such a fascination with the beach and the shore, life at the surfside, and the uniqueness of the inhabitants of the seashore.  The people of Surfside Beach, for instance, offer quite a study of unique and even strange characters.  Our former next door neighbor, Pat, was a perfect example of human "shore life."  He was a well-known character on the Island of Velasco.  Pat invited himself over to our side of the duplex one day, and a friendship was born, however brief.  Pat made a living by making and selling surfboards, giving surfing lessons, and occasionally doing odd jobs.  He was too busy to hold a full-time job.  This man craved a simple and free life.  He was very intelligent even though he was not a "financial success."  Pat had in fact been a national surfing champion in Hawaii in the 1970's.  As I said, Pat was a strange character but he was fascinating.  He had trained several grackles, those annoying blackbirds, which are actually fairly smart themselves, as birds go.  The grackles would land on his porch and walk into his always open front door.  They would do little tricks and even share food with him at the table.  I watched this spectacle myself in awe.  I had no idea these birds could be trained, and Pat had never had training as a bird trainer.  When we returned to Surfside a year after giving up our beach house, Pat had moved on as well.  We will probably never see him again, but he was definitely part of the surf scene for many years.  And, maybe I will find that special shell tomorrow when I once again return to Surfside Beach, the Village.

Walking along the seashore is very satisfying, and so is walking along the fields once plowed and harvested by my grandfather, or once covered with his dairy cattle.  The land there also has a spirit of its own, and like at the seashore, I try to absorb that spirit or that essence every time I can.  The land still bears the mark of work done by my grandfather, my uncle, and my father, as well as the somewhat faded remains of those who went even before my grandfather.  And occasionally the remnants of Native America are revealed to us in rare and spiritual moments.  This land, as was most of the land on this continent, was occupied by another people before we came, and probably another people before that.  Who really knows how many "befores" there were on this beautiful land?  But I count it as a great privilege to walk in the steps of my ancestors and these unknown Native Americans as well.  I know that this land is not really mine to keep, but it is mine to hold and care for until someone else takes my place with this responsibility and gift.

Life is sometimes happy, sometimes sad, sometimes chaotic, sometimes even terrible and tragic.  As a song once said,

"I've looked at life from both sides now,
from up and down, and still somehow,
it's life's illusions I recall,
I really don't know life....at all..."

And life goes on.

May God Bless you all

Vacation Day #2 - Always Have Spare Car Keys, or "Do You Want To Go To The Beach?"

So today is the Day Two of my vacation.  I count only my actual time off as vacation, by the way.  My wife and I left Midland on Saturday morning so we have been "out of town" now for actually most of four days.

(ASIDE:  CHILD A!!  PLEASE don't forget to feed the fish!)

As I was saying, Monday was actually the first day of my vacation, and the first full day of the convention my lovely bride is attending in Houston.  I chose to come with her (at her request) so I am "on vacation," while my lovely bride is here on company time.  I chose not to write about Monday in my blog because not much out of the ordinary happened on Monday here in Angleton, Texas, United States of America,  except that it rained all day...and I do mean kitties and puppies! 

Now in West Texas, a rain of only a half inch can result in major flooding; however, in east Texas when it floods, it has been raining torrentially for a couple days.  So Monday, I was thwarted most of the day in my attempt to go beachcombing.  My brother-in-law asked me why I was not out hunting seashells in the rain, since probably few people would be at the beach on such a day.  I am sure he was right about that part, because tornado warnings were being issued for parts nearby, so yes, probably few people were on the beach.  But I explained to him that mainly I was not on the beach in the rain because I did not have a raincoat.  Okay, bear with me, guys.  It was EARLY Monday morning.  Upon hearing this, my brother-in-law quite correctly pointed out that my purpose in going to the beach, aside from finding shells up above the high-tide mark, included wading in the water to look for them.  Umm....oh, yeah, so really I did not need a raincoat after all.  The short version (notwithstanding the above several lines) is that I did make it to the beach Monday afternoon when the sky cleared and the thermostat turned up to 88 degrees F.  But beyond that, and the fact that my lovely bride had to drive in the torrential rain from Angleton to Houston, basically nothing happened on Monday, vacation-wise.

Tuesday...
Well, my friends, Tuesday can only be classified as "a whole 'nother story," as we hillbillies/rednecks are fond of saying.  I have to say that had I known what lay in store for me and my lovely bride this day, I probably would have stayed in bed after my lovely bride once again departed for Houston.  Actually, I DID stay in bed until around 9:00 AM.  I am, after all, on vacation.  So a little after nine of the clock I arose and got dressed.  I was ready to head for the beach (rain over!) but I had a couple of errands to run in town first.  So I was doing some shopping when the phone rang and my brother-in-law, one of the heroes of this story - by the way - invited me to dine with him and his lovely wife at a small little place in Alvin called "The Caboose."  This is a barbeque joint at which I have never had the pleasure of dining in the past.  I was just about to embark on another sorty to the beach but the idea of a two-meat barbeque plate reluctantly replaced my desire for shell-hunting, at least for the lunch hour, so I indeed joined my "in-laws" for lunch.

I know, you are all asking what is so "special" about this "adventure" so far.  Aside from the good food and good company, nothing.  But, to paraphrase a familiar military quote, let me just tell you I have not yet BEGUN to write! 

Just as I was finishing the last mouthwatering bites of Caboose barbeque, my lovely bride rang in on the cell phone and asked if I had already eaten lunch, because she was hungry...and also (don't tell anyone!) she left the convention a little early today because apparently a particular presentation was not to her liking, so she decided to return to our local base of operations (my afore-mentioned brother-in-law's home) and then we could go to lunch.  For reasons I cannot explain, my lovely bride sounded somewhat upset that I had dined with her brother and sister-in-law but had not asked her to join.  I mentioned that the convention was not over for the day, but she explained to me that the convention WAS INDEED over for the day, and she was hungry!  So I did the gentlemanly thing and brought lunch to my lovely bride.  She ate her limit and then said those eight fateful words: Do you want to go to the beach?

I firmly believe that Karma had decreed that I go to the beach alone early on Tuesday morning; however, Karma being as unfathomable as any woman, including my lovely bride, I had no way of knowing that my deviation from Karma's plan would have such potentially DIRE consequences.  Foolish me!

Those eight little words. But of so much fate they bore!  I wonder how many great wars have been started by a woman uttering those words, "Do you want to go to the beach?"  Who can say?  Perhaps some inviting lady asked Hannibal, "Do you want to go to the beach?"  Knowing that the shortest path to the beach lay across the Swiss Alps, Hannibal put all those elephants to a quite unexpected but very good use.  On the way to the sunny seashore Hannibal paused long enough to lay waste to much of the Roman countryside.

But I digress...
Sweetie asked, "Do you want to go to the beach?"  Of course I wanted to go to the beach so I quickly agreed.  Again, I had no idea that Karma was so upset with me for not having followed her plan involving my arrival at the beach earlier this morning.  So we changed into beach attire, loaded up with Sonic drinks, made a quick stop at Wal-Mart (I know, this sounds like an oxymoron or oxenmoron or whatever that word is) but we really did get in and out of the LJ Wal-Mart in record time.  Then on to the beach!  Except, like I said, Karma was upset with me.

I know the way to Surfside Beach like I know the back of my hand, but today for some reason I did not look at the back of my hand.  I think I was noting to my wife the demise of a cat that should never have been trying to cross a major highway like Texas 288, when she noted to me that I had just missed the exit to Surfside.  Never mind, I said, the way we are going is not much longer.  Of course, as soon as I spoke those words, all the traffic lights were suddenly programmed by Karma (I believe, anyway) to turn red, one at the time.  Karma's strategy effectively increased the travel time from Freeport to Surfside by at least thirty minutes, giving her enough time to set her dastardly plan into action!  Read on.

After stopping at every red light in Freeport and then some in the county on the way to Surfside, we FINALLY arrived at "the beach."  It is at this point that Karma made my lovely bride an unwitting partner in her sinister scheme to ruin this little outing to the beach by stranding us there.  I had decided to go into Surfside Beach and park along the street then we could walk down to the pedestrian beach.  From the pedestrian beach we could follow our usual route along the sand to the jetty, or we could walk east into Surfside beach.  Either way my plan was to look for seashells as we strolled along.

Just as I was about to turn into Surfside Beach, Karma possessed my lovely bride's lovely lips and forced her to say, "Let's go down Bluewater Highway a little ways."  I should have instantly recognized that my wife was possessed, but I did not.  I was fooled probably because I wanted to look at houses along Bluewater Highway that might be for sale.  Not that we would buy a house there, mind you, but I was always "looking."  So, completely unaware of Karma's sadistic itinerary, I turned to the east and we drove down Bluewater Highway.  Soon we were well beyond the normal reaches of our beach journeys, and I should have felt the hairs on the nape of my neck tingling, but I did not.  Just the opposite, in fact.  I said to my lovely bride, "I am glad we decided to turn THIS way."  Hmmm, was that Karma I heard I heard snickering?  And maybe it was here that Karma took over my mind as well.

As we drove slowly along Bluewater Highway, my lovely bride and I did indeed scope out a few houses, but then my wife (in Karma's full control, I am sure!) suggested, "Why don't we drive to Galveston?"

Feeling under some strange influence myself, I said, "Yes, why don't we!" 

Still possessed by Karma, my lovely bride then said, "Hey, let's go down to the beach HERE!"

At this point I had no clear idea of where "here" was, except that we were somewhere between Surfside Beach and Galveston.  And, like I said, I must have been somehow made an unwilling partner of Karma myself because I immediately, unable to do otherwise, turned into the beach access road and then drove onto a wild section of beach at least six miles east of Surfside Beach, the village.  Then I did something REALLY weird.  I know the concept of ME doing something "weird" will be very difficult for some of you to grasp, but again, I was definitely being swayed by forces beyond my understanding or control.

I found myself in some sort of Karmatically-induced haze in which I heard my lovely bride say, "Just park somewhere safe and let's get out."  My hands, under control of those same unseen forces, drove the car into an area of the beach just at the very highest tideline, and I thought (very foolishly) that the car would be safe here while Sweetie and I took our walk along the beach.  At this point, the only things we did right were: 1) put on sunscreen (Sweetie insists on 500 SPF!); 2) picked up a large bottle of water and my hat; and, 3) grabbed a bag of corn nuts snacks.  Then, Karma once again asserted herself.

Karma, in the form of a rare brainstorm for me, rose up and forced me to take actions which I thought were very strange and alarming even as my broken will yielded to Karma's evil plan.  I took a step toward the beach then decided I did not want to carry the car keys with me for the upcoming beach stroll.  So I unloaded all of my  pockets and even removed my cell phone.  I placed these items in the floorboard, then, in what seemed like a stroke of genius to me, but, as I have said, was actually Karma possessing my faculties, I came up with a rock-solid, foolproof plan for booth concealing the car keys and not having to carry them myself.  I grabbed a big batch of dead seaweed, plopped the car keys down in the sand, and covered the keys with the seaweed.  I cleverly used a plastic drain cap, recently deposited on the beach by the latest storm, to subtly mark the spot.  I thought I had done a great job!  What thief would think of looking under tons of seaweed to find the keys to a beachgoer's car? Yes, I told myself, this was indeed a plan!

Karma again, using Sweetie's voice: Honey, what are you doing?

I told her. 

My lovely:bride, under Karma's control: Honey, that is ridiculous! 

Me: But Sweetie, NO ONE would think of looking under all this seaweed.

My lovely bride: Okay, fine (we men KNOW when our women say "Fine" things are NOT "Fine.").
But I cleverly left the keys concealed there anyway.

Sweetie and I strolled along the beach for a couple of hundred feet, then Karma stuck her hand into Sweetie's back. "Honey, that makes me nervous.  Go get the keys and I will carry them MYSELF!"

Then I felt my body being turned by forces unknown back toward the car.  My feet began walking slowly to the car as if suddenly grafted onto a stranger.  I (my free self) KNEW that the keys were safe, but I (my Karma-puppeteered self) could not stop.  I went back to the seaweed in front of the car, dug up the car keys, and, in zombie-like motion, handed them over to my lovely bride.  She did not want to carry the keys any more than did I, but Karma was running things.  Next thing, my lovely bride had inserted the keys between her ample bosoms in her swimming suit and was strolling up the beach, satisfied that the keys were safe (Honey later explained to me that she KNEW not to place the keys "there," but "something" made her do it.  Karma strikes again!).

Karma, having successfully coerced my lovely bride into placing the keys in her bosoms, then placed the both of us into a sort of enchantment (or maybe the ocean itself did it) so that both of us forgot all about the keys my lovely bride carried in the intimate section of the uppermost part of her bathing suit.  We began earnestly searching for any collectible seashells deposited by the receding tide.  The storm had delivered many seashells, but alas, the collectible shells were all smashed to smithereens.  By the time we had walked nearly a mile down the beach, we only had a few fragments of shells to show for our efforts.  So we turned back toward the direction from which we had come and began walking toward our distant car.  That's when Karma POUNCED on us!!

As we walked Honey suddenly stopped in her tracks.  I saw her patting her swimming suit as if she were frisking herself prior to being arrested.  Then she said, "Honey, are the keys in your pocket?"

"Keys? Umm...you have the keys, Sweetie."

"Didn't I give you the keys when I put the corn nuts into your pocket?"

"No.  You just put the corn nuts into my pocket.  Why?"

I see Sweetie now quite excitedly patting her chest, then up down her sides.  She even checked the BOTTOM of her swimming suit, but no keys.  Then it hit her...then it hit ME!  The keys were in the water!! 

It was at this point Karma relinquished my body and mind back to me and I realized the direness of our situation.  The car keys were gone forever, swirling down into the depths of Davy Jones's locker.  And there was only about ten hours until the tide came rolling back in.  And the car, while at the high tide mark, was not ABOVE the high tide mark.  And we were strangers in these parts so it might be HOURS before we could get help. And our CELL PHONES were locked in the CAR!  And Karma was laughing her fool head off at us!

Cell phones.  Do you know what cell phones have done to the human race over the past couple of decades?  The smartness of our "smart phones" has led to the reduced "smartness" of our own brains.  Young people may not know this, but prior to the advent of cell phones and other portable "devices" people had to either "memorize" important phone numbers or "write" the important phone numbers into a small "notebook" or other "paper" implement.  I had my first cell phone in the early '90s, and by the first year of the new millennium my memory was mush.  So the sheer shock of not being able to access my cell phone (locked in the car, of course) sort of FROZE my brain for a couple of minutes.  Yes, I could borrow some friendly swimmer's cell phone, that was not the problem.  The problem was that I did not KNOW ANY OF MY IMPORTANT phone numbers.  It turns out that neither did Sweetie!  So even if we HAD a cell phone, we would not be able to call anyone.  WE DID NOT KNOW OUR IMPORTANT NUMBERS!

Free note to my readers: The above COULD be a valuable point.  It would definitely pay to memorize at least one or two important phone numbers. 

As Sweetie and I made our way back toward the parked car, we paused to ask two fellow beachgoers if we could use their cell phone.  These were two young men, about early college age, and they gladly let us use a cell phone.  Sweetie's brain beat mine back to function mode, so she came up with a plan.  We "Googled" the local church my most helpful uncle attends and luckily were able to get the his phone number from the church secretary.  Then it struck me, we had no means of recording the phone number.  One of the two young men told the other to find something with which we could write.   The young man ran to his car and quickly returned with a pen.  His friend looked at him, looked at the pen, then said, "Dude! Paper!"  The first young man looked rather sheepish and returned to his car in search of a piece of paper.  Like I said, my lovely bride regained the full use of her faculties while I was still in BRAIN FREEZE.  She told me to have the church secretary repeat the telephone number, which I did, and my lovely bride recorded it into the sand.  Just then the first young man arrived with the piece of paper.

Soon rescue was on the way for my lovely bride and I, but the car was still a problem.  Obviously we needed a wrecker, but without the keys the wrecker driver would not be able to unlock the steering column or release the emergency break.  I always set the emergency brake even on the flattest of flat parking spots.  But Karma, busy working up her plan for me, had been so busy that she forgot to let me remember to set the parking break.  First time in years!  So we returned to our car, but we were still not out of the woods, so to speak.  Before a wrecker could come to our rescue we had to be able to call the wrecker company.  And we had no cell phone.  The helpful young men were set up over half a mile from the car.  There were some people close to our car, but none of them had a cell phone.  What to do!

At this point Karma must have been appeased for whatever trespass I or we had committed.  The people who did not have a phone directed us to the office of the resort next to our car, and they let us borrow a writing pen so that we could record our car's VIN. The VIN would allow a locksmith to fashion and program a new key for the car.  The problem now was whether or not we could get a tow truck to pull the car off the beach before the next high tide.  This proved to be a minor worry because the first tow company we called (recommended by the most helpful proprietor of the Peregrine Townhomes - whose phone we were now using) was able to move the car within another forty-five minutes.  By the time the wrecker arrived, my brother-in-law and sister-in-law were on the scene.  He and she were very helpful, a few guffaws on his part notwithstanding.

We followed the tow truck back to my brother-in-law's home.  Once there the wrecker driver released the vehicle and went his way, with our thanks.  But we still had a locked vehicle, with cell phones, wallets, and purses all locked inside.  While on the beach we had talked with a locksmith.  He told us he was very busy but he could probably come by around 7PM and cut a key for the car.  He also programmed the remote key so that it would actually start the car, not just unlock it.  The locksmith arrived as promised, but apparently he too had upset Karma, because she called in a monster thunder and lightning storm while the young man worked in the driveway.  In spite of the storm, the locksmith finished his work quickly.  Now my lovely bride will be able to return to her convention tomorrow.

Tomorrow if my lovely bride says to me, "Do you want to go to the beach?"  I will tell her...I will tell her..."Yes, of course I want to go to the beach!  Do you want to carry the car keys in your bosoms, or should I bury them under some seaweed like I started to yesterday?"

(Note: The time and date of my funeral will be announced later.)

Ferrari Is STILL Resting In Peace, Thanks To The Carabinieri

Turning to news of the WEIRD today, kudos to the Italian Carabinieri, who after apparently at least a year of undercover investigation, made simultaneous raids in various locations in Sardinia and northern Italy and arrested thirty-four members of a criminal gang known as Anonima Sequestri.  These persons were all charged with conspiracy...(wait for it)...to steal the corpse of Enzo Ferrari, the famed car maker.  Further, this gang of (apparently talkative) criminals intended to hold Ferrari's corpse for ransom.  This may sound, though grotesque, somewhat comical here, but across the sea in Italy I can assure you that the people are quite upset about this sinister plot, and rightly so.  Ferrari is a much esteemed personage among the Italians, even these nearly three decades after his death.

The police believe that the Anonima Sequestri (under the leadership of currently jailed mafioso Graziano Mesina) have been making plans for this "kidnapping" for at least a year and a half, possibly longer.  Members of the gang had worked out timetables for the crime, and even created a working model of the cemetery and tomb that holds Ferrari's corpse.  The Ferrari family would no doubt have paid millions in ransom for the return of their relative's course.  Fortunately the Italian national police foiled the operation and shut down at least this segment of Mesina's criminal gang.

Actually, the idea of holding the corpse of a famous person for ransom is not new.  This part of American history has become somewhat obscure, perhaps overshadowed by the United States being involved in World War I, but President Lincoln's body was the target of a similar plot in the decades following his assassination, resulting in his casket being moved several times to avoid theft.  Lincoln's corpse was finally able to "rest in peace" after the casket was entombed in the Oakridge Cemetery in Springfield, Illinois, under several tons of concrete for added protection.

Thanks to the Italian police for their good work in preventing Ferrari's theft.  I am sure the Ferrari family will have to take affirmative steps to prevent the successful theft of Enzo Ferrari's body in the future.  We may envy the lives of the rich and famous, but we commoners can usually rest assured that our final rest will be peaceful.  I had always known that there were some drawbacks to being rich and famous, but I did not realize that even extended to the DEATHS of the rich and famous. 

So that is today's News of The Weird. 

Forgotten Tragedy: The Goliad Tornado - May 18, 1902

The Great Waco Tornado of 1953 is familiar to most Texans and to many people throughout the nation.  This was indeed a tragic storm, claiming 114 lives and leaving well over five hundred other people injured.  There was such great destruction in downtown Waco from that storm that damage can still be found to this day.  When I lived and worked in Waco, there were still many signs of the tornado's damage.

While the Waco tornado was tragic, it is also much easier remembered than the Goliad tornado, both because there are still survivors and immediate descendants of survivors alive to this day, and because we are much closer in time and technology to the 1953 Tornado.  The Goliad tornado killed just as many people as did the later Waco tornado, but, largely because Goliad was much smaller than Waco, the number of injured was much smaller, at approximately 250.  Well over two hundred structures were destroyed in Goliad, a much higher percentage of buildings and structures than were destroyed in Waco, but again, due to the smaller size of the city, the total monetary damage at Goliad was much smaller.

In 1902, however, communication was much slower than in 1953, and much less reliable.  Most of the telephone system at Goliad was destroyed that afternoon, but the telephone supervisor managed to assemble a working phone and was able to get word out within an hour or so after the storm.  Within the next four hours, trains arrived from Victoria and Cuero bearing doctors, nurses, medical supplies, and some news reporters. Within another hour, word had been received as far away as Dallas and Houston, and more aid began pouring in.

Goliad, the location of the infamous massacre of General Fannin and his soldiers in 1836, was described in 1902 as a very beautiful city with its plaza and the Presidio, and well as La Mission Bahia.  The mission itself was not hit, but the Presido was in the tornado's path.  Yet the Presidio, while heavily damaged, was said to have been the only building that survived in the tornado's path.   According to the leader of a local military unit that responded to aid the city, the path of the tornado was over a mile long, and cut a swath an eighth of a mile wide through western Goliad.  In this great swath of destruction, the Presidio was said to be the only structure standing even a foot or two high.  All that remained of the other structures were scattered piles of broken wood and downed masonry.

When the tornado struck Goliad, three churches in the direct line of the tornado were literally blasted out of existence.  Most of those killed were African-Americans meeting in an AME Methodist Church.  A nearby Baptist church and another small church were also destroyed, all those inside killed by the storm's fury.  Others in homes and buildings throughout the storm's path were killed or injured. Survivors likened the terrible noise of the storm that afternoon to the sound of many heavily laden freight trains.  The next day, the weather being hot, a large trench was dug and all the bodies of those killed were buried in one single service.  Most of those killed were either Black or Hispanic due to the tornado striking in the western portion of the city.

It may be that the Great Goliad Tornado of 1902 became an obscure part of Texas History because fewer photographs of damage and destruction were available to historians and authors of that era.  In contrast, by the time Waco was struck by the great tornado on May 11, 1953, the television and radio stations there had been in operation for nearly a quarter of  a century.  A few pictures of the Goliad tornado aftermath remain today and can be found on various sites on the Internet.  Little sign of the tornado of 1902 remains, but a historical marker is set there to mark the tornado's path.  The citizens of Goliad participate in memorials each year to remember the tragedy and those that lost their lives that day.

May in Texas is a very dangerous time.  Of the ten most powerful and deadly tornadoes that have struck Texas since weather data has been maintained (Goliad is #2 right after the Waco tornado), eight occurred in May, with the other two occurring in April.  Of course Texsa has suffered many hundreds of tornadoes since 1836, and those tornadoes have occurred in almost every month of the year, but it is springtime in Texas that seems to bring the worst of the monster storms.

Today is a day we remember those who died in that terrible storm in Goliad in 1902.

May God Bless America

Peace Officer Memorial Week - The Thin Blue Line Enternal

Peace Officer Memorial Week (May 14 - 20) is a sacred time for me, and Peace Officer's Memorial Day, May 15th, has become more dear to me than even when I was an active peace officer.  The flags were lowered to half-staff yesterday, and memorials will be held all over the country this week, with the biggest ceremony being held in Washington, D.C.

Even as a rebellious teen I was struck with sadness when an officer was slain in the line of duty.  No, I did not like getting traffic tickets, and yes, I made fun of home town officers in my little town, as did most of the idiots I ran with.  But I always admired police officers from afar, always felt I could depend on an officer to help me if I were in trouble.  And I always believed it was the ultimate act of disregard for the law, for people, and for the officer himself, when someone shot an officer, overpowered a jailer or prison guard, or murdered any other officer.

One of the first officers of whose death I was really aware was DPS Trooper Hollie Tull on September 14, 1974.  In Temple Texas on that fateful day Trooper Tull stopped a vehicle occupied by two men who had just committed an armed robbery and executed three persons during that robbery.  As Trooper Tull approached the vehicle, one of the occupants shot him twice with a shotgun.  The Trooper was able to return to his vehicle and retrieve his own shotgun, but was shot several times by the other occupant who had followed Tull back to his vehicle.  Even then, Trooper Tull struggled with this man while using his radio to alert other officers.  Hollie Tull died that day, but his action probably saved the lives of other officers and civilians as well, since the robber/killers would no doubt commit more crimes as they attempted to flee Texas and return to Oklahoma, their home state.  As is usually the case, when these two cowardly animals were confronted by several officers, they (as is so oft repeated) "meekly surrendered" and were taken into custody.  In what can only be called an unfathomable decision, both men, after receiving the death penalty (FOUR MURDERS), had their sentences commuted to life.  They may well be alive today in prison.  I will not waste any time researching that or otherwise dignifying these two who should be long dead and off the state expense roll.

In Texas, one of the most dangerous states in which a peace officer can serve, the annual death toll of peace officers reaches the double digits.  Only California occasionally surpasses Texas in the number of officers slain each year.  The other three most dangerous states are New York, Florida, and Louisiana during an average year.  Of course, correctional officers are in constant danger throughout their shift, and Texas has lost its share of correctional officers over the years.  My cousin's husband, a correctional officer in Beeville, was murdered on the job in December, 1999.  His killer is STILL sitting on death row.

I became a police officer in Waco in 1981. Just over a year later, in July 1982, one of my fellow academy mates was shot in an alley near the infamous downtown bus station, where two other officers had lost their lives in the past decades.  Frank Gentsch III, now a ranking officer with that department, survived the shooting...and for the rest of us, it was suddenly very real that someone might try to shoot or otherwise injure one of us at any time.  A year or so later another officer, Bud Thurman, was shot while stopping a robbery.   He survived and returned to work a few weeks later.

Then it happened. On August 29, 1989 Robert (Bobby) Vicha was killed at his residence just as he returned from work.  Bobby was shot in ambush by his sister's estranged husband.  This man had brutally murdered Bobby's elderly parents just before ambushing Bobby.  Myself and other officers had to stand by helplessly as a police dragnet encompassed three counties.  Within a couple of hours the killer was spotted.  He crashed in the subsequent chase but escaped serious injury.  He was sentenced to death but with the usual appeal process he remained on death row.

I left police work in 1992 but a few years later I found myself working alongside police officers when I became a member of the first response interdepartmental team, including CPS, local police, and the sheriff's offices of several counties around Midland.  In 2004 I had the great pleasure of meeting and working with Detective Arlie Jones of the Odessa Police Department.  This officer never looked at child welfare investigations as "cases."  These were valuable and vulnerable children, and Arlie was passionate about protecting them, and prosecuting their abusers when possible.  Our lives diverged as I left the agency and Arlie was promoted to sergeant in the patrol division of the Police Department. I never saw Arlie again although I spoke to him by phone a couple of times.  On September 8, 2007 news interrupted local programming with the announcement that three officers had been killed in Odessa when they responded to a domestic disturbance.  Arlie Jones and Corporal Scott Gardner were literally cut in half by shotgun blasts when they knocked at the door of Larry White's house. A third officer, Abel Marguez, was blasted THROUGH THE WALL of the house when White heard him calling out to the fallen officers.  Officers who came to the aid of the three fallen officers found Arlie, and the last thing he said was that they needed to check on the other two officers.  After a standoff lasting several hours, White finally came out of the house.  The senselessness of these murders was aggravated by the fact that White was a bitter, dying old man.  He died of cancer before being brought to trial,

In 2012 I began my employment in the Security Department of Midland Memorial Hospital.  I met several police officers between 2012 and 2014 there, but one officer that I grew to respect very much was a sergeant with the Midland County Sheriff's Office.  Michael Naylor was a very special officer, one who truly cared about the people with whom he had contact.  He was especially concerned with the treatment of mentally ill or emotionally disturbed persons.  Sergeant Naylor was responsible for creating and overseeing the new Mental Health Officer program.  In this capacity he trained other officers to deal with mental patients in a more humane, more understanding way, and that promoted the least use of force possible when dealing with the mentally ill.  Sergeant Naylor was respected by his peers, by us in the Security Department, and by the medical professionals at the hospital.  His efforts not only helped those who were vulnerable but advanced the treatment of the mentally by law enforcement in the Permian Basin area.  On October 9, 2014 Sergeant Naylor and other officers learned that a wanted child predator was in a certain house in west Midland County.  Sergeant Naylor and another deputy saw the fugitive in the kitchen of the residence and tried to talk to him.  At first the man would not communicate with the officers.  Sergeant Naylor knocked out a portion of a window so that he and the man could talk virtually face to face.  Sergeant Naylor pointed out that the house was surrounded and tried to talk the man into coming out on his own.  Without any provocation or warning the fugitive suddenly drew a pistol and shot Sergeant Naylor in the head.  The other deputy and deputies in the yard carried Sergeant Naylor to a waiting ambulance.  He was transported to the very hospital where he had worked so diligently with mentally ill persons.  Sergeant Naylor never regained consciousness and died within the next hour.  Meanwhile, the fugitive eventually came to the door, begging officers not to shoot him.  And by their professional training and their integrity as police officers, these men and women were able to show great restraint. The fugitive was arrested and of course now is on the state dole while state paid lawyers still work at having his sentence reduced or his case thrown out.

Since Michael Naylor's murder in 2014 many more officers have given their lives in Texas while serving as Texas Peace Officers.  Even now, in 2017, two officers have fallen in Texas, with many others wounded or assaulted in the line of duty.  Officers all over Texas, while never forgetting their fallen colleagues, take time during this special week to remember their fallen friends as well as fallen officers around the nation that they will never know, but with whom they are joined in spirit and by the badge they carry.

The officers who gave their lives left behind their colleagues to carry on, but they also left behind their spouses, their children, their parents and other loved ones, and their friends and neighbors. Those who are left behind are also victims.  They have been robbed of their loved ones by cowardly criminals who sit in our prison for years at taxpayer expense.

I am proud to honor those fallen officers that I knew personally, and those that I have never met, those who gave their lives years ago, and those who are even now honoring their fallen comrades, and who will yet give their lives in the line of duty.  It is a comfort, even though sobering, to know that brave men and women are willing to serve and protect the rest of us, even if the price for this service is their very lives.

May God watch over the officers, the men and women that make up the Thin Blue Line, and may God's angels be waiting to bear the fallen over to the other side, while comforting those left behind.

And may God Bless America

  

Cinco de Mayo Includes A Taste Of Old Texas

For many years I have known about and occasionally participated in the festivities of the Mexican holiday known as Cinco de Mayo, although my participation is usually limited to a hoisted Margarita or two in honor of that day, and in support of my friends who honor the true meaning of Cinco de Mayo.  I have also known for years that this celebration marks Mexico's defeat of French occupation forces and is NOT the BIG independence day, the day of Mexican independence from Spain, or Deiz y Seis (de Septiembre), the more important day in Mexican history, if not the most celebrated day.

But I have to confess that I did NOT know that the hero of Cinco de Mayo, Ignacio Zaragoza, was a man right from deep in the Heart of Texas.  The Battle of Puebla could be considered as Mexico's version of the Battle of San Jacinto in Texas.  A small but well-trained army led by Zaragoza, numbering about 800 men (as did Houston's Texas army at San Jacinto) repelled an attack by the much stronger French Army which numbered between 1000 and 2000 soldiers at Puebla, in a battle that lasted much longer than the eighteen minutes of fighting at San Jacinto.  The battle at Puebla not only cost the French about half their men that day, but also delayed the French in their eventual attack on Mexico City.  This delay and other factors resulted in the defeat of the French and their expulsion from Mexico.  A lesser known aspect of the French Intervention in Mexico was that Spain attempted to reassert its influence on Mexico, if not the reoccupation of that nation.  England also aided the French and Spanish in the blockade of Veracruz.  Unfortunately for France, however, both Spain and England backed out of the combination, and Mexican forces took great advantage of this turn of events.

Zaragoza was the human factor behind the successful defense of Puebla and the eventual expulsion of the French from Mexico's soil.  Zaragoza, even in the face of great personal tragedy (his wife passed away only two months before the battle), inspired his soldiers to fight in spite of great odds, and to regain their freedom.  Further, Zaragoza was largely responsible for reviving a great national spirit of independence in Mexico, thus igniting the flame and spirit that led to permanent independence for Mexico.  Unfortunately, Zaragoza became ill and died only four months later, and just a week before Diez y Seis was celebrated in 1862.

Like the Battle of San Jacinto nearly thirty years earlier in Texas, the Battle of Puebla changed the course of history in a much bigger way than the size of the forces involved and the immediate victory prize would imply.  It appears that the French intended to use the continued occupation of Mexico as a springboard for providing assistance to the Confederate States of America via crossing the Texas border to convoy military supplies to Confederate forces.  Had badly needed arms and ammunition reached the Confederacy in 1862, while the early war momentum was with Confederate forces, the outcome of the American Civil War might have been much different. 

Zaragoza added a Texas flavor to the Mexican holiday Cinco de Mayo.  Zaragoza was a native of Goliad, south of San Antonio.  His father, Miguel, was an infantryman in the Mexican Army and was loyal to Mexico.  With the news of the defeat of General Santa Anna at San Jacinto, Miguel moved his family to Matamoros, and later to Monterrey.  Inspired by his father's loyalty to Mexico and his service in the army, Ignacio, a businessman by this time, joined the militia of Monterrey.  His rise to fame and the valuable place he would take in Mexican history began a few years later when his militia chapter was absorbed into the regular army.  Ignacio, a sergeant of the militia, was promoted to the rank of captain in the Mexican army.  Thus a native Texan (of Mexico) rose in the ranks and eventually served as the Ministry of Defense under Mexico's President Benito Juarez, starting in 1860.  Zaragoza resigned his Cabinet post in 1861 to accept a commission as the Commander in Chief of the Mexican Army of the East.  In this capacity he engineered the victory at Puebla.

Although Ignacio Zaragoza remained loyal to Mexico, he was well-respected on both sides of the Border.  Sam Houston and other prominent Texans admired Zaragoza both for his loyalty and for his military skills.  Proof of this lies in Zaragoza being honored by Texas historians and the Texas Legislature.  Zaragoza's birthplace in Goliad was preserved and eventually restored.  This man and his accomplishments are remembered at this two-acre sight to this very day.  Thus, Ignacio Zaragoza most likely the biggest reason that Mexicans were victorious on Cinco de Mayo, added a taste of Texas to that Mexican holiday. 

I am proud to honor Ignacio Zaragoza in the small way I am able to do so in the pages of this blog.  While not truly a Texas hero, Zaragoza embodies the spirit of loyalty, bravery, and independence that native Texans value so much to this very day.

God Bless Mexico, God Bless Texas...and

May God Bless America!  Viva Cinco de Mayo!