Ridin’ The Eastern Range
April 26, 2010
Ridin' The Eastern Range
(Chapter - excerpts)
1 The Sweet Light
2 Death of a Gypsy
3 Lights of Tacoma
4 The Faceless Soldier
5 The Classic Cowboy Pick-up Truck
6 An Open Letter to My Supporters(2008 On Losing a Congressional Election)
1. The Sweet Light: Sometimes life’s greatest lessons are taught by the most unlikely teachers. As happenstance would have it, I had just thrown in lots with a hippie and a medical student. We met at the climber’s hostel run by the American Alpine Club just outside Moose, Wyoming. The three of us planned to be the first climbers of the season to make a summit attempt of Grand Teton Mountain via the Owen-Spaulding route.
Our plan was to hike through the lupine meadows in Garnet Canyon, scramble up the scree slopes, ascend the snowfields, and make our base camp at the lower saddle. This approach would involve a twelve-mile hike from the valley floor, gaining over 5,000 feet in altitude the first day. As the air got thinner, the packs got heavier, and we paused for a snack of beef jerky near an outcropping of granite rock.
The hippie removed the red bandana from his head and mopped the sweat from his brow. As we slowly caught our breath in the rarefied atmosphere, the conversa-tion came a little easier.
“If we don’t keep our pace,” he said, “we will never make it to the lower saddle in time to enjoy the sweet light.”
“The sweet light,” I queried, “what’s that?”
“It’s a special time of day,” the hippie responded between gulps of water from his canteen, “when the sun just begins to set. It only lasts 15 or 20 minutes. It’s the time of day to reflect upon your accomplishments, just like the sun reflects on the mountains. It’s good for your karma. More importantly, it’s the time of day when the cosmic tumblers rotate so that the universe unlocks its secrets. It’s the best time of the day to think and meditate.”
We reached the lower saddle on schedule and proceeded to set up camp. Water boils at a much lower temperature at high altitudes, and it wasn’t long before we had brewed a pot of Darjeeling tea. Soon the hippie motioned me to the western edge of the precipice as the enlarged sun squatted on the Idaho landscape. The setting sun cast long shadows, and the mountain spires and couloirs took on new shapes and hues. Down below, Dartmouth basin looked cold and blue, and if you listened closely, you could hear the wind whistling through the craggy columns and overhangs of the canyon walls. Occasionally, rocks would bounce down a chute, or a snow cornice would release causing a roaring avalanche of catapulting snow and ice. The hippie sat cross-legged like a Tibetan priest, enthralled with the waning rays of the sweet light.
Last week my eight-year old daughter, Calley, surprised me one evening when she suggested that we go down in the pasture to watch the sweet light. Under the threat of rain, we had put up hay all day long, and the geometric rows of hay now safely stowed in the mow seemed like a significant accomplishment. We jumped on the three-wheeler and drove to a high knoll in the pasture where we had an unobstructed view of the setting sun. Even the cows paused to enjoy the sweet light as baby calves nursed. Occasionally, some calf with a milk-splattered face would give us a quizzical look and then, with a gentle butt, go back to his evening meal or perhaps crow-hop and frolic with the other calves before the cows bedded down.
As we sat on the three-wheeler, the sun hovered like a burnished gold disk on the western horizon. The storm that had threatened us during the day was now passing to
the south, causing a breeze to rattle the corn leaves and heads of wheat. Across the valley, the distinctive staccato rhythm of an old John Deere tractor could be heard. It didn’t deter the whitetail deer that ventured out of the forest to water near the cattails in the pond. Off in the distance, a cock pheasant crowed. Perhaps he was challenging a rival, or maybe, he was just bragging about his latest conquest. If you used your biggest imagination and listened
closely, you could almost hear cosmic tumblers clicking and turning.
We sat on the three-wheeler until the sun slipped below the horizon. We discussed the great mysteries of life in hopes the sweet light might reveal some heretofore unknown clues. We talked about the chicken and egg mystery and guessed at why Mona Lisa was smiling. Calley asked if I thought God had a belly button. Child psychologists would have probably called it quality time.
The three-wheeler left a dew trail through the pasture when we finally returned to the house. The fireflies were emerging from the grass, and where minutes ago there was the sweet light, now there were a thousand points of light. Calley promised to show me how to make a lightning bug lantern. I decided to pay close attention, because, well, sometimes life’s greatest lessons are taught by the most unlikely teachers.
________________
Author’s note: Calley is now a medical doctor, is married, and has a child of her own. I’m sure when little Claire is older, Calley will share the sweet light and life’s mysteries with her as well.
2. Death of a Gypsy
They say that every cowboy deserves one good dog, one good horse, and one good woman during his lifetime. My one good dog was named Gypsy. She was mostly a border collie, and the black coat and white cape reminded us of the way we envisioned a Gypsy woman might dress. She even had gold bangles, of sorts, on her ankles.
We came into this world within a year of each other and grew up together on a small farm on the outskirts of town. Gypsy, or Gypper as we often called her, was part of the family. We even wrapped up a can of dog food or a new feed pan and put it under the tree for her so that she would have something for Christmas along with the rest of the family.
As we grew older, the bond strengthened, and everyone remarked about what good buddies we were. After awhile they began to abbreviate “buddies” by simply calling us “buds.” “That boy and dog sure are good buds,” they would say. And so we were.
In those early years, we had great adventures together down along the Kokosing River. In the spring we would catch black suckers in the rivulets that flowed into the swollen stream. In the summer we could always catch rock bass beneath the roots and stumps of old willow trees perched precariously on the banks of the river. When trapping season rolled around, we would go after muskrats and raccoons.
Then there was the time I tried to dogpaddle across the deep hole at the confluence of Dry Creek and the Kokosing River. I was only seven, there were no adults around, and I dared myself to try it. I was right proud of myself when I made it to the other side, but I had expended so much energy and was so worn out that I had to sit on a big mossy rock to rest up for the trip back. Gypper paced nervously on the other bank. Halfway back I ran out of steam and began to sink in the murky backwater. Gypper answered my gurgled distress call like an Olympic swimmer. I
latched onto her tail, and she pulled me to shore – then licked my face as I continued to cough up muddy river water.
The year before that, I was playing under a tree in an otherwise open field
when a wolf attacked me. Well, it looked
like a wolf. Gypper was busy digging up field mice nearby when the German Shepherd bared his fangs at me. I yelped
and ran for the tree with the German Shepherd gaining ground fast, when a black and white lightning bolt struck the German Shepherd broadside. It soon turned tail and ran, and after Gypper chased it out of our territory, she returned wagging her tail and quite proud of herself for whipping a dog twice her size. I told her what good buds we were and gave her an extra can of dog food that evening.
By the time I was ten, we were running long trap lines together at night – just the two of us, plus my coal oil lantern, Estwing hatchet and my hickory club. Trap lines can be spooky places on foggy nights, and I always took great comfort in Gypper’s company even though she would occasionally add to my anguish by growling at something in a thicket or in an old blue-beech den tree. My dad said I wouldn’t be so scared if I practiced mind control. But when a covey of quail erupts in your face at nighttime, a ten year old is more concerned about bladder control than mind control.
Gypper was never very good at herding cattle. However, there was the time we took a shortcut through Mr. Yauger’s pasture and his mean Jersey bull came thundering down on me. There’s nothing uglier than a Jersey bull, especially when he has drawn a bead on you and is blowing snot out his nose. I heard later that Mr. Yauger speculated that it was probably barbed wire that accounted for the rips in his bull’s ear.
They say that dogs can’t smile. Not really. They wag their tails, lick, jump and otherwise show affection, but don’t really smile. Well, you could never convince me that my dog couldn‘t smile. She smiled every time I got off the school bus, and when she chased rabbits through the purple brambles along the fence row, and I patted her on the head and told her she was a good dog, there was a great big dog smile all over her face.
She didn’t smile quite as much though, in the fall of 1961. After all, in dog years, she was over 100 now. The winter winds blew hard that year, but I was sure she would be her old self again when the warm spring sunshine brought out the new crop of rabbits. Our vet said she was too old to operate on the tumors in her stomach, but I just knew that my nightly prayers would make her better.
It was a dreary April day, pallid and overcast. I was plowing a field with an Allis Chalmers model C tractor and a single 16 inch breaking plow. The corn crop I would soon plant would be my FFA project that year. Dad drove right up to the edge of the field and lowered the tailgate. His somber face foretold the sad news. I tried to act like a man – well, maybe a boy-man, as I gently ran my fingers through her silky black and white coat one last time. We would soon be moving from our rented farm, so Dad said he would bury her at my Grandma’s place. He fashioned a cross from two pieces of driftwood and wired them together with an old coat hanger.
My brother Rich and I skipped supper and went directly to our room that night. We didn’t just cry – we wailed, all night long. We went through a whole box of Kleenex that night.
The next morning, I made my way to the back of the school bus, stuck my hands in the pockets of my corduroy FFA jacket, put my chin on my chest, and stared with red and swollen eyes at the floor of the bus. My mind was racing with the memories of an old friend, a friend who for the first time ever, would not be waiting at the bus stop to greet me when I returned home.
It was almost inaudible, but I barely heard a fellow student whisper to another, “What’s wrong with Dailey today?”
A classmate softly, almost reverently replied, “His dog died yesterday and, well, they were good buds.”
3. Lights of Tacoma
The steady drone of the Boeing 707 engines would have put most global travelers to sleep. Although we had been awake for the last 36 hours, we were too excited to doze off. Many of us were fearful that if we slept we would wake up to find this trip was just another pipe dream.
Seventeen hours earlier we had departed Cam Rahn Bay en route to the military airbase in Tacoma, Washington. We had completed our tour of duty in Vietnam, and now the day we had dreamed about for so long had finally arrived.
For the most part, it was the same planeload of paratroopers that had traveled together to Saigon one year earlier. We were an amalgamated lot: farm boys from the Midwest, college dropouts, Blacks and Latinos from the big cities. Many of us went through basic training and jump school together and we had our cultural differences, but now we shared a kinship forged by a common experience.
We were quite cognizant of the many adjustments we would have to make in the coming months. It began three days earlier back at Cam Rahn Bay when they took our M-16’s away from us. That rifle had been our constant companion and guardian angel for the last year, and we felt naked without it.
The airline stewardesses were the next cultural shock. They were all beautiful, clean smelling, and were wearing nylon stockings. Not a single one had teeth stained by betel nuts. Perhaps the biggest shock of all was the honest smiles. . . smiles that said, “Welcome home; we’re proud of you.” You would have to know the deep pangs of a soldier’s loneliness to appreciate those honest smiles. Each stewardess, I’m sure, received numerous marriage proposals on that flight.
Seated next to me was Spec. 4 Roberto Gonzales who hailed from New York City. Roberto only weighed 135 pounds, but he was a fighter, and you could always count on him to back you up—be it in the jungle or the bars. Roberto had been decorated with the Bronze Star with a V-device. The V stood for valor. He carried a wounded soldier through heavy enemy fire to earn that medal. During one encounter a Viet Cong grenade landed near Roberto, and one small piece of shrapnel lacerated Roberto’s cheek. It wasn’t a serious wound. The medic stitched it up in the field, but it left a very visible ridged scar. Roberto called it a macho wound, and he was proud of it. He said it would be a good conversation starter and would help him pick up a whole parcel of foxy chicks when he got back to the “Big Apple.”
Sitting across the aisle from us was Gunslinger, our battalion commander. Gunslinger was his radio name, and he put you to mind of General Patton, right down to the pearl-handled pistols. He was as hardened as a soldier can be, and he had that special glow that seemed to protect him from enemy fire. I remember the time when Gunslinger called me from his command ship to alert us that a number of Viet Cong were fleeing across a clearing in the jungle nearby. A few seconds later he called back and said that there were only four of them and that he could handle those himself. He was one of the bravest men I have ever known.
There were lots of other soldiers on board like Roberto and Gunslinger, and they were all excited about the prospect of landing on American soil. Shortly before midnight the airline captain announced that the lights of Tacoma were coming into view and could be seen from the starboard side of the aircraft. Even before he finished the announcement, there was a deafening roar as soldiers cheered, hollered, whistled and applauded. The clamor was so loud and the mood so festive that the Captain left the cockpit to savor this moment with the returning soldiers.
Almost as suddenly as it began, the noise subsided. Perhaps it was reality sinking in. Perhaps it was a reverence for the motherland. Perhaps it was in honor of our fallen comrades. As the lights came into sharp focus our plane was overcome by an eerie silence. The only sound was that of the engines and the hiss of air from the overhead vents.
As I recall, it started in the back of the plane. A lone soldier with a rich baritone voice broke the silence by singing these words: “Oh beautiful for spacious skies, for amber waves of grain.” By the time he got to the part about the purple mountains and fruited plain, we were all singing, even the crew. As we continued into the chorus, one of the stewardesses walked by with tears streaming down her cheeks. The rest of the flight crew, including the captain standing in the aisle were also teary-eyed.
I glanced across the aisle at Gunslinger, the man that would make Rambo look like a wimp, and he had tears trickling down his face. It just didn’t seem right. A full-bird colonel, soon to be general, and he was just as misty-eyed as the flight crew. His deep voice boomed as he sang, “God shed his grace on thee.”
I stole a quick glance at Roberto just in time to see a plummeting tear roll down his cheek, jump the ridged scar, and land on his chest. Roberto was almost twenty and almost a man, and men don’t cry. Everyone knows that.
As we finished the song with “from sea to shining sea,” it suddenly dawned on me that I had never really listened very closely to the words of that song. Except for me, there wasn’t a dry eye on the airplane.
I glanced out the window to catch one last glimpse of Tacoma from the air, but the lights had blurred into a kaleidoscope of colors. Roberto told me later that it was probably just a moisture-laden cloud passing by, and I reassured him that the air vent had blown dust into his eyes. In any event, we were happy to be home, and we were proud, so very proud, to be American soldiers.
4. The Faceless Soldier
It was on the Ho Chi Trail I met you.
I couldn’t call you my friend
But perhaps if we’d met in Ol’ Saigon,
My tale would have a different end.
We landed in Hueys, our three-man team,
Then the crippled birds left us in the jungle green
Except for the gunships which bravely flew
Over our position—firing at you.
You were dug in deep and equipped so well;
One of our fastest jets you blew to hell.
I was new in the country and still quite green;
It was the biggest battle I had ever seen.
My heart was pounding fast for I knew
That you could see me, but I couldn’t see you.
I hid by a log as best I could,
And fired into the jungle wood.
It was your machine gun that hit so near,
Throwing dirt in my face—I remember clear!
On the next burst, my friend you got.
He didn’t die, but he bled a lot.
“At last,” I thought, as I spotted the flash
Of your Chinese machine gun dealing the lash,
And I squeezed off twenty rounds, I think,
Well aimed, and yet, quick as a wink.
There were many more volleys, rockets and mortars too.
It would be awhile before I found you.
Yet I knew you would wait, ‘cause where could you go?
Your friends wanted the guns, not you, I know.
You had no face, just barely a head,
Poor shoes, ragged clothes, and under-fed
Perhaps eighteen, it’s doubtful though,
Sixteen or seventeen, I think maybe so.
Yet I did live while you did die,
And no one can say actually why.
We met each other with swords held high;
Yet I did live while you did die.
Written at the age of 20, while serving with the 101st Airborne
division in the Central Highlands of Vietnam
5. The Classic Cowboy Pick-up Truck
There’s calving chains on the dashboard,
A fence stretcher on the floor,
Plus jumper cables and galvanized staples,
And anything else to store.
There’s a gun rack in the window,
And an NRA decal too,
A nylon rope and a Carhartt coat,
And a single-shot twenty-two.
In the bed’s a roll of barbwire,
To be used at one’s discretion,
For fence repairs or coyote snares,
Or civil insurrection.
The bumper sports a two-inch ball,
It tracks a trailer nice.
And once we dallied it up to drag
A cow off of the ice.
And, oh, the loads of hay it’s hauled,
And firewood, feed and salt,
And corral panels, jerked up the side,
The scratches were our fault.
And all our children learned to drive
It at an early year,
Sliding from seat to pedals,
While cruisin’ in granny gear.
Two hundred thousand miles and more,
That’s why it seems sedate.
But it was bright and shiny once,
Back in nineteen sixty-eight.
The years and miles and highway salt
Have taken a heavy toll,
We’ve plugged with poly feed sacks,
And a discarded plastic sleeve.
The glove box door falls open,
The latch is not the best.
And now the owner’s manual
Is a shredded mouse’s nest.
And though I need a new one,
I think I should confess.
There’s something ‘bout the old one,
That I really like the best.
It’s a classic cowboy pick-up truck,
And has that well-worn look.
And it comes with nearly every option,
‘Cept a five-pound payment book.
6. On Losing a Congressional Election
An Open Letter to My Supporters
November 6, 2008
Dear Friends,
The journey that started a year and a half ago has finally come to an end. We began the journey with favorable polls and hopeful contemplation, optimistic that the political tumblers would twist and turn, then finally align themselves in such a manner that would allow us to be victorious. Despite our best efforts, despite the long days and campaign drudgery, we came up short.
Along with many other Republican candidates, we had to swim upstream. Being outspent ten to one usually portends the outcome of a race. Our opponent proved to have a very good political machine. Campaigning against someone who won’t debate you is like chasing spooks in a haunted house. It makes it difficult to contrast candidates and positions. I congratulate my opponent on his victory, yet I wouldn’t hesitate for a second to run against him again if the resources were available and the political climate were more competitive.
I had the opportunity to speak at the John McCain and Sarah Palin rallies in eastern Ohio. It was an awesome experience to “warm up” crowds of up to 10,000 people—people who share our values and love of country, patriots all. My wife Rita was by my side every step of the way. She was a delegate to the Republican National Convention and accompanied me to parades, festivals, Lincoln Day dinners, rodeos and meet-the-candidate meetings. We knocked on doors and attended county fairs where we bought chickens and steers, barrows and lambs, and even turkeys and rabbits, as we have done in the past and will continue to do. We firmly believe the salvation of our country lies in the very values that we steadfastly cling to in rural Ohio.
They say that God will be looking for scars. Despite our loss, November 5th, the day after the election, dawned beautiful and sunny. There were few clouds in the sky and we were enjoying a classical Indian Summer day. My thoughts were with my friends and donors who backed me. How could I ever repay those who confidently stood behind me in this race? My blackberry went silent that day. I thought it was malfunctioning. Instead of the 40 or 50 calls and emails that I normally received each day, I received only four. It was as if I had fallen off the face of the earth.
So, in an effort to seek some detachment from the political world, I drove to our airport and pulled my 50 year-old Cessna 172 from the hangar and flew east over the 18th district. Piloting an aircraft can be relaxing at the same time that it is mentally demanding. There are a dozen gauges to scan, altitude to maintain, headings to follow, and radio frequencies to monitor. The work load leaves little time to sulk or cry over spilled milk.
The harvest was in full swing and combines were crawling across the bountiful fields below leaving little dust clouds in their wake. As I flew over Apple Valley, I pointed my compass north and flew to Pleasant Hill Dam. Behind and below the dam is a beautiful narrow gorge carved by the Mohican River over thousands of years from the soft sandstone that was once an ancient seabed. I flew over the dam and dropped the plane down into the gorge as it twisted and turned above the serpentine river. It made me feel better to push the envelope a bit. The autumn foliage was bright and colorful, but once into the gorge, I was in the shadows of the rock formations and trees that were flying by off each wingtip at 110 miles per hour. As I banked the plane left and right, I was mindful of the fact that pilots often get into trouble when flying in such gorges and box canyons. After flying several miles, sure enough, the river made a hard turn to the left. I saw it coming and I had several seconds to contemplate my options. There was no room for error.
It was a defining moment and the last thing on my mind was the Congressional race that I had just lost. I had two or three seconds to make a very important decision. I reassured myself that I was a risk-taker. You would never undertake to file against an incumbent and give up a year and a half of your life if you were anything else. I was rapidly nearing the point of no return, the point where you have no other choice, the point where you can see the pinecones on the trees and the individual needles on the stately conifers clinging to the canyon walls. My choices were to bank hard to the left and continue to follow the river or to try to climb out of the valley. Either choice involved some degree of risk. Instinctively, I pushed the throttle into the firewall, pulled back hard on the yoke with a sweaty hand and pushed the right rudder to the floor. The climb prop bit into the air as the vertical speed indicator showed a climb rate of over 1000 feet per minute. The g-force pushed me down into the seat as I attempted to rise above the rutted canyon below. The plane climbed like a homesick angel and as we cleared the lip of the gorge, the sun flooded into the cockpit. I felt better-- ready to get on with my life.
None of us knows what the future holds, but I want to assure you that Rita and I will never forget your support or your kindness. We highly value your friendship and we know that you, like we, believe in the greatness of this country and we pray that God will continue to bless you and this great nation that we love with all our hearts.
Best wishes,
Fred L. Dailey
Ridin' The Eastern Range (Chapter - excerpts)
1 The Sweet Light
2 Death of a Gypsy
3 Lights of Tacoma
4 The Faceless Soldier
5 The Classic Cowboy Pick-up Truck
6 An Open Letter to My Supporters(2008 On Losing a Congressional Election)
1. The Sweet Light: Sometimes life’s greatest lessons are taught by the most unlikely teachers. As happenstance would have it, I had just thrown in lots with a hippie and a medical student. We met at the climber’s hostel run by the American Alpine Club just outside Moose, Wyoming. The three of us planned to be the first climbers of the season to make a summit attempt of Grand Teton Mountain via the Owen-Spaulding route.
Our plan was to hike through the lupine meadows in Garnet Canyon, scramble up the scree slopes, ascend the snowfields, and make our base camp at the lower saddle. This approach would involve a twelve-mile hike from the valley floor, gaining over 5,000 feet in altitude the first day. As the air got thinner, the packs got heavier, and we paused for a snack of beef jerky near an outcropping of granite rock.
The hippie removed the red bandana from his head and mopped the sweat from his brow. As we slowly caught our breath in the rarefied atmosphere, the conversa-tion came a little easier.
“If we don’t keep our pace,” he said, “we will never make it to the lower saddle in time to enjoy the sweet light.”
“The sweet light,” I queried, “what’s that?”
“It’s a special time of day,” the hippie responded between gulps of water from his canteen, “when the sun just begins to set. It only lasts 15 or 20 minutes. It’s the time of day to reflect upon your accomplishments, just like the sun reflects on the mountains. It’s good for your karma. More importantly, it’s the time of day when the cosmic tumblers rotate so that the universe unlocks its secrets. It’s the best time of the day to think and meditate.”
We reached the lower saddle on schedule and proceeded to set up camp. Water boils at a much lower temperature at high altitudes, and it wasn’t long before we had brewed a pot of Darjeeling tea. Soon the hippie motioned me to the western edge of the precipice as the enlarged sun squatted on the Idaho landscape. The setting sun cast long shadows, and the mountain spires and couloirs took on new shapes and hues. Down below, Dartmouth basin looked cold and blue, and if you listened closely, you could hear the wind whistling through the craggy columns and overhangs of the canyon walls. Occasionally, rocks would bounce down a chute, or a snow cornice would release causing a roaring avalanche of catapulting snow and ice. The hippie sat cross-legged like a Tibetan priest, enthralled with the waning rays of the sweet light.
Last week my eight-year old daughter, Calley, surprised me one evening when she suggested that we go down in the pasture to watch the sweet light. Under the threat of rain, we had put up hay all day long, and the geometric rows of hay now safely stowed in the mow seemed like a significant accomplishment. We jumped on the three-wheeler and drove to a high knoll in the pasture where we had an unobstructed view of the setting sun. Even the cows paused to enjoy the sweet light as baby calves nursed. Occasionally, some calf with a milk-splattered face would give us a quizzical look and then, with a gentle butt, go back to his evening meal or perhaps crow-hop and frolic with the other calves before the cows bedded down.
As we sat on the three-wheeler, the sun hovered like a burnished gold disk on the western horizon. The storm that had threatened us during the day was now passing to
the south, causing a breeze to rattle the corn leaves and heads of wheat. Across the valley, the distinctive staccato rhythm of an old John Deere tractor could be heard. It didn’t deter the whitetail deer that ventured out of the forest to water near the cattails in the pond. Off in the distance, a cock pheasant crowed. Perhaps he was challenging a rival, or maybe, he was just bragging about his latest conquest. If you used your biggest imagination and listened
closely, you could almost hear cosmic tumblers clicking and turning.
We sat on the three-wheeler until the sun slipped below the horizon. We discussed the great mysteries of life in hopes the sweet light might reveal some heretofore unknown clues. We talked about the chicken and egg mystery and guessed at why Mona Lisa was smiling. Calley asked if I thought God had a belly button. Child psychologists would have probably called it quality time.
The three-wheeler left a dew trail through the pasture when we finally returned to the house. The fireflies were emerging from the grass, and where minutes ago there was the sweet light, now there were a thousand points of light. Calley promised to show me how to make a lightning bug lantern. I decided to pay close attention, because, well, sometimes life’s greatest lessons are taught by the most unlikely teachers.
________________
Author’s note: Calley is now a medical doctor, is married, and has a child of her own. I’m sure when little Claire is older, Calley will share the sweet light and life’s mysteries with her as well.
2. Death of a Gypsy
They say that every cowboy deserves one good dog, one good horse, and one good woman during his lifetime. My one good dog was named Gypsy. She was mostly a border collie, and the black coat and white cape reminded us of the way we envisioned a Gypsy woman might dress. She even had gold bangles, of sorts, on her ankles.
We came into this world within a year of each other and grew up together on a small farm on the outskirts of town. Gypsy, or Gypper as we often called her, was part of the family. We even wrapped up a can of dog food or a new feed pan and put it under the tree for her so that she would have something for Christmas along with the rest of the family.
As we grew older, the bond strengthened, and everyone remarked about what good buddies we were. After awhile they began to abbreviate “buddies” by simply calling us “buds.” “That boy and dog sure are good buds,” they would say. And so we were.
In those early years, we had great adventures together down along the Kokosing River. In the spring we would catch black suckers in the rivulets that flowed into the swollen stream. In the summer we could always catch rock bass beneath the roots and stumps of old willow trees perched precariously on the banks of the river. When trapping season rolled around, we would go after muskrats and raccoons.
Then there was the time I tried to dogpaddle across the deep hole at the confluence of Dry Creek and the Kokosing River. I was only seven, there were no adults around, and I dared myself to try it. I was right proud of myself when I made it to the other side, but I had expended so much energy and was so worn out that I had to sit on a big mossy rock to rest up for the trip back. Gypper paced nervously on the other bank. Halfway back I ran out of steam and began to sink in the murky backwater. Gypper answered my gurgled distress call like an Olympic swimmer. I
latched onto her tail, and she pulled me to shore – then licked my face as I continued to cough up muddy river water.
The year before that, I was playing under a tree in an otherwise open field
when a wolf attacked me. Well, it looked
like a wolf. Gypper was busy digging up field mice nearby when the German Shepherd bared his fangs at me. I yelped
and ran for the tree with the German Shepherd gaining ground fast, when a black and white lightning bolt struck the German Shepherd broadside. It soon turned tail and ran, and after Gypper chased it out of our territory, she returned wagging her tail and quite proud of herself for whipping a dog twice her size. I told her what good buds we were and gave her an extra can of dog food that evening.
By the time I was ten, we were running long trap lines together at night – just the two of us, plus my coal oil lantern, Estwing hatchet and my hickory club. Trap lines can be spooky places on foggy nights, and I always took great comfort in Gypper’s company even though she would occasionally add to my anguish by growling at something in a thicket or in an old blue-beech den tree. My dad said I wouldn’t be so scared if I practiced mind control. But when a covey of quail erupts in your face at nighttime, a ten year old is more concerned about bladder control than mind control.
Gypper was never very good at herding cattle. However, there was the time we took a shortcut through Mr. Yauger’s pasture and his mean Jersey bull came thundering down on me. There’s nothing uglier than a Jersey bull, especially when he has drawn a bead on you and is blowing snot out his nose. I heard later that Mr. Yauger speculated that it was probably barbed wire that accounted for the rips in his bull’s ear.
They say that dogs can’t smile. Not really. They wag their tails, lick, jump and otherwise show affection, but don’t really smile. Well, you could never convince me that my dog couldn‘t smile. She smiled every time I got off the school bus, and when she chased rabbits through the purple brambles along the fence row, and I patted her on the head and told her she was a good dog, there was a great big dog smile all over her face.
She didn’t smile quite as much though, in the fall of 1961. After all, in dog years, she was over 100 now. The winter winds blew hard that year, but I was sure she would be her old self again when the warm spring sunshine brought out the new crop of rabbits. Our vet said she was too old to operate on the tumors in her stomach, but I just knew that my nightly prayers would make her better.
It was a dreary April day, pallid and overcast. I was plowing a field with an Allis Chalmers model C tractor and a single 16 inch breaking plow. The corn crop I would soon plant would be my FFA project that year. Dad drove right up to the edge of the field and lowered the tailgate. His somber face foretold the sad news. I tried to act like a man – well, maybe a boy-man, as I gently ran my fingers through her silky black and white coat one last time. We would soon be moving from our rented farm, so Dad said he would bury her at my Grandma’s place. He fashioned a cross from two pieces of driftwood and wired them together with an old coat hanger.
My brother Rich and I skipped supper and went directly to our room that night. We didn’t just cry – we wailed, all night long. We went through a whole box of Kleenex that night.
The next morning, I made my way to the back of the school bus, stuck my hands in the pockets of my corduroy FFA jacket, put my chin on my chest, and stared with red and swollen eyes at the floor of the bus. My mind was racing with the memories of an old friend, a friend who for the first time ever, would not be waiting at the bus stop to greet me when I returned home.
It was almost inaudible, but I barely heard a fellow student whisper to another, “What’s wrong with Dailey today?”
A classmate softly, almost reverently replied, “His dog died yesterday and, well, they were good buds.”
3. Lights of Tacoma
The steady drone of the Boeing 707 engines would have put most global travelers to sleep. Although we had been awake for the last 36 hours, we were too excited to doze off. Many of us were fearful that if we slept we would wake up to find this trip was just another pipe dream.
Seventeen hours earlier we had departed Cam Rahn Bay en route to the military airbase in Tacoma, Washington. We had completed our tour of duty in Vietnam, and now the day we had dreamed about for so long had finally arrived.
For the most part, it was the same planeload of paratroopers that had traveled together to Saigon one year earlier. We were an amalgamated lot: farm boys from the Midwest, college dropouts, Blacks and Latinos from the big cities. Many of us went through basic training and jump school together and we had our cultural differences, but now we shared a kinship forged by a common experience.
We were quite cognizant of the many adjustments we would have to make in the coming months. It began three days earlier back at Cam Rahn Bay when they took our M-16’s away from us. That rifle had been our constant companion and guardian angel for the last year, and we felt naked without it.
The airline stewardesses were the next cultural shock. They were all beautiful, clean smelling, and were wearing nylon stockings. Not a single one had teeth stained by betel nuts. Perhaps the biggest shock of all was the honest smiles. . . smiles that said, “Welcome home; we’re proud of you.” You would have to know the deep pangs of a soldier’s loneliness to appreciate those honest smiles. Each stewardess, I’m sure, received numerous marriage proposals on that flight.
Seated next to me was Spec. 4 Roberto Gonzales who hailed from New York City. Roberto only weighed 135 pounds, but he was a fighter, and you could always count on him to back you up—be it in the jungle or the bars. Roberto had been decorated with the Bronze Star with a V-device. The V stood for valor. He carried a wounded soldier through heavy enemy fire to earn that medal. During one encounter a Viet Cong grenade landed near Roberto, and one small piece of shrapnel lacerated Roberto’s cheek. It wasn’t a serious wound. The medic stitched it up in the field, but it left a very visible ridged scar. Roberto called it a macho wound, and he was proud of it. He said it would be a good conversation starter and would help him pick up a whole parcel of foxy chicks when he got back to the “Big Apple.”
Sitting across the aisle from us was Gunslinger, our battalion commander. Gunslinger was his radio name, and he put you to mind of General Patton, right down to the pearl-handled pistols. He was as hardened as a soldier can be, and he had that special glow that seemed to protect him from enemy fire. I remember the time when Gunslinger called me from his command ship to alert us that a number of Viet Cong were fleeing across a clearing in the jungle nearby. A few seconds later he called back and said that there were only four of them and that he could handle those himself. He was one of the bravest men I have ever known.
There were lots of other soldiers on board like Roberto and Gunslinger, and they were all excited about the prospect of landing on American soil. Shortly before midnight the airline captain announced that the lights of Tacoma were coming into view and could be seen from the starboard side of the aircraft. Even before he finished the announcement, there was a deafening roar as soldiers cheered, hollered, whistled and applauded. The clamor was so loud and the mood so festive that the Captain left the cockpit to savor this moment with the returning soldiers.
Almost as suddenly as it began, the noise subsided. Perhaps it was reality sinking in. Perhaps it was a reverence for the motherland. Perhaps it was in honor of our fallen comrades. As the lights came into sharp focus our plane was overcome by an eerie silence. The only sound was that of the engines and the hiss of air from the overhead vents.
As I recall, it started in the back of the plane. A lone soldier with a rich baritone voice broke the silence by singing these words: “Oh beautiful for spacious skies, for amber waves of grain.” By the time he got to the part about the purple mountains and fruited plain, we were all singing, even the crew. As we continued into the chorus, one of the stewardesses walked by with tears streaming down her cheeks. The rest of the flight crew, including the captain standing in the aisle were also teary-eyed.
I glanced across the aisle at Gunslinger, the man that would make Rambo look like a wimp, and he had tears trickling down his face. It just didn’t seem right. A full-bird colonel, soon to be general, and he was just as misty-eyed as the flight crew. His deep voice boomed as he sang, “God shed his grace on thee.”
I stole a quick glance at Roberto just in time to see a plummeting tear roll down his cheek, jump the ridged scar, and land on his chest. Roberto was almost twenty and almost a man, and men don’t cry. Everyone knows that.
As we finished the song with “from sea to shining sea,” it suddenly dawned on me that I had never really listened very closely to the words of that song. Except for me, there wasn’t a dry eye on the airplane.
I glanced out the window to catch one last glimpse of Tacoma from the air, but the lights had blurred into a kaleidoscope of colors. Roberto told me later that it was probably just a moisture-laden cloud passing by, and I reassured him that the air vent had blown dust into his eyes. In any event, we were happy to be home, and we were proud, so very proud, to be American soldiers.
4. The Faceless Soldier
It was on the Ho Chi Trail I met you.
I couldn’t call you my friend
But perhaps if we’d met in Ol’ Saigon,
My tale would have a different end.
We landed in Hueys, our three-man team,
Then the crippled birds left us in the jungle green
Except for the gunships which bravely flew
Over our position—firing at you.
You were dug in deep and equipped so well;
One of our fastest jets you blew to hell.
I was new in the country and still quite green;
It was the biggest battle I had ever seen.
My heart was pounding fast for I knew
That you could see me, but I couldn’t see you.
I hid by a log as best I could,
And fired into the jungle wood.
It was your machine gun that hit so near,
Throwing dirt in my face—I remember clear!
On the next burst, my friend you got.
He didn’t die, but he bled a lot.
“At last,” I thought, as I spotted the flash
Of your Chinese machine gun dealing the lash,
And I squeezed off twenty rounds, I think,
Well aimed, and yet, quick as a wink.
There were many more volleys, rockets and mortars too.
It would be awhile before I found you.
Yet I knew you would wait, ‘cause where could you go?
Your friends wanted the guns, not you, I know.
You had no face, just barely a head,
Poor shoes, ragged clothes, and under-fed
Perhaps eighteen, it’s doubtful though,
Sixteen or seventeen, I think maybe so.
Yet I did live while you did die,
And no one can say actually why.
We met each other with swords held high;
Yet I did live while you did die.
Written at the age of 20, while serving with the 101st Airborne
division in the Central Highlands of Vietnam
5. The Classic Cowboy Pick-up Truck
There’s calving chains on the dashboard,
A fence stretcher on the floor,
Plus jumper cables and galvanized staples,
And anything else to store.
There’s a gun rack in the window,
And an NRA decal too,
A nylon rope and a Carhartt coat,
And a single-shot twenty-two.
In the bed’s a roll of barbwire,
To be used at one’s discretion,
For fence repairs or coyote snares,
Or civil insurrection.
The bumper sports a two-inch ball,
It tracks a trailer nice.
And once we dallied it up to drag
A cow off of the ice.
And, oh, the loads of hay it’s hauled,
And firewood, feed and salt,
And corral panels, jerked up the side,
The scratches were our fault.
And all our children learned to drive
It at an early year,
Sliding from seat to pedals,
While cruisin’ in granny gear.
Two hundred thousand miles and more,
That’s why it seems sedate.
But it was bright and shiny once,
Back in nineteen sixty-eight.
The years and miles and highway salt
Have taken a heavy toll,
We’ve plugged with poly feed sacks,
And a discarded plastic sleeve.
The glove box door falls open,
The latch is not the best.
And now the owner’s manual
Is a shredded mouse’s nest.
And though I need a new one,
I think I should confess.
There’s something ‘bout the old one,
That I really like the best.
It’s a classic cowboy pick-up truck,
And has that well-worn look.
And it comes with nearly every option,
‘Cept a five-pound payment book.
6. On Losing a Congressional Election
An Open Letter to My Supporters
November 6, 2008
Dear Friends,
The journey that started a year and a half ago has finally come to an end. We began the journey with favorable polls and hopeful contemplation, optimistic that the political tumblers would twist and turn, then finally align themselves in such a manner that would allow us to be victorious. Despite our best efforts, despite the long days and campaign drudgery, we came up short.
Along with many other Republican candidates, we had to swim upstream. Being outspent ten to one usually portends the outcome of a race. Our opponent proved to have a very good political machine. Campaigning against someone who won’t debate you is like chasing spooks in a haunted house. It makes it difficult to contrast candidates and positions. I congratulate my opponent on his victory, yet I wouldn’t hesitate for a second to run against him again if the resources were available and the political climate were more competitive.
I had the opportunity to speak at the John McCain and Sarah Palin rallies in eastern Ohio. It was an awesome experience to “warm up” crowds of up to 10,000 people—people who share our values and love of country, patriots all. My wife Rita was by my side every step of the way. She was a delegate to the Republican National Convention and accompanied me to parades, festivals, Lincoln Day dinners, rodeos and meet-the-candidate meetings. We knocked on doors and attended county fairs where we bought chickens and steers, barrows and lambs, and even turkeys and rabbits, as we have done in the past and will continue to do. We firmly believe the salvation of our country lies in the very values that we steadfastly cling to in rural Ohio.
They say that God will be looking for scars. Despite our loss, November 5th, the day after the election, dawned beautiful and sunny. There were few clouds in the sky and we were enjoying a classical Indian Summer day. My thoughts were with my friends and donors who backed me. How could I ever repay those who confidently stood behind me in this race? My blackberry went silent that day. I thought it was malfunctioning. Instead of the 40 or 50 calls and emails that I normally received each day, I received only four. It was as if I had fallen off the face of the earth.
So, in an effort to seek some detachment from the political world, I drove to our airport and pulled my 50 year-old Cessna 172 from the hangar and flew east over the 18th district. Piloting an aircraft can be relaxing at the same time that it is mentally demanding. There are a dozen gauges to scan, altitude to maintain, headings to follow, and radio frequencies to monitor. The work load leaves little time to sulk or cry over spilled milk.
The harvest was in full swing and combines were crawling across the bountiful fields below leaving little dust clouds in their wake. As I flew over Apple Valley, I pointed my compass north and flew to Pleasant Hill Dam. Behind and below the dam is a beautiful narrow gorge carved by the Mohican River over thousands of years from the soft sandstone that was once an ancient seabed. I flew over the dam and dropped the plane down into the gorge as it twisted and turned above the serpentine river. It made me feel better to push the envelope a bit. The autumn foliage was bright and colorful, but once into the gorge, I was in the shadows of the rock formations and trees that were flying by off each wingtip at 110 miles per hour. As I banked the plane left and right, I was mindful of the fact that pilots often get into trouble when flying in such gorges and box canyons. After flying several miles, sure enough, the river made a hard turn to the left. I saw it coming and I had several seconds to contemplate my options. There was no room for error.
It was a defining moment and the last thing on my mind was the Congressional race that I had just lost. I had two or three seconds to make a very important decision. I reassured myself that I was a risk-taker. You would never undertake to file against an incumbent and give up a year and a half of your life if you were anything else. I was rapidly nearing the point of no return, the point where you have no other choice, the point where you can see the pinecones on the trees and the individual needles on the stately conifers clinging to the canyon walls. My choices were to bank hard to the left and continue to follow the river or to try to climb out of the valley. Either choice involved some degree of risk. Instinctively, I pushed the throttle into the firewall, pulled back hard on the yoke with a sweaty hand and pushed the right rudder to the floor. The climb prop bit into the air as the vertical speed indicator showed a climb rate of over 1000 feet per minute. The g-force pushed me down into the seat as I attempted to rise above the rutted canyon below. The plane climbed like a homesick angel and as we cleared the lip of the gorge, the sun flooded into the cockpit. I felt better-- ready to get on with my life.
None of us knows what the future holds, but I want to assure you that Rita and I will never forget your support or your kindness. We highly value your friendship and we know that you, like we, believe in the greatness of this country and we pray that God will continue to bless you and this great nation that we love with all our hearts.
Best wishes,
Fred L. Dailey
OHIO VETERANS UNITED ENDORSES - FRED DAILEY FOR US CONGRESS
April 20, 2010
MOUNT VERNON, OH – April, 2010 – Ohio Veterans United today announced the endorsement of Fred Dailey for U. S. Congress 18th Congressional District of Ohio. The announcement was made by Col. Thomas Moe, honorary chair and founding member of Ohio Veterans United. “Following a thorough review of the candidates’ backgrounds, experiences, and positions on issues, especially concerning Veteran’s issues, we believe that Fred Dailey shares our core values, including being a staunch and effective supporter of veterans,” says Moe.
"Dailey, from Mount Vernon, Ohio, honorably served America as a paratrooper in the 101st Airborne Division in Vietnam. As a combat veteran, Fred is committed to work to protect veterans and to ensure they receive the benefits and services they have earned and deserve. He will be a true advocate and will ensure that veterans' services are a top priority for him and his office,” said Moe.
After returning from Vietnam, Dailey earned a bachelor degree from Anderson College where he served as captain of the wrestling team and president of the senior class. He received a master’s degree from Ball State University. In addition, Dailey’s experience as a family farmer and serving as executive secretary of the Ohio Cattlemen’s Association led to his appointment as director of the Ohio Department of Agriculture. When terrorists decided to target commercial airline flights, he was chosen by the United States Treasury to serve as one of the first federal Air Marshals.
Making the announcement was Col. Moe, a retired United States Air Force pilot who fought in Vietnam and spent five years in captivity as a POW. Some of that time was spent at the Hanoi Hilton, where Col. Moe got to know U.S. Senator John McCain. In 2008, Col. Moe campaigned for Sen. McCain during his run for U.S. President.
“Our mission is to educate citizens on the need to maintain a strong military and to help elect qualified veterans and like-minded non-veterans to office,” says Harry Prestanski, executive director and founding member of Ohio Veterans United. “We are strong advocates of legislation that fully supports our troops, military families and Veterans and we work to ensure that every military absentee ballot is counted in every election.”
Ohio Veterans United is a voluntary unincorporated, non-profit organization, which is registered as a Political Action Committee with the state of Ohio Election Law Enforcement Commission. It is operated as a federal non-connected, multi-candidate political committee, as defined by the publication "Campaign Guide for Non-connected Committees" of the Federal Election Commission.
For more information go to http://www.ohioveteransunited.org or contact: Ohio Veterans United, 6896 Windwood Drive, Cincinnati, OH 45241 or call 513-207-5101.
MOUNT VERNON, OH – April, 2010 – Ohio Veterans United today announced the endorsement of Fred Dailey for U. S. Congress 18th Congressional District of Ohio. The announcement was made by Col. Thomas Moe, honorary chair and founding member of Ohio Veterans United. “Following a thorough review of the candidates’ backgrounds, experiences, and positions on issues, especially concerning Veteran’s issues, we believe that Fred Dailey shares our core values, including being a staunch and effective supporter of veterans,” says Moe. "Dailey, from Mount Vernon, Ohio, honorably served America as a paratrooper in the 101st Airborne Division in Vietnam. As a combat veteran, Fred is committed to work to protect veterans and to ensure they receive the benefits and services they have earned and deserve. He will be a true advocate and will ensure that veterans' services are a top priority for him and his office,” said Moe.
After returning from Vietnam, Dailey earned a bachelor degree from Anderson College where he served as captain of the wrestling team and president of the senior class. He received a master’s degree from Ball State University. In addition, Dailey’s experience as a family farmer and serving as executive secretary of the Ohio Cattlemen’s Association led to his appointment as director of the Ohio Department of Agriculture. When terrorists decided to target commercial airline flights, he was chosen by the United States Treasury to serve as one of the first federal Air Marshals.
Making the announcement was Col. Moe, a retired United States Air Force pilot who fought in Vietnam and spent five years in captivity as a POW. Some of that time was spent at the Hanoi Hilton, where Col. Moe got to know U.S. Senator John McCain. In 2008, Col. Moe campaigned for Sen. McCain during his run for U.S. President.
“Our mission is to educate citizens on the need to maintain a strong military and to help elect qualified veterans and like-minded non-veterans to office,” says Harry Prestanski, executive director and founding member of Ohio Veterans United. “We are strong advocates of legislation that fully supports our troops, military families and Veterans and we work to ensure that every military absentee ballot is counted in every election.”
Ohio Veterans United is a voluntary unincorporated, non-profit organization, which is registered as a Political Action Committee with the state of Ohio Election Law Enforcement Commission. It is operated as a federal non-connected, multi-candidate political committee, as defined by the publication "Campaign Guide for Non-connected Committees" of the Federal Election Commission.
For more information go to http://www.ohioveteransunited.org or contact: Ohio Veterans United, 6896 Windwood Drive, Cincinnati, OH 45241 or call 513-207-5101.
Dailey to Space: Actions Speak Louder than Words
December 11, 2009
(Mount Vernon, OH) - Congressional candidate Fred Dailey (OH-18) today released a statement following the approval of legislation, by a House Subcommittee, that would force the College Football Bowl Championship Series to switch to a playoff format.
“I do not believe that the role of Congress is to micromanage the NCAA and the Bowl Championship Series”, commented Dailey. “It seems that this Congress, including Congressman Zack Space, is determined to focus on everything but fixing our economy and creating a climate that will encourage job growth.
“During the committee hearing, Zack Space made a statement that he is concerned about the economy and job creation, saying that debating the BCS issue sends the “wrong message” to the American people. I agree with his words, but not his actions. If Space is so concerned with the economy, why did he vote for cap and trade, which is nothing less than an economic declaration of war on the Midwest? Why did he vote for a government takeover of our healthcare system? Why did he vote for spending bills that have put us further and further into debt?
“Zack Space continues to use rhetoric that does not match up with his actions, and his actions are speaking much louder than his empty words. The people of this district are frustrated and disgusted, much like I am, with a representative who continues to tell us he stands for one thing while voting for another.”
(Mount Vernon, OH) - Congressional candidate Fred Dailey (OH-18) today released a statement following the approval of legislation, by a House Subcommittee, that would force the College Football Bowl Championship Series to switch to a playoff format.“I do not believe that the role of Congress is to micromanage the NCAA and the Bowl Championship Series”, commented Dailey. “It seems that this Congress, including Congressman Zack Space, is determined to focus on everything but fixing our economy and creating a climate that will encourage job growth.
“During the committee hearing, Zack Space made a statement that he is concerned about the economy and job creation, saying that debating the BCS issue sends the “wrong message” to the American people. I agree with his words, but not his actions. If Space is so concerned with the economy, why did he vote for cap and trade, which is nothing less than an economic declaration of war on the Midwest? Why did he vote for a government takeover of our healthcare system? Why did he vote for spending bills that have put us further and further into debt?
“Zack Space continues to use rhetoric that does not match up with his actions, and his actions are speaking much louder than his empty words. The people of this district are frustrated and disgusted, much like I am, with a representative who continues to tell us he stands for one thing while voting for another.”
Dailey signs No Climate Change Tax Pledge
November 30, 2009
(Mt. Vernon, OH) – Fred Dailey, candidate for Congress in Ohio’s 18th District has signed a “No Climate Change Tax Pledge”. By signing the pledge, sponsored by the group “Americans for Prosperity”, Mr. Dailey is committing that he will oppose any legislation relating to climate change that includes a net increase in government revenue.
“The Cap and Trade legislation that has been passed by Congress is nothing less than an economic declaration of war on the Midwest”, stated Dailey. “Our current Congressman, Zack Space, obviously does not understand this and is not bothered by the fact that the average family in his district will experience a $1700 a year increase in utility costs. This legislation will also place our manufacturing industry at a competitive disadvantage. Add to this the fact that eastern Ohio’s coal miners will be put out of work and this ‘cap and tax’ makes an already bad economic climate in Ohio even worse.
“As a farmer, I treasure our earth and believe that we need to be responsible stewards of our natural resources”, continued Dailey. “The United States, and especially Ohio, has been blessed with an abundance of natural resources that we should use wisely. I happen to believe that Ohio’s most valuable resource is its people and they are taxed enough already.
“When elected to Congress, I will uphold this pledge that I have made and will reject any legislation related to climate change that will place an additional tax burden on my constituents. The people of the 18th District need to be taxed less; when this happens, our district, as well as our State, can once again experience the economic success that we are capable of achieving.”
(Mt. Vernon, OH) – Fred Dailey, candidate for Congress in Ohio’s 18th District has signed a “No Climate Change Tax Pledge”. By signing the pledge, sponsored by the group “Americans for Prosperity”, Mr. Dailey is committing that he will oppose any legislation relating to climate change that includes a net increase in government revenue.“The Cap and Trade legislation that has been passed by Congress is nothing less than an economic declaration of war on the Midwest”, stated Dailey. “Our current Congressman, Zack Space, obviously does not understand this and is not bothered by the fact that the average family in his district will experience a $1700 a year increase in utility costs. This legislation will also place our manufacturing industry at a competitive disadvantage. Add to this the fact that eastern Ohio’s coal miners will be put out of work and this ‘cap and tax’ makes an already bad economic climate in Ohio even worse.
“As a farmer, I treasure our earth and believe that we need to be responsible stewards of our natural resources”, continued Dailey. “The United States, and especially Ohio, has been blessed with an abundance of natural resources that we should use wisely. I happen to believe that Ohio’s most valuable resource is its people and they are taxed enough already.
“When elected to Congress, I will uphold this pledge that I have made and will reject any legislation related to climate change that will place an additional tax burden on my constituents. The people of the 18th District need to be taxed less; when this happens, our district, as well as our State, can once again experience the economic success that we are capable of achieving.”
Commissioner Brian Hill Endorses Dailey
November 05, 2009
(Zanesville, OH) - Fred Dailey, candidate for Congress in Ohio's 18th District, has received the endorsement of Muskingum County Commissioner Brian Hill.
"I've lived in the 18th District my whole life and know the faith and values that we in southeastern Ohio ascribe to", stated Hill. "Fred Dailey also understands what makes this part of Ohio great and he's ready to go to Washington to fight to protect the American dream and our Ohio values."
Hill, who is currently serving in his second term as Muskingum County Commissioner, is greatly concerned that the federal government has grown too large, takes too much in taxes and is saddling generations to come with immeasurable amounts of debt.
"Fred and I share the fear that our kids and grandkids are not going to be afforded the same opportunities that we've had to pursue the American dream." Hill continued, "I want representation in Washington that is not only going to fight for me but also for my kids. There is no doubt in my mind that Fred Dailey is exactly the man that we need fighting for our families, our farms and our future."
Dailey is honored to receive the endorsement of Commissioner Hill. "Brian is one of the most respected local elected officials that I know. Everyday he fights hard to do what's right for the people of Muskingum County and I'm honored that he's chosen to support my fight to take back Washington from the liberal left."
Dailey, who announced his candidacy on October 1, 2009, served in the 101st Airborne Division in the combat zones of Vietnam, worked as a federal air marshal and is Ohio's longest serving Director of the Department of Agriculture. He and his wife, Rita, live on a cattle farm in Knox County.
(Zanesville, OH) - Fred Dailey, candidate for Congress in Ohio's 18th District, has received the endorsement of Muskingum County Commissioner Brian Hill."I've lived in the 18th District my whole life and know the faith and values that we in southeastern Ohio ascribe to", stated Hill. "Fred Dailey also understands what makes this part of Ohio great and he's ready to go to Washington to fight to protect the American dream and our Ohio values."
Hill, who is currently serving in his second term as Muskingum County Commissioner, is greatly concerned that the federal government has grown too large, takes too much in taxes and is saddling generations to come with immeasurable amounts of debt.
"Fred and I share the fear that our kids and grandkids are not going to be afforded the same opportunities that we've had to pursue the American dream." Hill continued, "I want representation in Washington that is not only going to fight for me but also for my kids. There is no doubt in my mind that Fred Dailey is exactly the man that we need fighting for our families, our farms and our future."
Dailey is honored to receive the endorsement of Commissioner Hill. "Brian is one of the most respected local elected officials that I know. Everyday he fights hard to do what's right for the people of Muskingum County and I'm honored that he's chosen to support my fight to take back Washington from the liberal left."
Dailey, who announced his candidacy on October 1, 2009, served in the 101st Airborne Division in the combat zones of Vietnam, worked as a federal air marshal and is Ohio's longest serving Director of the Department of Agriculture. He and his wife, Rita, live on a cattle farm in Knox County.
Dailey’s Teleforum Connects with Voters
October 15, 2009
Yesterday evening, Republican candidate for Congress Fred Dailey participated in a tele-forum discussion with Republican voters and activists in the 18th Congressional District.
Fred commented, "It was great to speak to so many concerned citizens at one time. Voters are very upset and concerned about our future. They are upset that liberal leaders like Zack Space, Nancy Pelosi, and Barack Obama are destroying the American Dream."
Fred continued, "Voters are also upset because they feel like politicians in Washington have forgotten 'We the People'. Zack Space, during a five-week congressional recess, refused to even have town hall meetings to address the concerns of his constituents regarding a massive government take-over of our healthcare system."
Fred concluded, "I am optimistic about our future because I believe that the voters in the 18th District have had enough, and they are ready to have their voices heard next November. I am going to continue traveling extensively throughout the 18th District, and I will also continue to embrace new technologies that will allow me to listen to the concerns of hard-working Ohioans. I will be a representative in Washington who will stand up for conservative Ohio values and listen to the constituents of our district."
Excerpts from last night's teleforum discussion can be heard below.
Dailey_Teleforum01.mp3
Dailey_Teleforum02.mp3
Dailey_Teleforum03.mp3
Dailey_Teleforum04.mp3
Dailey_Teleforum05.mp3
Yesterday evening, Republican candidate for Congress Fred Dailey participated in a tele-forum discussion with Republican voters and activists in the 18th Congressional District.Fred commented, "It was great to speak to so many concerned citizens at one time. Voters are very upset and concerned about our future. They are upset that liberal leaders like Zack Space, Nancy Pelosi, and Barack Obama are destroying the American Dream."
Fred continued, "Voters are also upset because they feel like politicians in Washington have forgotten 'We the People'. Zack Space, during a five-week congressional recess, refused to even have town hall meetings to address the concerns of his constituents regarding a massive government take-over of our healthcare system."
Fred concluded, "I am optimistic about our future because I believe that the voters in the 18th District have had enough, and they are ready to have their voices heard next November. I am going to continue traveling extensively throughout the 18th District, and I will also continue to embrace new technologies that will allow me to listen to the concerns of hard-working Ohioans. I will be a representative in Washington who will stand up for conservative Ohio values and listen to the constituents of our district."
Excerpts from last night's teleforum discussion can be heard below.
Dailey_Teleforum01.mp3
Dailey_Teleforum02.mp3
Dailey_Teleforum03.mp3
Dailey_Teleforum04.mp3
Dailey_Teleforum05.mp3
Dailey announces bid for U.S. Congress
October 01, 2009
MOUNT VERNON, OH
Former Ohio Director of Agriculture Fred Dailey announced today that he will be running for United States Congress in District 18.
“Liberals like Barack Obama, Nancy Pelosi, and Congressman Zack Space are destroying the American dream. Whether it is cap and trade legislation that will raise the utility rates on every resident of the 18th District and put coal miners out of work, a radical government take over of our healthcare system, or reckless spending bills that are placing mountains of debt on future generations, we simply cannot afford for Zack Space to remain in Congress,” Dailey said.
Dailey continued, “I can not sit idly on the sidelines and watch as the American Dream is destroyed by liberal politicians who have forgotten 'We the People'. I am a living example of what the American Dream is all about. During much of my formative years, I was raised in a farmhouse without an inside toilet. My parents weren't wealthy, but they taught me the importance of honesty, hard work, and self-determination. They gave me a moral compass and instilled in me the traditional Ohio values that we all hold dear.”
“I have been blessed in my life because of the freedoms and liberties that our great nation has afforded us. I was able to work my way through college, serve our nation in the military, and have a successful career in agriculture. More importantly, my wife Rita and I were able to raise our children in the greatest nation on earth. I am so proud of my children, as they have also lived the American dream. All of my children have pursued successful careers and they are now raising families of their own. But I am very concerned that my five grandchildren will not have the same opportunities I had because of a federal government that is spending our tax money recklessly and taking away some of our most basic freedoms and rights,” Dailey continued.
Fred Dailey was the 2008 18th District Republican nominee.
Fred commented, “I was hoping that Zack Space was going to live up to his campaign promises of being a 'blue-dog' Democrat. Unfortunately, in Washington, he has become more of a 'lap-dog' for the Obama administration, and back here in the district he has become more of a 'yellow dog' because he refuses to meet with concerned constituents or hold town hall meetings. In the upcoming election, Zack Space cannot hide behind campaign rhetoric because he now has a voting record that proves his rhetoric to be nothing but empty promises.”
Fred concluded, “I learned a lot in 2008. I am now much better prepared for the challenges that lie ahead, and I feel I am the best Republican candidate to take our common-sense conservative message to the voters in this large rural district. I like to refer to the 16 counties in the 18th Congressional District as the 'sunrise side' of Ohio and I feel a new day is about to dawn.”
More information on Fred Dailey and his campaign for Congress can be found at http://www.FredDaileyforCongress.com.
MOUNT VERNON, OHFormer Ohio Director of Agriculture Fred Dailey announced today that he will be running for United States Congress in District 18.
“Liberals like Barack Obama, Nancy Pelosi, and Congressman Zack Space are destroying the American dream. Whether it is cap and trade legislation that will raise the utility rates on every resident of the 18th District and put coal miners out of work, a radical government take over of our healthcare system, or reckless spending bills that are placing mountains of debt on future generations, we simply cannot afford for Zack Space to remain in Congress,” Dailey said.
Dailey continued, “I can not sit idly on the sidelines and watch as the American Dream is destroyed by liberal politicians who have forgotten 'We the People'. I am a living example of what the American Dream is all about. During much of my formative years, I was raised in a farmhouse without an inside toilet. My parents weren't wealthy, but they taught me the importance of honesty, hard work, and self-determination. They gave me a moral compass and instilled in me the traditional Ohio values that we all hold dear.”
“I have been blessed in my life because of the freedoms and liberties that our great nation has afforded us. I was able to work my way through college, serve our nation in the military, and have a successful career in agriculture. More importantly, my wife Rita and I were able to raise our children in the greatest nation on earth. I am so proud of my children, as they have also lived the American dream. All of my children have pursued successful careers and they are now raising families of their own. But I am very concerned that my five grandchildren will not have the same opportunities I had because of a federal government that is spending our tax money recklessly and taking away some of our most basic freedoms and rights,” Dailey continued.
Fred Dailey was the 2008 18th District Republican nominee.
Fred commented, “I was hoping that Zack Space was going to live up to his campaign promises of being a 'blue-dog' Democrat. Unfortunately, in Washington, he has become more of a 'lap-dog' for the Obama administration, and back here in the district he has become more of a 'yellow dog' because he refuses to meet with concerned constituents or hold town hall meetings. In the upcoming election, Zack Space cannot hide behind campaign rhetoric because he now has a voting record that proves his rhetoric to be nothing but empty promises.”
Fred concluded, “I learned a lot in 2008. I am now much better prepared for the challenges that lie ahead, and I feel I am the best Republican candidate to take our common-sense conservative message to the voters in this large rural district. I like to refer to the 16 counties in the 18th Congressional District as the 'sunrise side' of Ohio and I feel a new day is about to dawn.”
More information on Fred Dailey and his campaign for Congress can be found at http://www.FredDaileyforCongress.com.
