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
