Miss Me Yet?

I never thought I'd say this, but I'm starting to miss Bill Clinton as president. Granted, he has the morals of a polecat, along with wretched taste in wives. But aside from those two character flaws, his policy decisions are looking pretty good these days. And he's got the cojones to stand up to the politically correct crowd.

Case in point:

In a fiery comeback to Black Lives Matter hecklers Thursday, Clinton defended his own anti-crime policies as well as his wife Hillary’s 1996 reference to thugs as “super predators”...

“I don’t know how you would characterize the gang leaders who got 13-year-old kids hopped up on crack and sent them out into the street to murder other African-American children,” Clinton said. “Maybe you thought they were good citizens. [Hillary] didn’t.”

Bill ripped the BLM folks for “defending the people who killed the lives you say matter” and challenged them to “tell the truth.”

He’s perfectly right, of course. Just as he was right in 1994 when he signed the bipartisan get-tough bill that helped spark a historic nationwide reduction in crime.

“Because of that bill,” he noted, “we have a 25-year low in crime, a 33-year low in murder rate . . . Whose lives were saved that mattered?”

Yet many on the left don’t like to hear the truth. Indeed, the Democratic Party has shifted so far that those policies are now deemed racist — and Bill’s remarks wound up infuriating some of the very voters Hillary needs to fend off Bernie Sanders.

So far, so good. But then the political animal that lives within Bill woke up and realized what he had done. God forbid that a politician should speak the truth.

So quick as a wink, Bill apologized.

Poor Bill. Poor Hillary.

We feel their pain. It’s not often, but every once in a while they slip and say something honest — and wind up paying a price from the left. Good thing for them they can shift to the dishonest route so easily.

Here's another example.

At a campaign stop in Washington state Monday on behalf of his wife, Clinton highlighted the former secretary of state as a change-maker but acknowledged there may be a few reasons people wouldn’t support her. He added, however, that voters should support her “if you believe we’ve finally come to the point where we can put the awful legacy of the last eight years behind us..."

Hillary Clinton campaign press secretary Brian Fallon sought to clarify early Tuesday that the former president was referring to Republican obstruction of Obama when he used the term “awful.”

Somehow I don't think that's what Bill had in mind.

Here's a few more Bill Clintonisms. We'll start with perhaps his most famous.

"It depends on what the meaning of the word 'is' is."

Similarly:

"It depends on how you define alone..."

Sounds a little bit like Yogi Berra.

Here's a good one on what it's like to be the president.

"Being president is like running a cemetery: you've got a lot of people under you and nobody's listening."

This one foretold the future.

"Politics gives guys so much power that they tend to behave badly around women. And I hope I never get into that."

You can't deny he had a sense of humor:

"Sometimes I feel like the fire hydrant looking at a pack of dogs. For six years I had declined to tell those kinds of jokes, because I have been told it is not presidential. But I feel kind of outdoorsy today."

Like I said, I'm starting to miss ol' Bill. I may not have thought much of him when he was in office, but compared to the SCOAMF we're stuck with today (and the assortment of clowns currently running) he's looking pretty damn good.

Remembering Normandy

Memories fade with the passage of time. The true meaning of events that occurred seven decades ago becomes obscured and overlooked. However, remembrances and traditions remain strong in small towns and villages not just here in the U.S., but in other countries as well.

The Meaning of Normandy

As time proceeds, memories diminish, and the significance ebbs into oblivion. Occasional bursts of remembrance may capture a moment in time and permit some symbolic gesture of recognition for an event that occurred 70 years ago: the Normandy invasion. Presidents, prime ministers, royalty and a panoply of civilization will assemble on the week of June 6 to commemorate that profoundly historic event and pledge fealty to its spirit and sacrifice. The beaches will be serenaded by bands, banners, pomp and circumstance. Speeches will be made by elected and appointed leaders of nations, recounting the events and their meanings. Then, as quickly as they assembled, the crowds will disappear and the events they came to commemorate will drift with the tide. But the real meaning of Normandy and what happened there on June 6, 1944, will live on in the rural towns and villages of the Cotentin Peninsula, where the invasion is more than an annual date to circle on the calendar. Such a place is Hemevez.

Hemevez is a small, obscure farm town near the more populated city of Picauville. One would need an acute desire to visit and a great sense of navigation, or be hopelessly lost, to encounter it. Yet on the slight high ground of the village center resides what inhabitants believe Normandy and the invasion was all about.

The hill is dominated by a small church and a copse of trees. The church is encircled by a graveyard several hundred years old and monuments to the various wars that the men of Hemevez have fought. The monuments are near an open farm field and gathered together, much like the gravestones of the past. On one edge, in an open, sunny place, is a particularly unique marker of polished black granite with gold letters. Unlike the others, it is not an obelisk but a rectangle. There are words and names incised on it and lettered in gold. A small gravel walkway leads from the church to the front of this monument. It truly stands alone among the others. It is treated as such.

Across the top are simple words in French: “In Remembrance of the Fallen Soldiers 6 June 1944.” Under that are seven names, all members of the 507th Parachute Infantry Regiment, 82nd Airborne Division. On the night of June 6, 1944, 14 soldiers of Headquarters, 1st Battalion, 507th PIR were misdropped over the small village of Hemevez at around 0240, and seven were captured by the local German unit. On the back of the monument is another message, also in French:

In memory of the 7 American Parachutists of the 82nd Airborne Division who were executed in the vicinity of this community 6 June 1944

The seven captured men were lined up and shot in a field near the church. The villagers buried them within the grounds and later, as the Allies cleared the area, repatriated the bodies. The villagers, however, did not forget the seven or what they signified. They built the monument in their memory, and each year, during the anniversary period, the entire village gathers in the churchyard and remembers those teenagers of long ago and what they meant for their grandparents, for them, and for succeeding generations.

This is not a contrived event. Hemevez is as obscure as a distant rural French village can be.  No one remarkable, French or American, appears there except on the rarest of occasions, and then it’s often by chance. This is not important to the village. The residents know why they assemble and why it matters.

The sun peaks over the roof of the church. Next to the monument, the mayor takes his place. A farmer by trade, he is wearing his best and only suit and tie, with a stained shirt and shoes still muddy with the residue of his livelihood. The prefect of the church has an old CD player. Next to them, in line, are the local historical representatives of the French Resistance, Army units and Foreign Legion, with their flags. They are humbly dressed, like the mayor. 

Any attendees not from the village are brought forward to a place of honor. The mayor begins by playing the U.S. national anthem from a CD, a somewhat broken and stuttering reproduction. He then plays “La Marseillaise.” Every citizen, as is the French custom – including the flag bearers – sings lustily and with emphasis. At the conclusion, donkeys in the adjacent field begin to bray, lending a concluding chorus to the affair.

The mayor signals for the CD to be stopped and, ignoring the braying, quietly recounts the events of that night so long ago. The villagers stand mute, thinking about the words that describe what happened. The mayor pauses and begins again.

He quietly reads each name graven in gold:

Pfc Elsworth M. HECK
Pvt Anthony J. HITZTALER
Pvt Andrew W. KLING
Pvt Delmar C. McELHANEY
Pfc Daniel B. TILLMAN
Pvt Robert G. WATSON
Pvt Robert E. WERNER

At the conclusion of each name’s reading, villagers firmly voice in unison, “Mort por la France.” After the seventh name is read, the mayor turns to the village priest, who prays. Most of the residents cross themselves, turn quietly and depart. Some linger and drop flowers by the monument. The cattle peer through the wire as the ceremony closes. The donkeys feed in the tall grass, and the sun settles behind the church.

Every year, the village repeats this ceremony.  Every year, they repeat the names and remember what they mean, in a part of Normandy unseen by the thousands who come each year and never happen upon Hemevez. Being seen is not important to the village. They know why they come together and why they always will.

Vive la France, and God Bless America!

Hands Off My Car

I've been working on vehicles most of my life. In my teenage years I was a true gearhead, owning and modifying a series of muscle cars. I still have an old trophy laying around from winning my class in 1970 at the old San Antonio Drag Raceway. (Click here for some neat old pictures from 'back in the day.')

One of my early jobs was as an attendant at a full service filling station (remember those?). After a while I worked my way up to assistant mechanic (that meant I did all the hard dirty work while the owner lounged around, drank Cokes, and told me what I was doing wrong.

During my time in the Army I was assigned to the motor pool, working on an assortment of vehicles (both wheeled and tracked) and field generators.

In short, I knew my way around things motorized. But all that changed about 20 years ago.

I don't work on cars much anymore, especially since all the fun under-the-hood stuff changed from mechanical to digital.

In the old, pre-computer controlled days, the path to more horsepower ran deep under the hood into the bowels of the engine, and much time and money was needed for bigger cams, larger valves, and high compression pistons. Sure, you can still do all that today, but why bother? Now getting more horsepower and torque from your engine is as easy as plugging in a programmer. With just a few keystrokes you can have power and acceleration you can feel.

The computer, commonly known as ECM, ECU, or PCM, is your vehicle’s brain and controls every function, particularly ones that are critical for performance like fuel delivery, ignition timing and spark advance. However, the computer is calibrated very conservatively at the factory, with settings intended for the “average” driver. Your engine is capable of much more, and if you’re an enthusiast you can unleash this hidden power with a performance programmer.

(More detailed info here, including overviews of Performance Chips, Control Modules, and Performance Monitors.)

All of this bubbled up to the top of my mind when I read that car makers are trying to make it illegal for people to work on their own cars.

One of the inherent rights of owning a vehicle is the ability to get on one’s backside — a wrench in one hand and a grease rag in the other, and just tinker to your little heart’s desire. Since the vehicle was invented, it’s been an important facet within the community of gearheads.

General Motors — the same company responsible for 87 deaths related to faulty ignition switches, FYI — wants to take that right away from you citing safety and security issues.

To be fair, what they really want to prevent is the use of the afore-mentioned performance chips and programmers. Their approach is to argue that because technology is now so pervasivly embedded in modern vahicles, they should actually be classified as “mobile computing devices.” That would bring them under the auspices of the Digital Millennium Copyright Act (DMCA).

It’s been around since 2000 and started as anti-Internet piracy legislation. But automakers want to use it to try and make working on your own car illegal. Yes, illegal. The general premise is that unlike cars of the past, today’s vehicles are so advanced and use such a large amount of software and coding in their general makeup, altering said code could be dangerous and possibly even malicious.

Listing the vehicle as a “mobile computing device,” the law would hypothetically protect automakers from pesky owners looking to alter any sort of technology in the vehicle that relates to the onboard computer. Flashing your ECU would be a big no no, which could also lead to all sorts of problems for aftermarket shops.

What GM, and even tractor companies like John Deere, argues is that you, as an owner, don’t actually own your car. Rather, you’re sort of just borrowing it for an extended amount of time and paying for the rights to use the technology. If it sounds ridiculous— it is. But it gets even more ludicrous.

According to the Electronic Frontier Foundation, John Deere argued that “letting people modify car computer systems will result in them pirating music through the on-board entertainment system.”

That’s right— pirating music. Through a tractor.

Isn't that just about the stupidest thing you've ever heard? A tractor as a mechanism to pirate music... GMAFB.

Let me get this straight. I shell out my hard-earned $$$ to buy a vehicle. I own it. I maintain it. I register it, pay taxes on it, insure it, and in general am responsible for all aspects of its maintenance and operation ... except that I can't modify it!?!?

I don't think so.

It's mine! I'll do what I damn well please with it. They'll get my wrench when they pry it out of my cold dead fingers.

What's next? Outlawing DIY home improvements?

Un-friggin'-believable.

For Lou And Mel

Don't know if y'all saw this or not, but I thought you'd like to know...

Cheatham Street Warehouse Owner Kent Finlay Dies at 77

Kent Finlay, a voice for Texas Music and owner of the famed Cheatham Street Warehouse where many artists got their start, died on Monday. He was 77.

Finlay has often been seen as one of Texas Music’s best friends and premier mentors to songwriters and bands alike. His songwriter’s circle on Wednesday nights has a staple at Cheatham Street Warehouse for decades.

Finlay helped launch the careers for many famed artists, including Stevie Ray Vaughan and George Strait, among others. He was a songwriting mentor to many, having co-written songs with names such as Randy Rogers, William Clark Green, Slaid Cleaves and Walt Wilkins.

“Country music — and just music in general really — lost a great friend today,” George Strait said in a statement. “His legend will live forever in Texas, though. We’ll never forget our friend Kent Finlay. Sad day.”

Strait played his first-ever show at Cheatham Street with his Ace in the Hole Band on Oct. 13, 1975.

Superstar after superstar has graced the stage at Cheatham Street Warehouse, the famous venue by the railroad tracks in San Marcos. Willie Nelson, Guy Clark, Ray Wylie Hubbard, Townes Van Zandt and nearly every Texas country star has graced Cheatham Street.

...he died on Texas Independence Day. “You know he would have loved that,” his daughter, Jenni, said.

You can’t make up stories like that. It’ll probably even make a great song.

Empty Nest Syndrome

Yesterday we moved our youngest child into her dorm room at Texas A&M. We are now officially Empty Nesters!

I'm okay with that. Sure, there's some sadness and melancholy as you watch your little girl spread her wings and leave the nest, but I view it as an inevitable step in her - and our - life's journey. Her mother, however, sees it much differently.

When mothers talk about the depression of the empty nest, they're not mourning the passing of all those wet towels on the floor, or the music that numbs your teeth, or even the bottle of capless shampoo dribbling down the shower drain. They're upset because they've gone from supervisor of a child's life to a spectator. It's like being the vice president of the United States.

  --  Erma Bombeck

It was interesting comparing our daughter's departure with her older brother's. When we moved him in last year we parked, made one trip with his things to his dorm room, dropped them on the floor, and were shooed out shortly thereafter. It was a different story with the girl.

First of all, it required three trips to lug all her possessions from the truck to the room. Second, her mother (and her roommates mother) stayed there for several hours helping the girls unpack and get settled. Finally, the good-bye hugs were longer and tighter, and there were many more tears from both mother and child.

As an aside, our son moved into an apartment this year. The first day he could move in was Aug. 15 at noon. He left our house at 8:30 a.m. on Aug. 15 - the earliest he'd gotten up all summer. Our daughter delayed her move until the last possible moment (classes start next week, but this is Gig 'Em Week for Aggies).

As part of the 'spreading her wings' process, I had her drive from our home to College Station (home of the Fightin' Texas Aggies - Whoop!) by herself. We followed in the truck. I wanted to make sure she knew how to get from Point A to Point B on her own.

We live out in the country. College Station is also located out in the country. To get from here to there requires a 200 mile trip on back roads. When I drive it takes around three hours. She took four hours to cover the same distance. She steadily drove five MPH under the speed limit.

She's a very conscientious young lady. She takes after her mother, in that she believes rules are meant to be followed. That's all well and good, but this is rural Texas, where speed limits are considered at best suggestions, and at worst challenges. I am very glad (and relieved) that the worst thing I can say about her driving habits is that she obeys the law, but still ... the trip seemed endless.

Anyway, she's moved in, and we're back home. My wife is quiet, and every so often heaves a long, forlorn sigh, but we'll get through it. Both wife and daughter are tough and resilient.

As I type this, I am working on my third beer. Funny, but it seems to be making my vision a little blurry...

A Tough Day For Texas

A sad time for Texas after VE Day remembered

The date was Aug. 1, 1945. The war in Europe had concluded 85 days prior when the United States and Great Britain declared Victory in Europe (VE).

Victory over Japan was only 13 days away and this would finally end World War II.

The U.S. Fifth Army had been active in Italy for the previous two years, pushing back the Nazis amid frequently intense hostilities. By VE Day, many individual soldiers had endured more than a year of active combat duty.

Memories of home and an abiding desire to return had sustained many a soldier during wartime.

For those soldiers fortunate enough to have survived combat to see VE Day, it's easy to imagine the jubilation and relief they would have felt as their dream of returning home and being reunited with their families was within reach.

In the months following VE Day, Army personnel who had served the longest and accrued the most points were the first to go home. Those with fewer points remained in-theater for various occupational duties.

Now, on Aug. 1, 1945, it was time for one lucky group of seasoned Fifth Army soldiers stationed in Italy to go home. They had seen it all. They had been through it all. And it was time to put it all behind them. Their only focus was on returning to some sort of normalcy and rebuilding a future.

In advance of their return, word was sent to the States assuring elated parents, wives and children that their beloved service member would soon be home safe and sound.

But a very cruel fate stood in the way of that homecoming, a fate that would leave many of these soldiers dead before even departing the Mediterranean Theater of Operations (MTO).

Just who were these Fifth Army soldiers returning home?

They were a group of 20 “high-point” Texas soldiers, non-commissioned infantrymen ranking from private to staff sergeant. These men were headed back to the Lone Star State and, with ages averaging in the mid to upper 20s, many of them had already married and started families prior to being shipped overseas.

Early on the morning of Aug. 1, 1945, these 20 homebound Texans boarded a B-17 aircraft in Pomigliano, Italy, bound for Port Lyautey, North Africa, on what was to be the first leg of their journey home.

            On Aug 1, 1945, a group of 20 homebound Texas troops boarded a B-17 aircraft (similar to the one above) in Pomigliano, Italy.

Some of the B-17 “Flying Fortress” planes that had played such a huge role in winning the war were now designated essentially as passenger airlines ferrying soldiers homeward.

About an hour after takeoff, while over the Tyrrhenian Sea, an engine on the aircraft began to fail; it caught fire and eventually shook loose from its mount and fell off leaving a gaping hole in the wing.

The pilot (there was a crew of five in addition to the 20 Texas soldiers on board) announced that he would be ditching the ill-handling aircraft due to power loss and drag, having determined that he could not make it back to land.

With only a couple minutes to prepare, the men were instructed to don Mae West vests and brace for impact.

The pilot sought to ditch the plane in as controlled a manner as possible but there was a very heavy sea. The plane broke in two upon impact and sank in about 30 seconds. The location of the ditching was in deep water approximately midway between Naples and Sardinia.

Five crew members survived the ditching and escaped the sinking aircraft; however, the co-pilot was not a strong swimmer and drowned before reaching one of the inflatable life rafts that the crew had managed to release prior to the plane's sinking.

As for the 20 Texas soldiers who were passengers, 12 were killed in the crash. Three of the eight survivors had major injuries. For more than 12 hours the survivors drifted in a couple of inflatable life rafts before being rescued by a large ship that happened upon them.

None of the 12 soldiers who died in the accident (13 counting the co-pilot) was ever recovered with the exception of Pvt. Woodrow Boyles, whose body washed up on the Italian coast some four months after the incident.

The missing are memorialized on the Tablets of the Missing at the American Cemetery in Nettuno, Italy.

As difficult as it is to lose a loved one in combat, there is a painful irony in successfully sweating and fretting out the war years, only to lose your loved one on the way home. Instead of a telegraph informing 12 Texas families of their soldier's safe return to American soil, they received a telegraph stating that the plane carrying him developed engine trouble and was ditched at sea. And that he was among the missing later declared dead.

That was 69 years ago, on Aug. 1, 1945. A tough day for Texas.

Requiescat in Pace

Two deaths of interest to ponder today. The first:

I received the following email from someone who belongs to one of the organizations I belong to. I don't know the sender, and I don't know the person who is the subject of the email, but I'm passing it on because it struck a cord within me. It tells the story of a man who did the right things and was in exchange treated shabbily by life. Yet without the determination of such men there would be little hope for the future.

My best friend and former Army Ranger __________ passed away yesterday morning at home ending his great suffering from his battle with cancer. He will be sorely missed by me and all who knew him. He was a hero in every sense of the word with three purple hearts and two bronze stars for valor. He was very proud of the fact that he brought all of his men back home. _____ served in the Rep of Vietnam 1972-1973 when all of our troops knew the war was lost. His unit did their duty operating along the Ho Chi Minh trail in Laos and Cambodia. His body was covered with scars from wounds received during that conflict.

_____ made a promise to God that if he got out alive he would work to make the world a better place. After returning home he received his history degree and became a teacher in the XXXXX school district teaching at risk kids for 20 years. His career was cut short when one of the at risk "kids" attacked him from behind and fractured his back.

One story I love about _____ was when he returned from Vietnam. He was at the airline counter in San Francisco filling out the paperwork to continue his flight home. As he was bent over the counter, he noticed a gray haired lady approaching out of the corner of his eye that he knew was going to be a problem. When she was sufficiently close she shouted, "Soldier, how many babies did you kill in Vietnam?" Without looking up he replied, "Babies none, little old ladies many." She scurried off with that reply.

Sounds like a good man who was dealt several crappy cards throughout his life. Please say a little prayer for him.

The second death notice is no less sad, but ranks a little higher on the 'human interest' scale.

'Kissing sailor' from iconic World War II photo dies

The sailor kissing the nurse in the famous end of World War II celebration of V-J day photo taken Aug. 14, 1945 in Times Square has died.

Glenn Edward McDuffie died on Sunday at the age of 86. Lois Gibson, a forensic artist, proved positively McDuffie was the sailor in August 2007 after many men had claimed to be the man in the photo.

McDuffie was born in Kannapolis, N.C. on Aug. 3, 1927. He joined the U.S. Navy at age 15 in 1942 after he found a friend to forge his mother’s signature and amenable notary public.

He played professional baseball after leaving service with the Virginia League Champions.

In 1960, the World War II veteran moved to Houston where he lived until 2009. He spent his last years near his daughter Glenda Bell in a Dallas suburb.

The service for McDuffie will be held at the Dallas/Ft. Worth Veterans Cemetery in Dallas.

The Greatest Generation becomes fewer every day. Please add Mr. McDuffie to your prayers tonight.

And to lighten the mood, please have a couple of extra drinks this evening in honor of these two fine men.

Anchors Aweigh, Y'All

This week marks a special occasion for sailors, their families, and navy supporters. The Battleship Texas (BB-35), the oldest surviving battleship afloat in the U.S. and the only surviving dreadnought in the world, celebrates its centennial anniversary.

Pomp, emotion greet old sailors as Battleship Texas turns 100

With a new coat of paint on its decks and a brisk north wind snapping its pennants Wednesday, the Battleship Texas welcomed back a gang of old warriors - men, who, though perhaps worn by years, still evinced the vigor of "the greatest generation."

For the aged sailors, Wednesday marked a sentimental, and possibly final, call to duty.

"This will more than likely be the last time they'll see the ship. That's huge,'' said Johnita Smith, the USS Texas Veterans Association chair whose father sailed on the Texas during World War II. "They served aboard for a year or four or five … and today was the last day they were going to see her.''

It was a double celebration for the venerable vessel and its former crew members - marking what was billed as the "final reunion" for the ship's WWII sailors as well as the 100th anniversary of its commissioning... The celebration continues Saturday with a concert, headlined by Robert Earl Keen, military flyovers and fireworks.

"Young people today talk about 'multitasking,' " Lt. Gov. David Dewhurst said in a keynote address to the veterans and their family members. "But multitasking is what you did as the fire was coming in. You stuck with your guns. You are what made the greatest generation the greatest generation."

Orlan Scott, 87, was only 17 when he found himself assigned to the battleship's Turret 3. The retired Waco diesel mechanic recalled that his duties included hefting 100-pound sacks of powder into a hoist for the big guns.

"There were about 80 of us. It was like ants down there," he recalled. Scott said five to seven bags were required for each shot, and remembers that the crew once was at battle stations for more than 50 days.

"Sometimes we would bombard through the night," he said. "You'd roll out of bed and everyone would go to their stations … These shells would shoot every minute and a half … The heat was intense."

As befits a vessel named after The Great State of Texas, the ship is the proud holder of a number of naval 'firsts.'

Among US-built battleships, Texas is notable for her sizable number of firsts: the first US Navy vessel to house a permanently assigned contingent of US Marines, the first US battleship to mount anti-aircraft guns, the first US ship to control gunfire with directors and range-keepers (analog forerunners of today's computers), the first US battleship to launch an aircraft from a catapult, one of the first to receive the CXAM-1 version of CXAM production radar in the US Navy, the first US battleship to become a permanent museum ship, and the first battleship declared to be a US National Historic Landmark.

Her battle record is no less impressive.

After being commissioned, the Texas proceeded almost immediately to Mexican waters where she joined the Special Service Squadron following the "Vera Cruz Incident." She returned to the Atlantic Fleet operations in the fall of 1914, after the Mexican crisis was resolved.

After the United States entered World War I, she spent the year 1917 training gun crews for merchant ships that were often attacked by gunfire from surfaced submarines. Texas joined the 6th Battle Squadron of the British Grand Fleet early in 1918. Operating out of Scapa Flow and the Firth of Forth, Texas protected forces laying a North Sea mine barrage, responded to German High Seas Fleet sorties, fired at submarine periscopes observed by multiple ships, and helped prevent enemy naval forces from interrupting the supply of Allied forces in Europe. Late in 1918, she escorted the German Fleet en route to its surrender anchorage and escorted President Wilson to peace talks in France.

In 1941 while on "Neutrality Patrol" in the Atlantic, Texas was stalked unsuccessfully by the German submarine U-203. TEXAS escorted Atlantic convoys against potential attack by German warships after America entered into World War II in December 1941. In 1942, Texas transmitted General Eisenhower's first "Voice of Freedom" broadcast, asking the French not to oppose Allied landings on North Africa. The appeal went unheeded and the Texas provided gunfire support for the amphibious assault on Morocco, putting Walter Cronkite ashore to begin his career as a war correspondent. After further convoy duty, the Texas fired on Nazi defenses at Normandy on D-Day, June 6, 1944. Shortly afterwards, she was hit twice in a duel with German coastal defense artillery near Cherbourg, suffering one fatality and 13 wounded. Quickly repaired, she shelled Nazi positions in Southern France before transferring to the Pacific where she lent gunfire support and anti-aircraft fire to the landings on Iwo Jima and Okinawa.

Distinguished service in two World Wars. Action in both the Atlantic and Pacific during WWII. Currently holds the distinguished designation of a National Historic Landmark and a National Mechanical Engineering Landmark, as well as being the flagship of the Texas Navy.

To the Texas and all those who crewed aboard her during her 100 years of service, "Bravo Zulu!"

(P.S. - Please come back at 5:00 p.m. CDT for a special Happy Hour video. If I understand Navy time correctly, that would be two bells into the first dog watch.)

Requeim For A Marine - Follow Up

About three months ago the father of a good friend of mine passed away. The father was also a good friend, and a decorated WWII USMC combat veteran. I posted about it here.

Yesterday I stumbled across this picture. It reminded me of Cali. It's the kind of sign he'd have put up if he thought of it.

I'm sure he's up there somewhere chuckling about it...

Star Spangled Banner The Way It Should Be

Memo to all those so-called 'celebrities' and 'entertainers' who think performing the national Anthem is an excuse to wail and caterwaul for several long agonizing minutes: watch this video.*

*  Sorry I couldn't figure out how to embed it in this post. There's a couple of homemade versions already floating around on YouTube, but the one I linked to is the best in terms of clarity and quality.

It reminded me of Tommy Loy, the trumpeter who for 22 years played the National Anthem before Dallas Cowboy football games.

Requiem For A Marine

Twelve years ago we moved from Houston to our present home in Heaven Central Texas. I haven't looked back. Nothing against the people there - we left behind several good friends - but that city is just too big and crowded for me. Sadly, however, I'm back in Houston today for a funeral.

The father of one of my close friends passed away earlier this week. I met the father through my buddy, who years ago invited me to join him and his family on their deer lease. I came to consider the father as an uncle. Cali (his nickname, short for The California Kid) was one of three older guys who shared the lease with his two sons and me. The three old dudes were a hoot. They played pranks and practical jokes on each other and anyone else around, told sidesplitting stories and jokes, and didn't hesitate to make their opinions known about politicians, the younger generation, and the sorry state of affairs compared to when they were kids.

The other two died a few years ago. Cali hung on, but it was clear he was in failing health and failing spirits. That wonderful old man is finally resting in peace. He and his buddies are probably giving Jesus a hotfoot about now.

There was much more to Cali than fun-loving old timer. He was a long-time happily married man who raised two great sons and a pretty good daughter. He was a successful businessman and was heavily involved in community and charitable activities. He was also first, last, and always, a United States Marine; a decorated combat veteran of WWII.

I may have posted this story before, but it bears repeating. Several years ago when our son was in middle school he was assigned to interview veterans for a history class. The point of the assignment was to get first-hand accounts from actual participants, and then compare those to what the history books said (aside: his history teacher that year was IMO the best teacher I've ever come across - he got the kids really, really interested in history by getting them involved).

Anyway, our son was fortunate enough to interview Lt. Col. Richard E. Cole, General Jimmy Doolittle's co-pilot during the famous WWII bombing raid on Japan. He also interviewed my father, a WWII combat vet, and Cali. The interviews were video-recorded to show in class.

The first question our boy asked Cali was "Why did you join the Marines?"

Cali got an intense look on his face, stared our son straight in the eye, and without hesitating answered "To kill the God-Damned Japs!"

I thought my wife was going to have apoplexy. Cali's son and I were laughing so hard we almost fell over. Our son didn't know what to do, but like a good budding journalist he went ahead and asked the rest of his questions. Needless to say, we did a little editing on the video before it was turned in.

Here's some excerpts from Cali's obituary.

Retired Major (Cali), USMC, age 92 passed away peacefully on November 15, 2013 ... He is also preceded in death by his two lifelong friends (Arbrey) and (Cabe). The threesome hunted and fished together and shared a lifetime of fun and laughter for over 40 years.

During WWII, (Cali) was assigned to the 2nd Marine Division, Amphibious Tractors. He was on the first waves of battle at Tarawa, Saipan, Tinian, and Okinawa. On Tarawa, after landing assault troops from his amphibian tractor, commanding a platoon of tractors, he returned to the edge of the coral reef with his crew and noticed that the advance of troops wading ashore was stopped by concentrated enemy fire from three sides. (Cali) and his men with complete disregard for their own safety drove their vehicle between the gunfire and the troops. Using the tractor for a shield and manning the tractor-mounted machineguns to return fire, they were successful in guiding the troops ashore. (Cali) provided overhead fire for the advancing troops until the tractor was demolished. (Cali) received the presidential unit citation, a Purple Heart, and was awarded the Silver Star by Admiral Nimitz. He also received the Navy Commendation Medal for the battle on Saipan.

In May 1945 after 37 months and 12 days Norman was sent home. His war was over. He was immensely proud to be a Marine. He remained in the reserves and retired from the Marine Corp in 1964 attaining the rank of Major.

He loved to hunt and fish and loved auto racing with a passion. He was crazy for the Houston Oilers and furious with Bud Adams when he moved the team to Tennessee.

In lieu of flowers please donate to the Wounded Warrior Project...

Rest In Peace, Cali. You deserve it.

Where Were You?

Unless you've been living in a cave, by now you're aware that today is the 50th anniversary of the assassination of President John Kennedy. I'm not going to go into the historical, political, and social ramifications of his assassination, other than to note in passing that it was a watershed event in our country's history. For starters, just imagine how different things might have turned out if JFK, who would be considered a moderate-to-conservative today, had remained in office instead of being replaced by LBJ, a sleazy scheming liberal by anyone's standards, then or now. (And BTW, what's with all the 3-initial identifiers from that era? JFK, RFK, LBJ, MLK ... but I digress.)

What I wanted to discuss today is the "Where were you when..." question. JFK's assassination is the first date that I can recall where I was and what I was doing when I heard about it (7th grade band class - the announcement came of the school's loudspeaker that the president had been shot. No further details were provided, so we had no idea how serious the incident was.)

What I remember most about the assassination and its aftermath was how everyone was glued to the television. Back then there were only three TV channels. For several days it was nothing but coverage of the shooting and the subsequent events, from sign on until sign off. (Remember how TV channels used to sign off the air around midnight by playing the National Anthem? If you do, you're an old fart like me.)

Eventually, of course, things got more-or-less back to normal. Then came the RFK and MLK shootings, and nothing was ever quite the same.

The next date that's fixed in my mind is January 28, 1986, when the space shuttle Challenger blew up shortly after liftoff, killing its crew of seven. I was working in Houston at the time. We were gathered in the break room to watch. At that time shuttle launches were still a big event, especially in the Houston area, where NASA was headquartered. To say we were all stunned would be a massive understatement. Watch the short video of the launch below, and notice how quiet it gets after the explosion. No one knows what to say. They probably can't believe what they just saw. The NASA PAO (Public Affairs Officer) narrating the launch finally came up with "Obviously there was a major malfunction."

Obviously...



The next 15 years are a pleasant blur for me. Getting married to my current wife, the birth of our two children, a career change from industry to academia, all these milestones in my life were marked and celebrated at the time. But the memory of them is softened by a pleasant, golden haze. The stark details have faded over time. Then comes a date that I'm sure I share with most of you - September 11, 2001.

I was just about to begin teaching a class when I heard a fragmented and preliminary report concerning an airplane possibly hitting one of the World Trade Center towers. I headed into class thinking that it was probably a light plane sightseeing over Manhattan and accidentally flying into a building. When class was over I learned the horrible truth - that we were at war with a bunch of barbaric savages who deserve to be wiped from the face of the earth.

I still feel that way.

My final "where were you" date is February 1, 2003.

Another space shuttle - Columbia - was returning to earth early Saturday morning after completing its mission. At the same time I was driving down a country road in Central Texas. It was a beautiful winter day - crisp and clear, a deep blue sky without a cloud in sight. I saw a brilliant white contrail pass overhead, heading from west to east. All of a sudden that one contrail became multiple smaller contrails. I had no idea what had happened until a couple of hours later, when I heard the news. Again, it was a feeling of shock and disbelief.

Watch the video below and you'll see that shock and disbelief mirrored on the faces of the NASA personnel in Mission Control, followed by tears as the truth slowly dawns on them.



So there you have it - four dates that are indelibly etched in my memory. I wish they were happier events, but evidently my subconscious prefers the tragic and dramatic.

Sometime today, when I have a quiet moment, I'll say a little prayer for all those affected by these four tragedies. If you're so inclined, I'd be honored if you'll join me.

Who's Next?

They say things come in threes. I certainly hope that's not true, because in the last couple of days I've received the unwelcome news that two of my friends have passed away.

The first to go was an old high school classmate. We weren't close friends, but back in the day we were more than acquaintances (strictly platonic - her choice, not mine...). We'd drifted out of touch over the years, but saw each other once in a while at reunions. We'd lately reconnected on Facebook.

In mid-May she went to her doctor complaining of abdominal pain. A CT scan showed a large mass in her lower abdomen. A biopsy revealed atypical Non-Hodgkin's lymphoma. The cancer was in its early stages and appeared to be very localized. She was scheduled to begin chemo in late June, with a favorable prognosis.

A week before the chemo treatments were to begin her small intestine ruptured near the tumor. She went into emergency surgery to repair the rupture. While the doctors were in there they decided to remove the tumor as well. They got about 98% of it. Everything was looking good.

Then, for some unknown reason, the remaining 2% went crazy. The cancer metastasized and spread rapidly. The aggressive nature of it took everyone by surprise.

She died on July 20th, leaving behind a devastated husband, four grown children, and a number of grandchildren.

She will be missed.

Yesterday I got an email informing me that another friend had passed away unexpectedly. He was out riding his bike with his wife when he dropped dead from a heart attack.

He was around my age and, as far as I know, in the same general physical condition (relatively active, but enjoys his food and drink a little too much). He was a big, barrel chested guy, strong as an ox in his younger days. His nickname was Mongo (after the Alex Karras character in Blazing Saddles), and it fit.

I've known him for around 30 years. Interesting guy - we worked together in Houston for a while, then he left to start his own telecommunications firm. (Side note: one of the first people he hired was my wife. She was the business manager.) That firm became quite successful, went through a series of acquisitions and mergers, and was eventually bought by AT&T. He retired in his 40s as a millionaire.

But he soon got bored and began a new career. He moved to California and bought a vineyard. Unfortunately, all he knew about wine was how to drink it, and he went bankrupt.

Undeterred, he started a consulting firm and clawed his way back up to the top. At the time of his death he was once again a proud member of the 1%.

He still lived in CA, but we got together a couple of times a year for golf and stories. My lasting memory of him will be sitting at a table in the clubhouse bar with a cigar in one hand, a glass of single malt Scotch in the other, and a big smile on his face.

I tossed and turned last night in bed, thinking deep thoughts about life, mortality, what's really important ... all the usual philosophical musings one goes through at a time like this. I came to the conclusion that so many things are out of our control that all we can do is sit back and enjoy it while it lasts.

So if you'll excuse me, I'm about to begin what the obituary writers call a 'celebration of life' for my two friends.

It's also known as an Irish wake...

Remembering D-Day

Today is the 69th anniversary of the Allied landings at Normandy in WW II - better known as D-Day.

''London, Tuesday, June 6, 1944: Under command of General Eisenhower, Allied naval forces, supported by strong air forces, began landing Allied armies this morning on the northern coast of France.''

The world caught its breath. Not since 1688 had an invading army crossed the English Channel, but now it was happening -- Operation Overlord, D-Day, the all-out attack on Hitler's fortress Europe. 

That was a different time, when America was united against a ruthless, cruel, and barbaric enemy.

Today we face an enemy no less ruthless, cruel, and barbaric. Unfortunately, however, we are far from united. Also, thanks in large part to a public school system that is more concerned with political correctness than historical accuracy, our young people have forgotten the lessons painfully learned from the past.

Nevertheless, many of us remember and honor those who fought and died that day.

Following are three links to sites that provide some interesting human and historical insights into D-Day. The first is the U.S. Army's official D-Day web page which includes, among other information, photos of the invasion and a recording of Dwight D. Eisenhower's message broadcast to the troops just prior to the landings.

The second is a site related to the excellent PBS film D-Day:

D-Day is told entirely with rare archival footage -- much of it never shown before -- and the voices of 43 people who were there. Produced by Charles Guggenheim, the film is also a centerpiece for the National D-Day Museum in New Orleans.

There is much more at the link, including links to several human-interest pages (click the Special Features link).

Finally we have a collection of wonderful color photos from Life magazine.

In an interesting coincidence, one of the pictures in the series (below) is of a couple of combat engineers using a crate of ammunition as a makeshift table prior to the invasion. My father was a combat engineer who landed at Omaha Beach. (No, he's not in the picture. That would have been too much of a coincidence.)

"It should never be forgotten that, of all events of our tumultuous 20th century, perhaps the most important was the defeat of the Nazi empire; and for a long and very dark time, for nearly five years, that outcome was by no means certain. D-Day was the turning point. It was day one of the final drive to complete Allied victory."

Bless 'em all...

Tempus Fugit

I spent the weekend with a group of old friends. These are people that I knew in my previous 'corporate world' career, back when I used to work for a living before I changed professions and became a university professor.

That was 17 long years ago. We've been getting together every year since to swap lies, play golf, and drink beer. Over time hairlines have receded (or in my case, disappeared entirely) ,waistlines have expanded, and joints have stiffened (with one exception...). But for some reason this was the first time I noticed that everyone had gotten old.

People were moving slowly, having trouble bending over, forgetting names and stories, and generally looking like a bunch of rapidly-going-downhill senior citizens (for the record, most us us are somewhere between the mid-50s to mid 60s). The conversation one night was devoted solely to those of our group who had died over the years. Sadly, it's not a small number.

Then Monday morning I went to the eye doctor for my annual checkup. After the usual "Which is better, number one, or number 2?" routine, he informed me that my eyes were in great shape. Then he added four little words that I'm starting to hear more and more these days:

"For someone your age."

That phrase is popping up more and more lately.

You're looking good. For someone your age.

You do that very well. For someone your age.

You're in pretty good shape. For someone your age.

I swear, the next fool that says "For someone your age" to me is in for a rude surprise. I'm gonna whack 'em upside the head with my cane.

Anyway, while I was struggling with the realization that I'm no longer a young man, the following appeared in my in-box (thanks a lot, Bots).

I know some of you will not understand this message, but I bet you know someone who might.  I came across this phrase yesterday. 'FENDER SKIRTS.'

A term I haven't heard in a long time, and thinking about 'fender skirts' started me thinking about other words that quietly disappear from our language with hardly a notice  like 'curb feelers.'

And 'steering knobs.' (AKA 'suicide knob' or 'necker  knob.')

Any kids will probably have to find some older person over 50 to explain some of these terms to you.

Remember 'Continental kits?'  They were rear bumper extenders and spare tire covers that were supposed to make any car as cool as a Lincoln Continental.

When did we quit calling them 'emergency brakes?'  At some point 'parking brake' became the proper term.  But I miss the hint of drama that went with 'emergency brake.'

I'm sad, too, that almost all the old folks are gone who would call the accelerator the 'foot feed.'  Many today do not even know what a clutch is, or that the dimmer switch (and starter) used to be on the floor.

And don’t forget the ‘manual choke.’

Didn't you ever wait at the street for your daddy to come home, so you could ride the 'running board' up to the house?

Here's a phrase I heard all the time in my youth but never anymore -'store-bought.'   Of course, just about everything is store-bought these days.  But once it was bragging material to have a store-bought dress or a store-bought bag of candy.

'Coast to coast' is a phrase that once held all sorts of excitement and now means almost nothing.  Now we take the term 'world wide' for granted.  This floors me.

On a smaller scale, 'wall-to-wall' was once a magical term in our homes.  In the '50s, everyone covered his or her hardwood floors with, wow, wall-to-wall carpeting!  Today, everyone replaces their wall-to-wall carpeting with hardwood floors.   Go figure.

When was the last time you heard the quaint phrase 'in a family way?'  It's hard to imagine that the word 'pregnant' was once considered a little too graphic, a little too clinical for use in polite company, so we had all that talk about stork visits and 'being in a family way' or simply 'expecting.'

Apparently, 'brassiere' is a word no longer in usage.  I said it the other day and my daughter cracked up.  I guess it's just 'bra' now.  'Unmentionables' probably wouldn't be understood at all.

I always loved going to the 'picture show,' but I considered 'movie' an affectation.

Most of these words go back to the '50s, but here's a pure '60s word I came across the other day: 'rat fink.'  Ooh, what a nasty put-down!

Here's a word I miss - 'percolator.'  That was just a fun word to say.  And what was it replaced with? 'Coffee maker.'  How dull...  Mr. Coffee, I blame you for this.

I miss those made-up marketing words that were meant to sound so modern and now sound so retro.  Words like 'DynaFlow' and’ Electrolux.'  Introducing the 1963 Admiral TV, now with 'SpectraVision!'

Food for thought.  Was there a telethon that wiped out lumbago?  Nobody complains of that anymore.  Maybe that's what Castor oil cured, because I never hear mothers threatening kids with Castor oil anymore.

Someone forwarded this to me. Just for fun, pass it along to others you think will appreciate it.

Just don't say "This should be interesting ... for someone your age."

December 7th Deep In The Heart Of Texas

Today marks the 71st anniversary of the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor that triggered WWII. In recognition, I thought I'd do something a little different.

Just up the road from where I live is the small Central Texas town of Fredericksburg. Among it's other claims to fame is the fact that it is home to The National Museum of the Pacific War.

The National Museum of the Pacific War is dedicated to perpetuating the memory of the Pacific Theater of WWII in order that the sacrifices of those who contributed to our victory may never be forgotten.

Since the war in the Pacific was mainly a Navy war -- with a little help from the Marines -- you might be wondering why the National Museum of the Pacific War is located in the heart of Texas, far from the Pacific Ocean.

The answer is that Chester W. Nimitz, CinC of the Pacific Fleet, was born and raised in Fredericksburg. And here in Texas, we remember our own.

Fleet Admiral Chester W. Nimitz, who at the height of the Pacific war commanded more than two million men and women, 5,000 ships and 20,000 planes, was of humble and landlocked beginnings. Nimitz was born February 24, 1885 to an already widowed mother, and was raised in the small German community of Fredericksburg, Texas.

This next item might be a little hard for you Navy types to swallow, but facts are facts.

Hoping for an appointment to West Point but offered a chance for an education at Annapolis instead, young Chester studied early mornings and late evenings around his schoolwork and chores to prepare for the three-day Annapolis examination. His self-discipline paid off and he was accepted to Annapolis in 1901 at age 15 before he completed high school.

The Army's loss was the Navy's gain.

Every year the museum hosts a ceremony on December 7th honoring our veterans. This year is no exception.

The Admiral Nimitz Foundation will be paying homage to those who served the United States on December 7, 1941, at Pearl Harbor.  2012 marks the 71th anniversary of the attacks on Pearl Harbor.  The ceremony will be held on Friday December 7, 2012 at 12:25 pm in the Memorial Court Yard. The start time of 12:25 pm CST is the exact time that the attack on Pearl Harbor began.

Colonel Richard D. Creed Jr., Commander 479 FA Brigade (TSB) will be the keynote speaker for the ceremony.  The Admiral Nimitz Foundation is proud to welcome Pearl Harbor survivors who will be recognized by General Michael Hagee, USMC (Ret).  The program will include a wreath laying, rifle salute and a flyover by World War II aircraft.

United States military installations were attacked on December 7, 1941, at Pearl Harbor on Oahu, Hawaii.  The Admiral Nimitz Foundation and National Museum of the Pacific War are proud to honor those who served as well as those service members who made the ultimate sacrifice to preserve the freedom of the United States of America.

On a personal note, our son has participated in a few WWII War in the Pacific reenactments sponsored by the museum (he once played Jimmy Doolittle). Not only did he have a great time, he actually learned about historical events, people, and most importantly, character and values.

On scheduled weekends throughout the year, the Pacific Combat Zone comes alive with the sights and sounds of combat on a Pacific island as American Marine re-enactors move in to capture fortified positions from their Japanese defenders. Employing landing craft, tanks, explosive charges and flame thrower, the Pacific Combat Living History programs explain and illustrate the equipment, weapons and tactics American Army and Marine and Imperial Japanese Army forces employed in the deadly struggles on islands like Tarawa, Peleliu, Saipan and Iwo Jima.

I know that most of you reading this aren't geographically close enough to visit the museum, but if you're ever down this way set aside a few hours. It's well worth the visit. And if you have a few extra bucks laying around (I know, I know, bad timing) please consider a donation. Or at least a purchase from the Museum Store. Some of the items are great for relieving stress...

Relieve the stress with a Stressball Grenade.  Made with soft foam, you can squish it over and over until you feel relaxed. Comes printed with the National Museum of the Pacific War logo in white on the side.

Or perhaps you prefer your stress relief come in a more liquid form.

Single shot glass featuring the image of The National Museum of the Pacific War.

In any event, please take a few moments today to give thanks for all those who served, not just in WWII but throughout our history. They deserve our remembrance.

And more. Much, much more...

RIP DKR

Former University of Texas Football Coach Darrell Royal Dies Today at Age 88

A son of Depression-era Oklahoma, Darrell Royal came to Texas to take over a sleeping giant of a football program. Over 20 years, his folksy approach to sports and life, his inventive wishbone offense and a victory in the "Game of the Century" - where a U.S. president declared his team national champion - made him an icon of college football.

 

I was at UT for the 1969 and 1970 national championship teams. Good times, good memories, and a good man, who was full of country wisdom.

“There’s an old saying, ‘You dance with who brung ya.’”
– First cited in 1965, in the midst of a Longhorns losing streak, and frequently thereafter, on the importance of consistency.

“I’ve always felt that three things can happen to you whenever you throw the football, and two of them are bad.”
– From 1963, on the perils of the passing game.

“Really, it was said about two-thirds in jest. Since we won the Arkansas and Notre Dame games with fourth-down and short-yardage passes, another image has arisen. I’ve been pictured as a man who takes chances. Two stinkin’ plays, and I’m a helluva gambler.”
– From 1970, on the passing game quote.

“Punt returns will kill you before a minnow can swim a dipper.”
– From 1963, on the perils of special teams.

“Breaks balance out. The sun don’t shine on the same ol’ dog’s rear end every day.”
– From the book “Hook ‘em Horns” by Denne Freeman.

“Some of them are so green you could hide ‘em on top of a lettuce leaf.”
– On his youthful 1968 team.

“A little bit of perfume doesn’t hurt you if you don’t drink it.”
– On praise for the Longhorns after a 1970 win over Arkansas, Texas’ 30th consecutive victory.

“That will be the big shootout.”
– On the 1969 game between No. 1 Texas and No. 2 Arkansas for the national championship in the centennial year of college football.

“He could run like small-town gossip.”
– From 1963 on running back James Saxton.

“Ol’ Ugly is better than Ol’ Nothing.”
– From 1974, on the perils of recruiting.

“They’re gonna come after us with their eyes pulled up like BBs.”
– On Arkansas’ attitude entering the 1969 game with Texas.

“I was as nervous as a pig in a packing plant.”
– On preparing for Arkansas in 1965, when the No. 1-ranked Longhorns were upset 27-24.

“There was a hornet’s nest waiting for us in Houston, and we were walking into it like Little Red Riding Hood with jam on her face.”
– After a 1958 loss to Rice.

“They are like a cockroach. It isn’t what he eats or totes off but what he falls into and messes up.”
– After the No. 1-ranked Longhorns were upset by TCU, 6-0, in 1961.

“Winning coaches must treat mistakes like copperheads in the bedclothes – avoid them with all the energy you can muster.”
– From “Hook ‘em Horns.”

“The best thing a coach can hope for is to please the majority. And the only way to please the majority is to win.”
– From the book “Darrell Royal Talks Football” with Blackie Sherrod.

“The guy with the blue serge suit with his green socks rolled down didn’t go to Texas.”
– From 1963, on Longhorns alumni.

“I’m pretty thin-skinned. When they say, ‘Do you want some constructive criticism?’ I say, ‘No.’”
– On press relations, after a 1974 loss to Oklahoma.

“It’s an in-the-trench battle. It’s meat on meat, flesh on flesh and stink on stink. And that’s the only way you can play it.”
– On preparing for Oklahoma in 1973.

“Trends are bunk. Only angry people win football games.”
– From 1966.

“We don’t want candy stripes on our uniforms. These are work clothes.”
– From 1970.

“He’s as quick as a hiccup.”
– From 1957 on quarterback Walter Fondren.

“He doesn’t have a lot of speed, but maybe Elizabeth Taylor can’t sing.”
– From 1963, on backup running back Harold Phillipp.

“Diron likes to compete, You name a game. If he walked by and saw a guy spitting at a crack, he’d join in.”
– From 1966, on lineman Diron Talbert.