EARTH, A FINITE RESOURCE.
Let's be good stewards of it.
Marshall Warren
Thursday, December 21, 2017
Tuesday, December 19, 2017
WILL WE EVER LEARN.......
When the excitement of war is gone, reality sets in.
Everyone dies, nobody wins.
One might argue that governments or other forms of leadership are at fault. History is filled with people that ruled and were responsible for the deaths of our fellow humans.. Certainly none of them personally killed millions. So who does the killing? I do. You do. We all do their killing for them or stand by and do nothing.
The question I ask is, why do we (the people of the world), continue to kill each other? Will it ever stop? Will we ever learn? Or are we just lemmings racing to our destruction? I guess I'm fairly disgusted.
Marshall K. Warren RA 18571901
Formally a member of:
82nd Airborne Div; 25th Inf Div (Airborne); 2nd ABG, 503rd Inf CT (1959 to 1965)
Monday, December 11, 2017
SIMPLE, IT'S ABOUT SURVIVING.
Carolyn and I had arrived at our hunting concession, Coutada 5, in central Mozambique on the Indian Ocean, at the end of the monsoon season. The drive from the capital of Maputo had taken two and a half nightmarish rainy days and three of my four spare tires. The road is narrow and filled with rim splitting potholes. We were exhausted, but our Land Rover was packed and stacked with supplies that had to be unloaded and our camp set up on the bank of the Muari river, with some degree of order before we could get any sleep.
The next morning the rains had stopped. As we went through the supplies we discovered the case of twenty-four rolls of toilet paper were soaked. In fact, everything made of paper or cardboard was soaked. What a mess we faced. Life in the bush had different priorities than city life. Going to the "toilet" became an experience in botany as we learned which leaves to use.
As I said, our campsite was about fifty yards from the Muari river. I selected a spot under a large mopane tree to set up our tent. Next to it was an old termite mound, about the size of a double garage. It was covered with thick vegetation and several large trees making it impenetrable, except for the monkeys and mambas. Behind us, the other side of the mopane tree was a small depression. This was to be our garden. Or rather I should say, the baboons garden. There were also marula trees around us that produce edible fruit. The baboons made their home in them. Since one of my jobs was wildlife conservation we were supposed to live in harmony with them. Not! People and animals, even the plants, do what they have to do to survive. Here folks killed, caught, grew or bartered for the essentials of life. Sometimes it's unpleasant, sometimes illegal and sometimes ugly.
Our first order of survival was to salvage as much as we could of our supplies. Rolls of toilet paper festooned the trees around us. This even made us laugh, but the baboons really got a kick out of tearing them apart. Everything we left sitting in the sun to dry had to be guarded. We soon discovered that, whether baboon or person, to them, stealing was just shopping. If you weren't guarding it you obviously didn't want it. Once our solar panel was stolen. The thief sold it to someone in the village of Zimwalla for one million meticais, about $20. He then told me he would tell me where it was for one million meticais. I went to get it and had to pay the people he sold it to one million meticais to get it back. The irony is the person I had originally bought it from had stolen it from someone else.
On another occasion, we had gone to the town of Beira for supplies. It is a hard seven-hour drive up the coast from our home in the bush. While there someone stole my toolbox out of the back of our Land Rover. I went to the huge outdoor market on the edge of town to replace the lost tools. As I walked along the row of vendors, to my astonishment, I came upon my toolbox. Nothing was missing and I was able to buy it back at a good price.
The camp consisted of our sleeping tent, storage tent, and gazebo, which served as kitchen, dining, office, and ammo reloading area. After getting it set up I began interviewing and hiring workers. I hired some for construction of the needed facilities and some to help me in my job of wildlife conservation and anti-poaching. As Coutada 5 covered over a million acres it was a formidable job.
The construction workers dug a well, built a shower stall, outhouse, a large thatched roof structure for us to gather under and other things like cooking area, tables, chairs, etc. Everything was made with local materials. All this to try and make life as comfortable as possible for us. Meanwhile, they slept on the ground wrapped in ragged blankets under a leadwood tree. Cooked their mealie mais in one old pot and bathed in the river with the hippos and crocs.
Once things got organized I started patrolling. I appointed Armando as chief ranger because he had some coveralls and a pair of black rubber boots. Everyone else wore shower shoes, worn shorts, and ragged tee shirts. Thus equipped we headed out looking for snares, traps and deadfalls of the poachers. I was the only one armed as it was illegal for them to have a firearm. I also carried my GPS navigator. I never left camp without it. It and my .375 H&H rifle and a pistol were my constant companions.
On one occasion I had driven several miles, parked the Land Rover and we headed out on foot to search an area I decided on. As the sun got low on the horizon I told the men it was time to head back to the Land Rover. While I turned on my GPS they, as one, turned and started off together in the same direction. I told them to wait a minute while I get a fix on the truck. They said "Why? The Land Rover is over there." I was completely lost, but they knew exactly where we were. It was always like that no matter how far we went or how long we were out.
I admit I was naive when I started sending them out on patrol while I stayed in camp. It was only after I began to speak their language that I realized they were playing me for the fool. In this case, it was survival of the wittiest. It turns out they were all poachers. They would go on patrol and check their snares, traps, and deadfalls. Then steal the snares of their competitors and bring them back to me.
An informant blew the whistle on them, so I rounded them all up for a pow-wow. I explained they had two choices. 1) Stop poaching and work for me or 2) Keep poaching, get fired and maybe go to jail if I caught them. All but one elected to stay with me. In the end, they became loyal trustworthy employees. I didn't hesitate to go off and leave Carolyn alone with any of them to guard her against predators, animal or man.
There were many battles I lost, but the only one I gave up fighting was the illegal making and selling of sura. Sura is a delightfully tasty, zesty, knock-you-on-your-butt, an alcoholic drink made from the common nyalla palm. It is made by cutting the stalk and draining the greenish-yellow liquid into a container. Then allowing it to ferment a few days to the desired potency. Of course, you have to skim off the bugs and whatever as you drink it. Nearly everyone made it, drank it and sold it to townspeople. Trucks would come out from the towns to collection points along highway 1 and buy it by the truckload. I've spent many a night sitting around their cooking fires with a gourd of sura laughing and talking about the day's adventures.
As it turned out just about everyone I knew was, is or would be a poacher. They can grow all they need, but protein is in short supply. They needed meat. I did arrest a few, but in the long run, my sympathy was with their need to feed their families. I would travel to their villages and m'shambas giving lectures on the importance of wildlife conservation. Then gather the men together and tell them "Don't be stupid and set your snares where I can find them." I also told them to check their snares regularly and move them often. Before going on patrol I would be sure someone knew where I was going. The bush telegraph may not travel at the speed of light, but it sure was faster than my Land Rover.
I had finally learned what they have always known. Life is simple. It's about surviving.
Marshall Warren
Saturday, December 2, 2017
THE MOOSE HUNT CONTINUES
Several days ago I was sitting under a spruce tree a couple of miles from my house hoping to call in a legal bull. At about 4 o'clock I began to hear a pack of wolves moving my way. The howling got louder and suddenly 2 black wolves came running into the clearing I was watching. I fired at the one nearest me dropping him in mid stride. When I came down out of recoil the second was disappearing back into the woods. The forest became dead silent. After waiting a few minutes I went to check on the wolf. It was a nice male that would weigh over a 100 pounds.
He was much to heavy for me to pick up, so I gutted him, made a shoulder harness and tied the other end to the wolf. I began dragging him back to my vehicle. At about the half way point I started talking to myself. "Pacemaker don't fail me now." I finally arrived at the van and with much difficulty picked it up and put it in.
Back at the house everyone was excited and had to come look at the wolf. This was a rare event. Lindy, one of my grand daughters, age 17 said she just had to have a crack at the wolves. Another grand child, Jesse age 15, allowed as how he did to.
Early the next morning Jesse climbed a spruce tree for a better few and Lindy and I hunkered down where I had been yesterday. Sure enough here came the wolves. They were running back and forth on the other side of the clearing just out of range. As we sat there trying to figure out why they were acting so strange the answer manifested itself right in front of us. Out of nowhere appeared this big brown bear. I dropped down on one knee and fired. The .416 Taylor I was carrying anchored him. We thought it was an instant kill when suddenly it reared up and started roaring and clawing the air. WOW! I quickly fired again and this time he was down for good.
Jesse came running up. We were all excited and talking at the same time. Jesse said he had seen everything from his perch in the tree. The wolves were all stirred up because of the bear. He said he saw them chase the bear back into the woods. Then after a few minutes he heard someone walking toward his tree and thought it was me, so he stared to climb down and nearly stepped right on the bears back. What an adventure to share with two of my grand children! A wolf and a brown bear!
For my friends that don't live in Alaska the bear measured about eight feet from nose to tail. Standing on his hind legs he would be over nine feet tall. That's a lot of teeth, claws and fur.
That afternoon Lindy and my son Dev skinned the bear and packed it home. Then Lindy skinned the wolf for me. Now the work starts, fleshing the hides.
Still no moose, but what wonderful memories this old man has.
Marshall Warren
Several days ago I was sitting under a spruce tree a couple of miles from my house hoping to call in a legal bull. At about 4 o'clock I began to hear a pack of wolves moving my way. The howling got louder and suddenly 2 black wolves came running into the clearing I was watching. I fired at the one nearest me dropping him in mid stride. When I came down out of recoil the second was disappearing back into the woods. The forest became dead silent. After waiting a few minutes I went to check on the wolf. It was a nice male that would weigh over a 100 pounds.
He was much to heavy for me to pick up, so I gutted him, made a shoulder harness and tied the other end to the wolf. I began dragging him back to my vehicle. At about the half way point I started talking to myself. "Pacemaker don't fail me now." I finally arrived at the van and with much difficulty picked it up and put it in.
Back at the house everyone was excited and had to come look at the wolf. This was a rare event. Lindy, one of my grand daughters, age 17 said she just had to have a crack at the wolves. Another grand child, Jesse age 15, allowed as how he did to.
Early the next morning Jesse climbed a spruce tree for a better few and Lindy and I hunkered down where I had been yesterday. Sure enough here came the wolves. They were running back and forth on the other side of the clearing just out of range. As we sat there trying to figure out why they were acting so strange the answer manifested itself right in front of us. Out of nowhere appeared this big brown bear. I dropped down on one knee and fired. The .416 Taylor I was carrying anchored him. We thought it was an instant kill when suddenly it reared up and started roaring and clawing the air. WOW! I quickly fired again and this time he was down for good.
Jesse came running up. We were all excited and talking at the same time. Jesse said he had seen everything from his perch in the tree. The wolves were all stirred up because of the bear. He said he saw them chase the bear back into the woods. Then after a few minutes he heard someone walking toward his tree and thought it was me, so he stared to climb down and nearly stepped right on the bears back. What an adventure to share with two of my grand children! A wolf and a brown bear!
For my friends that don't live in Alaska the bear measured about eight feet from nose to tail. Standing on his hind legs he would be over nine feet tall. That's a lot of teeth, claws and fur.
That afternoon Lindy and my son Dev skinned the bear and packed it home. Then Lindy skinned the wolf for me. Now the work starts, fleshing the hides.
Still no moose, but what wonderful memories this old man has.
Marshall Warren
BLACKTAIL DEER AND BROWN BEAR
My first Sitka Blacktail deer hunt in southeast Alaska.
I moved to Alaska from Texas, where I had grown up, married, my wife and I raised three children and I had been a captain for a major airline. When I was fourteen years old I walked into a gun shop and traded a Winchester Model 62 .22 rifle for a new Ruger pistol. No paperwork and no questions asked. Shooting and hunting handguns has been a life long hobby.
While a paratrooper in the 82nd Airborne Division I had been on a pistol team. I was a good shot. However, as I stood on the beach trying to look like an old piling while a brown bear and her three cubs fed on salmon not thirty yards away, the thought "I am a good shot" gave me no comfort.
I was on my first deer hunt in southeast Alaska. Of course, I had a Ruger .44 magnum handgun with a 2X scope mounted on it. Man, was I excited! I felt as if I had wandered into a National Geographic special. No where I had ever hunted compared to this or had prepared me, as I needed to be, for hunting here.
Southeast Alaska consists of an group of forested island mountains. Thousands of streams and rivers create ravines and bays with large tidal mudflats and are the ancestral homes of untold millions of salmon that pour in from the Pacific ocean. Sitka blacktail deer, black and brown bear, wolves, coyotes, martin, mink and wolverine can be found, as well as mountain goats, moose and even elk. I feel absolutely blessed to live, hunt and fish here.
It was late fall and the salmon run was coming to an end when I went on that first hunt. I had anchored my boat in Cedar Cove, about an hour from Sitka. Rowing ashore in my skiff, I then carried it to the trees above the high tide line and walked along the rocky shoreline toward the grassy mudflat at the head of the bay. The beach was littered with dead salmon. Some half eaten and some with only the brains bitten out. Bear signs were everywhere. Eagles and seagulls screeched their disapproval of my interference.
At the head of the cove I hunted the grass flats and just inside the tree line. Then I followed the river for maybe half a mile. As the sun began to set visibility became limited and with bear signs everywhere I got a little nervous. Did I say these islands abounded with deer? Well, not here and not now. I decided to head back to the boat.
It was high tide by the time I got back to the grassy flat and the beach had narrowed to fifteen feet. I was about a quarter mile from the skiff when, before I had time to blink, a bear was standing on the beach thirty yards in front of me. I froze! Another bear jumped out of the tree line and started scuffling with the first one! Then a third bear joined the frolic. They were the size of an average black bear. Now I heard growling and limbs breaking inside the tree line! All three bears stopped their antics and looked in the direction of the noise. I thought these three were nice sized bears, until a few seconds later Momma stepped out. I had never been this close to a brown bear before. BIG! That's the word I would use. BIG! And, oh yes, did I mention SCARED! That's another word I would use. I was SCARED!
To my good fortune I had the wind. Momma immediately looked at my skiff for a minute or so, then turned to her cubs and scolded them severely. It was obvious she didn't approve of them charging onto the open beack as they had. The cubs recovered their composure and began to feed on the dead salmon while continuing to rough house as kids do. Momma nervously stood guard.
Meanwhile as I continued to make like a piling, my heart was pounding, my hands shook and my mind raced! Nothing to do but wait it out. I began to mentally prepare for the shot in case she charged. However, the more I thought about it the more I realized that the little pop gun in my holster was not going to stop big Momma before she got to me. Oh, she may die from a well placed shot, but I wouldn't be around to brag about it.
She became more and more agitated! Finally, never once looking in my direction, she roughly herded her cubs back into the forest. I stood still for another five minutes and with my .44 magnum at the ready, eased past where they had entered the tree line, then beat feet for my skiff.
I canceled my next days hunt and took my revolver to the local gun shop in Sitka. Walking in I laid it on the counter. Al, who owned the store glanced down at it and asked what he could do for me. I said I'd like to trade it for a large caliber rifle. "Oh", he said, "had a run in with a bear, huh."
I walked out with a .375 H&H. It's designed for large dangerous African game. Never the less it's my rifle of choice for the little one hundred pound sitka blacktails of southeast Alaska.
With an Alaskan brown bear only a few yards away and nothing between you but daylight, no matter what rifle you're carrying, "yer gonna wish ya had a bigger gun."
Kim Warren
My first Sitka Blacktail deer hunt in southeast Alaska.
I moved to Alaska from Texas, where I had grown up, married, my wife and I raised three children and I had been a captain for a major airline. When I was fourteen years old I walked into a gun shop and traded a Winchester Model 62 .22 rifle for a new Ruger pistol. No paperwork and no questions asked. Shooting and hunting handguns has been a life long hobby.
While a paratrooper in the 82nd Airborne Division I had been on a pistol team. I was a good shot. However, as I stood on the beach trying to look like an old piling while a brown bear and her three cubs fed on salmon not thirty yards away, the thought "I am a good shot" gave me no comfort.
I was on my first deer hunt in southeast Alaska. Of course, I had a Ruger .44 magnum handgun with a 2X scope mounted on it. Man, was I excited! I felt as if I had wandered into a National Geographic special. No where I had ever hunted compared to this or had prepared me, as I needed to be, for hunting here.
Southeast Alaska consists of an group of forested island mountains. Thousands of streams and rivers create ravines and bays with large tidal mudflats and are the ancestral homes of untold millions of salmon that pour in from the Pacific ocean. Sitka blacktail deer, black and brown bear, wolves, coyotes, martin, mink and wolverine can be found, as well as mountain goats, moose and even elk. I feel absolutely blessed to live, hunt and fish here.
It was late fall and the salmon run was coming to an end when I went on that first hunt. I had anchored my boat in Cedar Cove, about an hour from Sitka. Rowing ashore in my skiff, I then carried it to the trees above the high tide line and walked along the rocky shoreline toward the grassy mudflat at the head of the bay. The beach was littered with dead salmon. Some half eaten and some with only the brains bitten out. Bear signs were everywhere. Eagles and seagulls screeched their disapproval of my interference.
At the head of the cove I hunted the grass flats and just inside the tree line. Then I followed the river for maybe half a mile. As the sun began to set visibility became limited and with bear signs everywhere I got a little nervous. Did I say these islands abounded with deer? Well, not here and not now. I decided to head back to the boat.
It was high tide by the time I got back to the grassy flat and the beach had narrowed to fifteen feet. I was about a quarter mile from the skiff when, before I had time to blink, a bear was standing on the beach thirty yards in front of me. I froze! Another bear jumped out of the tree line and started scuffling with the first one! Then a third bear joined the frolic. They were the size of an average black bear. Now I heard growling and limbs breaking inside the tree line! All three bears stopped their antics and looked in the direction of the noise. I thought these three were nice sized bears, until a few seconds later Momma stepped out. I had never been this close to a brown bear before. BIG! That's the word I would use. BIG! And, oh yes, did I mention SCARED! That's another word I would use. I was SCARED!
To my good fortune I had the wind. Momma immediately looked at my skiff for a minute or so, then turned to her cubs and scolded them severely. It was obvious she didn't approve of them charging onto the open beack as they had. The cubs recovered their composure and began to feed on the dead salmon while continuing to rough house as kids do. Momma nervously stood guard.
Meanwhile as I continued to make like a piling, my heart was pounding, my hands shook and my mind raced! Nothing to do but wait it out. I began to mentally prepare for the shot in case she charged. However, the more I thought about it the more I realized that the little pop gun in my holster was not going to stop big Momma before she got to me. Oh, she may die from a well placed shot, but I wouldn't be around to brag about it.
She became more and more agitated! Finally, never once looking in my direction, she roughly herded her cubs back into the forest. I stood still for another five minutes and with my .44 magnum at the ready, eased past where they had entered the tree line, then beat feet for my skiff.
I canceled my next days hunt and took my revolver to the local gun shop in Sitka. Walking in I laid it on the counter. Al, who owned the store glanced down at it and asked what he could do for me. I said I'd like to trade it for a large caliber rifle. "Oh", he said, "had a run in with a bear, huh."
I walked out with a .375 H&H. It's designed for large dangerous African game. Never the less it's my rifle of choice for the little one hundred pound sitka blacktails of southeast Alaska.
With an Alaskan brown bear only a few yards away and nothing between you but daylight, no matter what rifle you're carrying, "yer gonna wish ya had a bigger gun."
Kim Warren
NIGHT JUMP!
At reveille that morning we had been advised by our platoon Sergeant that our company was scheduled for a practice jump that night at 2200 hrs. The drop zone was to be an abandoned Japanese airstrip. Uniform was full field gear, weapons and ammo. Since this was a practice jump we were to simply gather up our parachute and report to a marshaling area that would be designated later at our squad level briefing.
That evening after Taps and chow we loaded up on deuce and a half trucks for the ride to Naha Air Force base. For anyone watching us we would have appeared different from other GI’s. We talked very little and when we did it was quietly. Our movements were deliberate and ordered. There was an air of disciplined superiority about us. We were United States Army Paratroopers, members of the elite 82nd Airborne Division. Our combat team was currently stationed on Okinawa as a rapid deployment force. The rest of the world was straight legs or just “legs” as we called them. A demeaning term applying to anyone that was not a Paratrooper.
Upon arriving at the airfield we were assigned a C-130 transport. Each platoon had its own aircraft. We picked up our parachutes and assisted each other in putting them on. Then dividing up into four preassigned groups called “sticks” we boarded the aircraft. Two sticks sat on the outboard rows of canvas benches facing in and two sticks sat on the center rows back to back facing out. All this was done in a quiet practiced fashion.
Once seated the C-130s took off and formed up in jump formation. There were three groups of three in trail. It was a short quiet flight to the drop zone. However, when the jumpmaster gave the command to “STAND UP” the atmosphere on board the aircraft immediately changed. Every Paratrooper became a pit bull. Our blood came up and we had” kill “in our eyes. We were all yelling “AIRBORNE, AIRBORNE!” Then the command “HOOK UP!” and we all snapped our static lines to the overhead cable and inserted the safety wire. “CHECK YOUR EQUIPMENT!” Each of us checked the parachute on the man in front and shouted “ONE OKAY, TWO OKAY!” and so on down the line.
I was pushing the port stick that night, which means I was the last man on the port side. “STAND IN THE DOOR!” We all moved forward a little as the first man stood in the door. Now every eye was on the white, green and red lights above the door as we continued to yell “AIRBORNE!” White was illuminated, red would mean abort, we waited for green. Every muscle in our bodies was tense. It seemed like forever, then there it was “GREEN LIGHT!”
We poured out the door, each man pausing a fraction of a second to grab the sides of the door and propel himself out into black space. I in turn leaped out of the aircraft and was immediately hit by an almost 200 mph blast of wind. I started counting, “One thousand and one, one thousand and two.” When I got to about three I felt the opening shock as the parachute harness dug into me as I decelerated. I tried to raise my head to check the canopy. The risers were twisted down to the back of my neck. I frantically pulled them apart and felt myself turning as they unwound. When I was able to look up I was shocked to see a tangled mess above me. I had about one third of a canopy. Some of the suspension lines were over the top of the canopy causing a malfunction we called a Mae West.
I instantly grabbed my reserve parachute handle and executed the procedure for a partial malfunction. The reserve pilot chute popped out and ripped the reserve chute upward. I was falling faster than I realized. The reserve got tangled in my suspension lines, but slowed my decent some. I was still fighting with it, trying to get it untangled when I hit the ground.
I awoke with a medic kneeling beside me and could hear someone screaming medic. My back really hurt and I couldn’t move so the medics loaded me on a jeep stretcher. We drove a short way and picked up the guy that was doing all the yelling. He had a compound fracture of his lower leg.
At the hospital they determined I had broken nothing, just strained my back muscles. I got a couple of months light duty, but other than that I was okay. I was most fortunate.
The parachute riggers said the malfunction was caused by my having a bad body position when I exited the aircraft. I didn’t believe it, but on my next jump I was very careful how I exited the aircraft.
Kim Warren
At reveille that morning we had been advised by our platoon Sergeant that our company was scheduled for a practice jump that night at 2200 hrs. The drop zone was to be an abandoned Japanese airstrip. Uniform was full field gear, weapons and ammo. Since this was a practice jump we were to simply gather up our parachute and report to a marshaling area that would be designated later at our squad level briefing.
That evening after Taps and chow we loaded up on deuce and a half trucks for the ride to Naha Air Force base. For anyone watching us we would have appeared different from other GI’s. We talked very little and when we did it was quietly. Our movements were deliberate and ordered. There was an air of disciplined superiority about us. We were United States Army Paratroopers, members of the elite 82nd Airborne Division. Our combat team was currently stationed on Okinawa as a rapid deployment force. The rest of the world was straight legs or just “legs” as we called them. A demeaning term applying to anyone that was not a Paratrooper.
Upon arriving at the airfield we were assigned a C-130 transport. Each platoon had its own aircraft. We picked up our parachutes and assisted each other in putting them on. Then dividing up into four preassigned groups called “sticks” we boarded the aircraft. Two sticks sat on the outboard rows of canvas benches facing in and two sticks sat on the center rows back to back facing out. All this was done in a quiet practiced fashion.
Once seated the C-130s took off and formed up in jump formation. There were three groups of three in trail. It was a short quiet flight to the drop zone. However, when the jumpmaster gave the command to “STAND UP” the atmosphere on board the aircraft immediately changed. Every Paratrooper became a pit bull. Our blood came up and we had” kill “in our eyes. We were all yelling “AIRBORNE, AIRBORNE!” Then the command “HOOK UP!” and we all snapped our static lines to the overhead cable and inserted the safety wire. “CHECK YOUR EQUIPMENT!” Each of us checked the parachute on the man in front and shouted “ONE OKAY, TWO OKAY!” and so on down the line.
I was pushing the port stick that night, which means I was the last man on the port side. “STAND IN THE DOOR!” We all moved forward a little as the first man stood in the door. Now every eye was on the white, green and red lights above the door as we continued to yell “AIRBORNE!” White was illuminated, red would mean abort, we waited for green. Every muscle in our bodies was tense. It seemed like forever, then there it was “GREEN LIGHT!”
We poured out the door, each man pausing a fraction of a second to grab the sides of the door and propel himself out into black space. I in turn leaped out of the aircraft and was immediately hit by an almost 200 mph blast of wind. I started counting, “One thousand and one, one thousand and two.” When I got to about three I felt the opening shock as the parachute harness dug into me as I decelerated. I tried to raise my head to check the canopy. The risers were twisted down to the back of my neck. I frantically pulled them apart and felt myself turning as they unwound. When I was able to look up I was shocked to see a tangled mess above me. I had about one third of a canopy. Some of the suspension lines were over the top of the canopy causing a malfunction we called a Mae West.
I instantly grabbed my reserve parachute handle and executed the procedure for a partial malfunction. The reserve pilot chute popped out and ripped the reserve chute upward. I was falling faster than I realized. The reserve got tangled in my suspension lines, but slowed my decent some. I was still fighting with it, trying to get it untangled when I hit the ground.
I awoke with a medic kneeling beside me and could hear someone screaming medic. My back really hurt and I couldn’t move so the medics loaded me on a jeep stretcher. We drove a short way and picked up the guy that was doing all the yelling. He had a compound fracture of his lower leg.
At the hospital they determined I had broken nothing, just strained my back muscles. I got a couple of months light duty, but other than that I was okay. I was most fortunate.
The parachute riggers said the malfunction was caused by my having a bad body position when I exited the aircraft. I didn’t believe it, but on my next jump I was very careful how I exited the aircraft.
Kim Warren
MICAH
“Who is like YHWH?”
You came into the evening of my life like a cool breeze refreshing my spirit. Your youth and innocence gave me hope. Your eyes sparkled with life invigorating me. The depth of your emotions and your keen mind inspired me. I am blessed that our lives crossed paths, even though it has only been for a moment.
“live justly, love mercy, and walk humbly before your God.”
Your eternal friend,
Kim
“Who is like YHWH?”
You came into the evening of my life like a cool breeze refreshing my spirit. Your youth and innocence gave me hope. Your eyes sparkled with life invigorating me. The depth of your emotions and your keen mind inspired me. I am blessed that our lives crossed paths, even though it has only been for a moment.
“live justly, love mercy, and walk humbly before your God.”
Your eternal friend,
Kim
THE FLOWER
I once lived on a hill in an area called the Callahan Divide which lies off the southern end of the Great Plains. Where the plains end the land drops abruptly from 3000ft to 500ft above sea level and becomes broken and rugged. It was early summer when I walked out on our patio with my first cup of coffee in hand. The blazing sun had just cleared the trees and turned the sky to a pale blue. Not a hint of a cloud marred the vast empty sky that stretched, well, as far as you could imagine. The sun had already begun to give the day a washed out look typical of west Texas summers. The ground is rocky and populated with cactus, scrub oaks and cedar. Their faded green only adds to the dull effect. As I got to the edge of the concrete patio I looked down to check for any venomous critters before sitting down. That’s when I saw the flower.
I sat down beside it glancing around expecting to see others that had bloomed overnight. There were none, just the one solitary flower sprouting from among the rocks. I said, “Where in the world did you come from? What are you doing in a place like this?” I bent over and looked at it more closely. It was exquisite. The color, symmetry and detail were marvelous. It was a thing of perfect beauty. Again I looked around me and then up at the sky. Turning back to the flower I slowly began to realize that in the entire universe no one knew of its existence. Of the billions of people on earth I was the only person that would know it had existed. I was the only person to enjoy its beauty.
My mind began to nibble around the enormity of this wondrous experience. The singleness of the gift I had been given tore at my heart. Think of it! Not another living being in the entire universe will ever see this flower. I stopped by and looked at it several more times during the day and each time it gave me a warm parental, proprietorial feeling. I loved it.
Later that evening as it was getting dark I made one last visit to the flower. It was gone. A grasshopper was still clinging to the stem. The sense of sadness that at first gripped me soon left. The flower was gone as would be the grasshopper in its time and as will I in mine. However, to this day that beautiful flower and its wonderful gift still live on in my memory. The joy it gave me answered the question I had asked the flower “What are you doing in a place like this?” As to the question, “Where in the world did you come from?” Well………
Kim Warren
I once lived on a hill in an area called the Callahan Divide which lies off the southern end of the Great Plains. Where the plains end the land drops abruptly from 3000ft to 500ft above sea level and becomes broken and rugged. It was early summer when I walked out on our patio with my first cup of coffee in hand. The blazing sun had just cleared the trees and turned the sky to a pale blue. Not a hint of a cloud marred the vast empty sky that stretched, well, as far as you could imagine. The sun had already begun to give the day a washed out look typical of west Texas summers. The ground is rocky and populated with cactus, scrub oaks and cedar. Their faded green only adds to the dull effect. As I got to the edge of the concrete patio I looked down to check for any venomous critters before sitting down. That’s when I saw the flower.
I sat down beside it glancing around expecting to see others that had bloomed overnight. There were none, just the one solitary flower sprouting from among the rocks. I said, “Where in the world did you come from? What are you doing in a place like this?” I bent over and looked at it more closely. It was exquisite. The color, symmetry and detail were marvelous. It was a thing of perfect beauty. Again I looked around me and then up at the sky. Turning back to the flower I slowly began to realize that in the entire universe no one knew of its existence. Of the billions of people on earth I was the only person that would know it had existed. I was the only person to enjoy its beauty.
My mind began to nibble around the enormity of this wondrous experience. The singleness of the gift I had been given tore at my heart. Think of it! Not another living being in the entire universe will ever see this flower. I stopped by and looked at it several more times during the day and each time it gave me a warm parental, proprietorial feeling. I loved it.
Later that evening as it was getting dark I made one last visit to the flower. It was gone. A grasshopper was still clinging to the stem. The sense of sadness that at first gripped me soon left. The flower was gone as would be the grasshopper in its time and as will I in mine. However, to this day that beautiful flower and its wonderful gift still live on in my memory. The joy it gave me answered the question I had asked the flower “What are you doing in a place like this?” As to the question, “Where in the world did you come from?” Well………
Kim Warren
THE COCKROACH
The cockroach plays a part in nature and has the same right to live as do all creatures. But not in my house!
In 1980 my wife, three children, dog windy and myself had a nice little home on Circle Dr. in Winnsboro, Texas. We were very happy and secure with our lives, until the morning I heard Carolyn yell from the kitchen. She had gone in for her first cup of coffee and saw a cockroach run under the refrigerator. It disappeared from sight and then from our thoughts.
The next day we saw another one in the cabinet where we keep our cereal. I say another one, but it could have been the same one. They all look alike to me. Anyway, very slowly their numbers increased and encounters became more frequent. I turned to passive home remedies in the hope they would leave. None of them worked.
We became afraid to walk in a dark room or open a cabinet door and began finding them in our food. The cockroaches were taking over our home and lives.
I turned to the last resort. The pest control man came in and sprayed our house. The cockroaches were gone and our home was restored to us, but there was no elation, only relief tempered with sadness.
Kim Warren
The cockroach plays a part in nature and has the same right to live as do all creatures. But not in my house!
In 1980 my wife, three children, dog windy and myself had a nice little home on Circle Dr. in Winnsboro, Texas. We were very happy and secure with our lives, until the morning I heard Carolyn yell from the kitchen. She had gone in for her first cup of coffee and saw a cockroach run under the refrigerator. It disappeared from sight and then from our thoughts.
The next day we saw another one in the cabinet where we keep our cereal. I say another one, but it could have been the same one. They all look alike to me. Anyway, very slowly their numbers increased and encounters became more frequent. I turned to passive home remedies in the hope they would leave. None of them worked.
We became afraid to walk in a dark room or open a cabinet door and began finding them in our food. The cockroaches were taking over our home and lives.
I turned to the last resort. The pest control man came in and sprayed our house. The cockroaches were gone and our home was restored to us, but there was no elation, only relief tempered with sadness.
Kim Warren
A SPECIAL PLACE
It doesn’t matter if you are a woman or a man. Nor does it matter what you are doing. It just so happens that in these cases it is a young woman with her violin and an older man with his guitar. Both of these people appear to be normal pleasant people. You would never suspect what was hidden inside them.
The casually dressed young woman was slouching in a recliner at our house with her feet tucked under her. There was no evidence of makeup and her hair had received minimal attention. We had been engaged in pleasant conversation enjoying each other’s company for about an hour. At her feet lay a violin case. My wife asked if she would play for us. She responded with a “Sure” and unwound from the recliner picking up the violin case as she stood. Opening it she pulled out a music stand and set it up then got out her violin. We continued to chat while she checked its tuning.
Satisfied she said, “I play mostly classical” and settled the violin under her chin. She took a breath like a deep sigh and began to play. Her posture became erect and poised and her face glowed as if she had put on makeup. I no longer noticed her casual clothing. She maintained this composure through three songs. Upon finishing the last song she stood frozen for a second. Then lowering the violin looked up at us with a smile and just a hint of surprise as if to say, “Oh, hi, where have you been?” I think she had gone to a special place filled with the magic of music.
I’ve known the older man for many years. He and his wife had come up from Texas to visit and since my son and his family were gone for the summer they were staying in his house. One afternoon I went next door to check on them and as I walked in I heard a guitar. The older man was sitting on the couch restringing one a neighbor had loaned him. I knew that for many years, as a hobby, he had been playing in a “Rock and Roll” band, but I had never heard him play. When he had finished tuning it I asked him to play something for me. He said, “Well, I don’t know about this old guitar, but I’ll give it a try.”
He brought a stool out to the center of the living room floor and settled himself on it. Propping the guitar on his knee he picked a little while deciding what to play. Making his decision he began. It was an intense song from the 60’s. He curled his body over the guitar and gripped it tightly. His face became contorted as he strained out the words. It appeared his playing and singing required great physical effort. The performance went on for several songs. When he had finished he dropped his guitar supporting leg and stood up with a self-satisfied look on his face as if awaiting applause. I believe he had been to a place he loves.
I have a special place also. My imagination lives there. It’s where I keep all my “me’s.” I hope you have one too. It’s a great place to hangout.
Kim Warren
It doesn’t matter if you are a woman or a man. Nor does it matter what you are doing. It just so happens that in these cases it is a young woman with her violin and an older man with his guitar. Both of these people appear to be normal pleasant people. You would never suspect what was hidden inside them.
The casually dressed young woman was slouching in a recliner at our house with her feet tucked under her. There was no evidence of makeup and her hair had received minimal attention. We had been engaged in pleasant conversation enjoying each other’s company for about an hour. At her feet lay a violin case. My wife asked if she would play for us. She responded with a “Sure” and unwound from the recliner picking up the violin case as she stood. Opening it she pulled out a music stand and set it up then got out her violin. We continued to chat while she checked its tuning.
Satisfied she said, “I play mostly classical” and settled the violin under her chin. She took a breath like a deep sigh and began to play. Her posture became erect and poised and her face glowed as if she had put on makeup. I no longer noticed her casual clothing. She maintained this composure through three songs. Upon finishing the last song she stood frozen for a second. Then lowering the violin looked up at us with a smile and just a hint of surprise as if to say, “Oh, hi, where have you been?” I think she had gone to a special place filled with the magic of music.
I’ve known the older man for many years. He and his wife had come up from Texas to visit and since my son and his family were gone for the summer they were staying in his house. One afternoon I went next door to check on them and as I walked in I heard a guitar. The older man was sitting on the couch restringing one a neighbor had loaned him. I knew that for many years, as a hobby, he had been playing in a “Rock and Roll” band, but I had never heard him play. When he had finished tuning it I asked him to play something for me. He said, “Well, I don’t know about this old guitar, but I’ll give it a try.”
He brought a stool out to the center of the living room floor and settled himself on it. Propping the guitar on his knee he picked a little while deciding what to play. Making his decision he began. It was an intense song from the 60’s. He curled his body over the guitar and gripped it tightly. His face became contorted as he strained out the words. It appeared his playing and singing required great physical effort. The performance went on for several songs. When he had finished he dropped his guitar supporting leg and stood up with a self-satisfied look on his face as if awaiting applause. I believe he had been to a place he loves.
I have a special place also. My imagination lives there. It’s where I keep all my “me’s.” I hope you have one too. It’s a great place to hangout.
Kim Warren
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