Pending Friday fish fry entry -
Wisconsin Military Service Person Special Mention of the Week
(each week Cooldadiomedia mentions a Wisconsin service person killed in Iraq or Afghanistan)
Army Sergeant James W. McDonald, 26, Neenah, Wisconsin, died on Monday, November 12, 2007, at Fort Hood, Texas, while recovering from a severe head wound sustained in a roadside bomb blast in Iraq in May of 2007. He was assigned to the Rear Detachment, 1st Battalion, 5th Cavalry Regiment based at Fort Hood, Texas.
The Web site iraq.pigsty.net using information from the Washington Post and Associated Press notes that after the bomb blast, Sergeant McDonald was treated in Germany and had later underwent extensive facial surgery in August, 2007, after returning to Fort Hood. He was found in his barracks deceased. At the time an autopsy could not determine the exact cause of death. Before he died, Sergeant McDonald had worked on the base at a weapons room and the post office. He had plans to leave the Army in January of 2008 and pursue a career in firefighting. The Web site posting went on to say McDonald was remembered as a strapping 6-foot-3, 200-pound man and soldier. He had served two tours of duty in Iraq and was also remembered for his love of the military.
The publication Isthmus, out of Madison, Wisconsin, says Sergeant McDonald was knocked unconscious in the roadside blast. The Isthmus noted that according to the Government Accountability Office, 30% of U.S. troops evacuated from Iraq and Afghanistan have suffered brain injuries. Sergeant McDonald's symptoms included headaches, short-term memory loss and massive nosebleeds. The nosebleeds had become particularly frequent and profuse in the weeks before his death.
The Web site findagrave.com notes James McDonald was born on July 14, 1981. He graduated from Neenah High School in 2000. He participated in football, choir, drama club, Youth Go, and the Wisconsin National Guard Cadet program. He entered the United States Army in 2002. Some of Sergeant McDonald's awards and medals include: the Purple Heart; Army Commendation Medal; Good Conduct Medal; Humanitarian Service Medal; Global War on Terrorism Expeditionary Medal; Global War on Terrorism Service Medal; and, Army Service Ribbon.
At the time of his death Sergeant James W. McDonald was survived by his parents Doug and Joan McDonald; two sisters Jennifer and Kimberly; two nieces Justyce and Jade; paternal grandparents Wayne and Elaine McDonald; aunts and uncles Duane and Carrie McDonald, Dorothy and Greg Scovronski, Donna and Tom Mills, Mike and Sue Keyzers, Janet and Dennis Ponschock, Raymond Keyzers, Joe and Sharon Keyzers, Jim and Lynn Keyzers, Jean and Paul Biesterveld, Dan and Karen Keyzers, Jane and Tim Cason-Gossett; and, numerous cousins, friends and other family members. Sergeant McDonald was laid to rest ot Greenlawn Memorial Park in Neenah, Wisconsin.
Sergeant James W. McDonald is the 107th military service person that has been identified by Cool Dadio Media as having Wisconsin connections and that either died in Iraq, or died due to injuries sustained there since the Spring of 2003.
As of this blog entry's posting date:
104,967 Iraqi civilians have been killed in Iraq since Spring, 2003 (actually documented).
10,125 Iraqi Security Forces have been killed in Iraq since Spring, 2003.
4,487 Americans have been killed in Iraq since Spring, 2003.
1886 Americans have been killed in Afghanistan since October, 2001.
318 Coalition soldiers have been killed in Iraq since Spring, 2003.
990 Coalition soldiers have been killed in Afghanistan since October, 2001.
1 American/Coalition casualty in Libyan "Operation Odyssey Dawn" since March, 2011.
32,226 U.S. troops have been wounded in action in Iraq since Spring, 2003.
592 Wisconsin military service persons have been wounded in Iraq since Spring 2003.
15,262 U.S. troops have been wounded in action in Afghanistan since October, 2001.
192 Wisconsin military service persons have been wounded in Afghanistan since October, 2001.
107 Wisconsin military service persons have been killed in Iraq since Spring, 2003.
37 Wisconsin military service persons have been killed in Afghanistan since October, 2001.
3 Wisconsin military service persons have been killed in the U.S. related to "The War on Terror" since September, 2001.
151 journalists (several nationalities) have been killed in Iraq since Spring, 2003.
22 journalists (various nationalities) have been killed in Afghanistan since September, 2001.
5 journalists (regional and independents) have been killed in Libya since March, 2011.
Wisconsin military service person special mention of the week, military casualty, and journalist casualty information sources: Committee to Protect Journalists; cnn.com; Milwaukee Journal Sentinel; washingtonpost.com; thehighground.org; Wisconsin Department of Veterans Affairs; iraqbodycount.org; www.defense.gov/news/casualty.pdf; and, icasualties.org.
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| Posted by Bob Keith at | | | |
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The majority of my work during two projects in Iraq will have to be parsed into a book of its own. But, It does certainly merit reference in my first two books, Jobs of Bob, and Fate Fairies. It certainly was the closest I ever got to some real credited over seas journalism. And one can't discount the fate factor that I am lucky I still have all my fingers and toes.
The idea to go to Iraq started long before my third trip to Vietnam. Through my research into how to deal with traveling to 'Nam, I ran into some good references for getting around in "bad" places. A light bulb went on in my pea brain. I was writing about our contentious war in 'Nam thirty years after that war. Why not write about our current contentious war in Iraq...., in real-time...this time around.
Like so much in life, timing is critical. I have no children, my parents are passed away, and I have no siblings. I have been married to the same woman for 30 years and to my knowledge she is used to odd projects coming from my camp. She is also a savvy organizer.
As it turned out, said wife would be the "code interpreting" confederate, dug in State-side while I sent dispatches from at least five active war zones in the Iraq war theater: The Turks in eastern Turkey near Iraq have been at civil war with their own Kurds for decades; the Northern Iraqi Kurds are at war with the Turks; the same Iraqi Kurds are at odds with their own Arab southern Iraq countrymen; the Northern Region of Iraq is a hodgepodge of theifdoms and often warring tribes, political factions, and religious sects; and, in the middle of it all was the American military and their allies of which in the end almost 5000 were killed fighting several insurgent factions. My good sport wife, monitored and helped organize my correspondance through my whole endevor through the aforementioned hostilities.
Continuing on the timing theme, the job I worked at the time I had absolutely no interest in keeping anyway, so leaving town for two months was of no consequence. We had been living in our house for going on a decade and things were tight on that front. And Janesville is a good middle-America base of operations, just a couple hours from Chicago O'Hare airport. I was still in high gear in the throes of using the writing skills I learned in college..., and combining in life skills regarding traveling in difficult places. I also had local media connections having endured journalism training at UW-Whitewater. Then too, as it turned out to be perhaps the most important variable, there was that 10 years of eclectic medical training and experience. Three years in a Combat Engineer unit up by the old Iron Curtan in Germany during the end of 'Nam in the depths of the Cold War did not hurt either.
"There may never be another chance," was the mantra.
Two trips to Iraq then in a year and a half would by default probably be the most life-changing experiences in my life. Of course professional and big media journalists, and other people will find my efforts quaint. But, for a kid from previously humble rural means, I surprised myself at pulling it off. No embedded military work or protection - no help from "big media" - the projects were totally funded and run by...., me, and aforementioned wife.
In fact, after I returned from my first trip to Iraq, a local journalist called the State Department to make sure I had not broken the law. She did not want to be associated with an international fugitive. But the State Department lady told said incredulous young journalist, "He is an American, he can go where he wants - just don't cry on "our" shoulder if you get captured, killed, or...., worse!"
A third trip to the region and a first trip to Afghanistan would have to be put on hold. My age, my health, the economy, and the combination of all of the above have put my projects on a dead stop.
But, on the trips I did take, I negotiated crazed mafia taxi drivers; theifdoms of militias; Turks fighting Kurds; hundreds of checkpoints manned by crazy people with machine guns; Kurds fighting Arabs; Arabs fighting Arabs, Kurds, and Turks; cold mountain and desert nights; hot desert plains; travel sickness; hunger; thirst; doubting friends; doubting military public relations officers; more checkpoints; indignant journalists; and, my own battle of traveling with a temperamental heart and blood condition.
My focus was the same as my work in 'Nam..., culture. I found a gold fish shop; a plumbing shop (strange because there is usually no running water); generater shops - no electricity; tons of cigarette shops; beer shops; coffee shops; the Yazidi region and sect temple and its high priest (who was being visited by his nephew from Germany - speaking German in Iraq was odd); and, in the midst of one of the most contentious areas of Iraq near the Iranian border..., I found a bowling alley. All the aforementioned spots, were of course under the watchful eye of various malitia faction soldiers and their AK-47 machine guns.
The crazy taxi mafia took me all the way across the country twice. Their cars were junk. They took short cuts through battle zones. They used me as advertising, "Look, we got the American through the danger zone - we are your go-to taxi service in a war zone." One guy took me over the mountains, offered to take my picture above the Dokan Dam and then at the end of the drive, charged me more money for snapping the picture.
In the end, the only person that stayed on my team from beginning to end was..., my wife. Go figure. While most of the country makes art of ruined relationships, our now rather old fashioned partnership endures. Partners in crime I suppose.
This strange project of Iraq will follow me my whole life. As long as the noun/verb Google and the Internet survive, a quick search of "Iraq AND Bob Keith" will forever find me bound at the hip to said war and country. For that odd reality alone, I must grudgingly surrender to the notion that my Iraq work is to date, the most profound thing I have ever done.
Note: This blog "Fate Fairies" - book version Category is a work in progress. The original vignettes are being edited for book form. Go to the Cooldadiomedia Web site and the Fate Fairies Page for an ordered chronology of the book vignettes (chapters).
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| Posted by Bob Keith at | | | |
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I had heard lots of innuendo and commercialized warnings concerning safety for travelers in present day Vietnam. Poetically, in three lengthy visits to the country in the mid-2000s, I never had any significant problems. But, you must understand my station in life of viewing Vietnam at the time. The country had recently opened up to tourism. The young Euro-travelers did not see the country like Americans. And, we Americans don't get six weeks of vacation a year to slink around the World to find ourselves. If we do get a week off, it ain't going to be spent in..., Vietnam. And of course, we had endured a 40-year hostile relationship with Vietnam. Fifteen of those years got almost 60,000 Americans killed.
The consummate question from people I know and meet is usually, "Don't the Vietnamese hate us Americans?" Then to, I had lived through most of those aforementioned 40 years. I had been in the military at the end of our American Vietnam war era. So, long story short, I was a bit nervous to go there.
In the course of my graduate work at the University of Wisconsin - Whitewater, I was studying communication and journalism. Focus is important. I used my experience in life to reconnect with Vietnam, and apply it to graduate work. That more academic approach did not necessarily diminish any anxiety about my visits to the country.
I learned rather quickly, the Vietnamese seem to have a collective awareness that if you rip off tourists..., they won't come back. That does not mean there was not a game being played. If you stay on the well-worn tourist paths, you will be hounded by street venders, hustlers, and hookers. The government in Saigon even set up the Tourist Protection Police to address the situation. Be that as it may, my shtick has always been to find the back roads. Immediately I noticed the working Vietnamese off the beaten path basically ignored me.
But, I and then Heide on subsequent visits, had to cross the well-used tourist trails from time to time.
There is a hotel in downtown Saigon that exchanged Dollars at a good rate. We hopped one of thousands of beat-up cabs for a Dollar to ride to the hotel. The driver pulled up at a busy drop-off spot. I instinctively swung my door open. A confederate of the taxi driver, I later surmised, sped up his car to try to hit the open door. The con would have been, I would have to pay the damages. It is just the way it works in Vietnam. There is no such thing as insurance in Vietnam. Luckily, I pulled the door back just in time.
A valet who watched the incident from the hotel foyer ran out to usher us into the hotel. As we thanked him for opening the hotel door for us, he smiled a bit and said, "Many tricks..., many tricks."
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On our second trip to Vietnam together - my third - Heide insisted we start our visit in Hanoi. I remember being quite hesitant about going to the capital of old North Vietnam, the consummate enemy of our long war there. In retrospect then, I was a victim of the very mind set I was trying to breach by studying the country. Had it not been for my insistent wife, I never would have made the visit to the north of Vietnam. We flew in from Korea, and stayed several days in the large but quiet city of Hanoi. Although a city of 2.5 million souls, compared to Saigon, it is like a small town. Saigon is a rambling mega city of noise, ten million people, pollution, and business. It is as if the two cities come from two completely different countries half way around the world apart. None-the-less, it is important to see both cities and actually feel rather than just read about the regionally famous difference.
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On that second trip to Vietnam we made our way back south and held up in the coastal city of Nha Trang. For a Buck we rented a motor scooter and headed out to the boonies. Along the South China Sea, farmers harvest salt from the sea. We began to pass huge piles of white salt along small trails that checkered through shallow seawater fields. Of course, we got lost.
I remembered the pictures of odious jungle trails from the war. We stopped along a path and looked at a hopelessly useless map. From a solitary cement house surrounded by water came a man across a rickety wood foot-bridge. He wore torn work cloths and had a full, clear bottle in tow.
"We are going to die," I told Heide.
"You drink," the man said and smiled. He shoved two dirty glasses at us. I guessed it was some homemade brew. I could smell it from three feet away.
"I don't drink alcohol," I said. The man looked puzzled and shoved the glasses closer.
"He does now," Heide said chugging down half a glass and shoving the other at me.
"One more," the man said, refilling our dirty classes.
"Drink!" Heide said shoving the second glass at me, "I don't want to offend this guy's hospitality in his world. And, I don't want our relatives to realize we are the last two Americans on "The Vietnam Wall."
We departed our new-found ally - he stumbled back into his stone house apparently satisfied he had honored his salt farm by being nice to rare travelers.
In about three minutes down a narrowing trail. I stopped again. The home-brew was kicking in. What ever it was it was strong as gasoline.
"Which way?" I slurred my question.
"Fuck it," Heide said, "Go down that damn trail there."
We headed into the thick bush adjacent to the salt fields, the scooter weaving like being driven by a four-year old.
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One of the oddest encounters I ever have had was meeting a former American Vietnam veteran in the city of Hue. He had married a Vietnamese woman and now lived in Vietnam. This is not isolated. I ran into literally no American tourists but found several former American soldiers and former Australian veterans of the Vietnam War either living in-country, or making extended visits to the place that had changed their lives forever when they were so very young so long ago. At some point, I took a bit of a look at my own motives for really visiting the country. In the end, it was cathartic.
But, the fellow from Hue had read a couple of my dispatches that I sent out to several people back in academia. I had put him on the list.
He emailed me and wrote, "Hey Bob, don't use the term 'Nam. Only veterans that actually served in-country should use that term."
Oh boy, I thought. The ownership of "re-tooled words" and their meanings by certain groups was alive and well.
My pal from Hue notwithstanding, one of the most important physical and as well psychological journeys for me in life was finally visiting...
...., 'Nam.
Note: This blog "Fate Fairies" - book version Category is a work in progress. The original vignettes are being edited for book form. Go to the Cooldadiomedia Web site and the Fate Fairies Page for an ordered chronology of the book vignettes (chapters).
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| Posted by Bob Keith at | | | |
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I was working at the old newspaper building in downtown Janesville. I took the job my last semester of grad school in 2005 hoping it might be a springboard into better things. Silly me, the economy dumped and, I learned the hard way I was already too old to be put to good use in this "New Norm" culture of perennial shitty jobs. But I digress early in this vignette.
The production plant, loading dock, and printing press room was on the side of the editorial building in those days. They later built a new production plant (where us expediters were ushered off to) on the east edge of town, but the old editorial building is still there and the writers, editors, radio station, Web page, and who-ever-people still work down town.
Every time I drive by that old building I think of the time that just trying to get there almost got me killed. The old building is only about three miles from my house. Trying to keep a good spirit and the blood flowing during a rapidly deteriorating economy and city, I often rode my bicycle to work.
I could head right down the main artery of Milton Avenue to downtown which was about that three-mile jaunt; but, it was a tight, busy, and a dangerous route for a bicycle. So, I would often cross Milton Avenue and divert down the quieter Black Bridge Road past the City Dump. Then take a left on old Parker Dive - and a straight shot to the old newspaper building but adding an extra mile on the journey.
By 2005, I was already 50 years old. The bike riding was either commendable or..., stupid.
Back in the early 1990s, I had bought two nice Trek bicycles. One for Heide, one for me. In the mid-2000s I still used mine as it was and still is a solid multi-purpose vehicle. On the way to work it was all down hill heading toward the Rock River Valley which weaved through down town. The multi-geared bike is handy on the tough climb back home up the hills.
The only tight spot in my diversion route was my entrance to Parker Drive by the old Parker Pen building - another monument to jobs being sent to China - but I digress again. By Parker Pen, traffic clogged a bit as that was where Highway 51, an artery bringing traffic in from the north, became Parker Drive. Once I was past the Parker Pen building it was a rather comfortable ride straight into work.
By 2007 I had jumped from driving a van full of daily newspaper bundles for the distribution department, to a job in the production center working with the process of assembling the product - newspapers. And about half the time, they also had me driving around their old short-box truck delivering bundles of papers. Although the holder of three college degrees, I could not shake the moniker of..., fucking "driver."
To the company's credit, I had taken several sabbaticals to do university and media projects in Vietnam, Laos, Turkey, and to that point in my life, even one in Iraq. So realistically, I should perhaps be grateful they kept letting me come back to work.
Although the journeys overseas were arduous, I had basically survived relatively unscathed. And, the caveat here is then that old cliche, "Most accidents happen near home."
On the morning in question (we still worked days back then in the production center, but later shifted to nights) I made the left turn onto Parker Drive at that point having two lanes in each direction; the traffic was busier than usual. The descending hill by the dump carried me with momentum well into Parker Drive. To my left, going the same direction as me, an 18-Wheeler was in the lane near the center line and cars were whizzing past me on his right in my lane. To my right was a guard rail and a stony slope below heading down to houses along the river.
Some bone head slammed on her brakes in front of the 18-wheeler to turn left into the old Parker Pen lot - some small businesses were using the old building. The 18-wheeler slammed on his brakes to avoid a rear end collision, but his truck veered to the right into my lane. The car next to me then encroached on me to avoid being side-swiped by the truck and I could feel the side of the car on my leg. By then we were all going about 35 miles per hour.
Over the guard rail and down the rocky slope, I and my old reliable old bicycle went.
I was so pissed off, I did not focus on still being alive, but rather jumped up, flipped off every one concerned, and shouted every expletive in my vast blue-collar repertoire. No one stopped to see if I was ok - eyes straight ahead, white knuckles clenching on steering wheels, all.
As I brushed myself off and checked my bicycle for damage, it began to dawn on me that except for my bruised ego, both I and machine were none-the-worse-for-wear. For a moment I smiled at my little brush with fate.
Then I heard an old voice from a house below. It sounded like an old female voice, but strong and firm like maybe an old farm wife, or factory worker, or salty lake area soul. I turned and saw an old gray-haired woman leaning on a cane as she stood on her back porch and waved at me.
"Are you alright, sonny?"
Note: This blog "Fate Fairies" - book version Category is a work in progress. The original vignettes are being edited for book form. Go to the Cooldadiomedia Web site and the Fate Fairies Page for an ordered chronology of the book vignettes (chapters).
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| Posted by Bob Keith at | | | |
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On my second trip to 'Nam in the summer of 2005, I set up shop at my little hotel just outside of downtown Saigon. I took it easy for a few days and then Heide joined me for a couple weeks traveling around old South Vietnam. One of the comic highlights of Heide's entry on the Saigon scene was a comment by one of the lead hotel woman (the gaggle of female hotel workers would sleep on the small kitchen floor - during the day they were consummate players in the smooth running of the small establishment). Anyway, she looked at Heide and then at me.
"She is sooooo pretty," the woman said as she looked at Heide and smiled.
"And you are sooooo awful," she said as she frowned at me and my scruffy travel cloths.
Heide would do well in this matriarchal culture. Women seemed to run everything. Men hid in the back ground or drove trucks and or repaired all the broken things in a society pieced together with tin, wire, mortar, and old motor scooter parts.
After Heide left for home back in Wisconsin, I had a week or so to kill so I embarked on a journey to Laos and rural Thailand up by the infamous Mekong River. I headed up to the ancient capital city of Hue via train - a long arduous ordeal of a ride through the rugged coastal areas.
I had secured a Visa for Laos back in Saigon. Americans need no Visa to enter Thailand. On a footnote, I never saw a country with so many fees for the bureaucratical widow's and orphans funds, in my travels before this encounter with Laos. A couple years later I would have less red tape and hurdles to wade through to get into Iraq (a country with an active war) than I did to enter Laos (a country only replete with theifdoms). Equally as puzzling, Laos seems to have...., no one in charge. Yet at every turn I was charged a fee. An extra fee for the Visa, an extra fee to enter Laos, and extra fee to exit Laos into Thailand, an extra fee to re-enter Laos....and on and on. Most of the check points were manned by dudes in sandals, shorts, and Hawaiian shirts with AK-47s slung across their shoulders.
None-the-less, after a couple days in the old city of Hue, I held my breath and bought a ticket for a junky mini-bus to make the journey into and across Laos - marginal mistake. I later discovered the big tour bus is about the same price, with air conditioning, and no stops to unload and pick up contraband.
Once past the pesky Laotian border - and their fees - the mini-bus periodically stopped to load up supplies. The roof was loaded down with bananas and cases of whisky. Inside with the dozen of us passengers was a couple chickens, a pig, and a goat. I knew enough to get in the long seat that went across the back wall of the bus. With me was some duffle bags, suitcases, bags of rice, a couple of Laotian dudes..., and a young woman with a couple kids and...., a baby.
We bounced down a jungle road - turning, twisting, through the hilly, and ravine-laden southern corridor of Laos on our way to the Mekong River and a town named Savannakhet. It is about the size of Janesville and Beloit, Wisconsin, yet, it is the second largest city in Laos.
Not too long after we departed the border, the young woman sat her baby on my lap. Said young woman smiled at me, turned a bit to put he head on my shoulder, and promptly took a nap. I will say this, the baby was well behaved and slept the whole way as did mom.
We were all awakened to realize said mini-van had diverted to a small house in the jungle. Men entered the van carrying wooden boxes. They matter-of-factly grumped at us to lift our feet as they shoved the boxes under the seats. Seats of course, already loaded with bags, boxes, babies, animals, and humanity.
I recognized the boxes as resembling the kind that new M-16 and AK-47 riffles were transported in back in my Army days. As I rousted myself to alertness I could not ignore the irony of riding across the jungle of a former enemy country with my feet resting on...., machine guns.
Old military surplus packaging and construction material was re-used all over Vietnam and Laos, even 30 years after our war there. So the boxes under my feet probably just contained miscellaneous trinkets and goods to sell at some street market someplace.
Right?!
Note: This blog "Fate Fairies" - book version Category is a work in progress. The original vignettes are being edited for book form. Go to the Cooldadiomedia Web site and the Fate Fairies Page for an ordered chronology of the book vignettes (chapters).
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| Posted by Bob Keith at | | | |
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Marine Reserve Lance Corporal Daniel Richard Wyatt, 22, Caledonia, Wisconsin, died on October 12, 2004. He was killed during combat action with enemy forces in Yusufiya, Bablil Province, Iraq. The area is south of Baghdad. Lance Corporal Wyatt was assigned to Company F, 2nd Battalion, 24th Marine Regiment, 4th Marine Division, Marine Forces Reserve based out of Chicago, Illinois (Wyatt was a member of the Fox Company detatchment out of Milwaukee, Wisconsin).
The Milwaukee Journal Sentinel notes Daniel Wyatt grew up in Racine and was the youngest of three sons. He had participated in a youth football league. Daniel had lost his mother to cancer when he was only eight years old. He graduated from Racine Horlick High School. Wyatt entered the Marine Reserves after graduating. The Journal Sentinel went on to mention Wyatt wanted to be a police officer and was studying criminal justice at Milwaukee Area Technical College just before deployment to Iraq. His Marine unit had been activated in June of 2004. He had been in Iraq for a month when he was killed.
In another article the Milwaukee Journal Sentinel mentioned that Daniel Wyatt's father had served in the Air Force in the Vietnam theater of war and his grandfather had been in the Army Air Corps during World War II.
The Web site militarytimes.com using information from the Associated Press notes Daniel Wyatt had graduated with honors from Racine Horlick High School in 2001. Lance Corporal Wyatt was a rifleman for his military unit. He had been in the Marine Reserves for three years. The posting went on to note, "Family members described Daniel as quiet but venturesome, and a lover of music, reading history and sports." The family had lived in Prospect Heights, Illinois and moved to Racine in 1992. They had a hobby farm near Caledonia, Wisconsin.
The Web site iraq.pigstye.net noted Daniel Wyatt was an animal lover and the farm had horses, turkeys, and chickens. He was remembered for his fondness for motorcycles, reading, being a thinker as well as a doer, and having a thirst for challenges.
At the time of his death Marine Lance Corporal Daniel R. Wyatt was survived by his father David Wyatt; stepmother Kathy Sullivan; fiancee Laura Watson; and, five siblings. He was preceded in death by his mother. Lance Corporal Wyatt was laid to rest with full Military Honors at the Southern Wisconsin Veteran's Memorial Cemetery, in the Town of Dover, Wisconsin.
Information for this short biography about Marine Reserve Lance Corporal Daniel Richard Wyatt was pieced together from the following sources: Milwaukee Journal Sentinel, "Racine Marine serving in Iraq killed in explosion," October 15, 2004; Milwaukee Journal Sentinel, " Marine killed in Iraq was dedicated to cause, dad says," October 31, 2004; militarytimes.com, "Marine Lance Cpl. Daniel R. Wyatt," and, Associated Press, "Wisconsin Marine killed in Iraq"; iraq.pigstye.net, "Daniel R. Wyatt," October 18, 2004; Wisconsin Department of Veteran Affairs "Fallen Heroes Page"; and, CNN.com "War Casualties Page."
Note: This "Wisconsin Military Casualties Afghanistan Iraq Compilation" Daily Dadio blog Category is under construction. Go to the Cooldadiomedia Web site and the Wisconsin War Casualties Page for a list of names noted by date of death. ( If readers know of other military service persons with Wisconsin connections that are not on the Web site comprehensive list of fatal casualties, or notice errors, please email Bob Keith at keithrg13@cooldadiomedia.com )
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| Posted by Bob Keith at | | | |
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By 2004, I had done enough research on the countries of our old Vietnam War era, I knew I could get from Vietnam to Cambodia and or Laos with minimal effort in regards to securing Visas. I had sent the necessary paper work to the Vietnamese Embassy in Washington to get a multiple-entry Visa for that country. But, my January 2005 trip being my first to the country, I planned to just stay in and around Saigon to get used to the country as I would find it nowadays, 30 years after our war there. So, I made no effort to get Visas to the surrounding countries.
Like my research warned me, there was a horde of people at the airport continually waiting to greet or bid farewell to Vietnamese family either being repatriated or leaving the country. To unsuspecting visitors like me, it could be overwhelming. The pilgrims however, were harmless. It was after all not 1968 or 1975. I found a driver and he got me to my humble hotel near downtown Saigon. I found out rather quickly that few Vietnamese called it the approved communist name of Ho Chi Minh City.
The pollution was suffocating. The heat was suffocating. The street and sidewalk vender operators on the burgeoning tourist streets were pesky. The scooter and truck noise was deafening, The city was bulging with humanity. But I laid up in my little hotel neighborhood for a couple days. I struck out on several walks in the narrow and catacombed streets of the once French city we had propped up as the capital of old South Vietnam during our war there. I was nervous as hell. But kids and people came out to see the stray American. Apparently, few Americans make the journey to Vietnam. Most of the people under 40 years old had never seen an American. Everyone was eerily...., nice.
One night at mid-night, I watched the Water Department crew fix a deep water pipe break by my hotel. They dug their deep hole in the street with shovels and a pick.
I found out that the only job allowed surviving South Vietnamese soldiers (a defeated army) was to peddle the Cyclo bikes - three-wheeled carts used to transport goods...., and people. The old operators of said bikes also slept in them. There is actually a couple contemporary movies filmed in Vietnam that both insert the cyclo in the story-line. One is called Cyclo which delves into some of the darker sides Vietnam in the 1990s. The other is called Three Seasons starring Harvey Keitel about an American Veteran who returns to 'Nam decades after the war.
I tryed a cylco ride or two, but although the drivers were tough souls that could peddle the heavy one-speed bikes all day, their distance was limited to the inner city from my hotel.
It was my intention to get out of the city a bit so I hired a dude - or actually he adopted me - to drive me around on a scooter. I could have rented a scooter myself but I would have been killed on the Saigon streets - no rules, other than, "biggest vehicle wins."
But, Scooter Dude's gig was too small to get me up to the Cambodian border. So, I hired one of hundreds of taxi dudes. I also was interested in finding out if some remnant of the old Bein Hoa military complex was still out east of Saigon. It would be about 15 miles away if it was still there at all. I had heard many of my Army colleagues that had been stationed in 'Nam mention the joint. It was the sight of an early Viet Cong attack on American and South Vietnamese Air Force personnel in November of 1964. That was before most Americans had ever heard of a strange place called...., Vietnam.
In an anti-climactic visit, Taxi-Dude pointed out the old air base was now an industrial complex.
"Coca-cola stored there now," Taxi-Dude said.
He spoke a bit of English and he said he learned it in Taiwan. He told me the tale about how he was a draft dodger of the Vietnamese war with Cambodia in the late 1970s and the early 1980s. The Vietnamese were tired of the then Cambodian regime's bandits wreaking havoc over the Vietnamese border. They finally decided to get rid of that architect of the Khmer Rouge "Killing Fields" of Cambodia, one crazy dictator named Pol Pot. Ironic that the communist Vietnamese had to rid the world of the extreme communist Pol Pot and his Khmer Rouge pals who killed millions of innocent Cambodian people. But, I digress.
Anyway, Taxi Dude had fled to Taiwan. More ironic poetry; a Vietnamese draft dodger. Apparently 'Nam let him back home in the 2000s. Somewhere during the story, said dude offered me the on-board meal..., cheap cookies and Coca-cola.
By the way, Taxi-dude said he knew how to get me up to the border of Cambodia. At one point it is only 50 miles or so from Saigon. I thought it was relevant history because Ol' President Dick Nixon sent a special armada into Cambodia in 1970 to hunt down Charlie Cong (what Americans called the enemy). It had limited success, and President Dick got into trouble because he was accused of expanding the War after he said he was going to wind it down.
While Taxi-dude relayed his story in broken and painful English, we passed through muddy jungle trails just big enough for his beat up car to fit down. You would think that just 50 miles from one of the biggest cities on earth, one might find a..., damn paved road.
One thing lead to another and it was clear Taxi-dude was good and lost. Finally he stopped and asked a peasant woman if we were close to Cambodia. Even I knew what she said by the way she laughed and pointed back down the road.
"If you have been on this road since the last cross road, you have been in Campuchia for about five kilometers. You guys are already in Campuchia...., stupid men."
I choked on my cookies as we sheepishly drove back into Vietnam past the sleepy jungle border soldiers on the Vietnamese-Cambodian border. They took drags on their cigarettes and had their feet propped up. Their AK-47s just leaning against the guard hut. Taxi-Dude shrugged and waved like he was greeting old pals. I held my breath. The guards just looked bored. Apparently they do nothing during their lunch time. God bless communist ritualism.
Talk about being a candidate for the National Geographic television series...
..., Locked Up Abroad!
Note: This blog "Fate Fairies" - book version Category is a work in progress. The original vignettes are being edited for book form. Go to the Cooldadiomedia Web site and the Fate Fairies Page for an ordered chronology of the book vignettes (chapters).
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| Posted by Bob Keith at | | | |
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The idea was sparked in preparation for Graduate School. I was taking some remedial college classes to fill the requirement to enter the Communications (Media) program at UW-Whitewater. Since my undergraduate degree was in Criminal Justice I would need a couple of Media/Journalism classed to hone up for the Comm people.
One such class was Sociology of Media (I will double check on the accuracy of the class title; perhaps it was Media and Society). Regardless, several of my classes in pre-law were in sociology. It was at this point I realized several college programs use the same dead sociologists as their guides. This particular media class was taught by one Professor Norma Coates. I liked her style and always looked forward to her lectures.
Some where, some place along the way in said media class, I was doing an essay paper about movies. In this case, Vietnam War movies. And, I must admit, I can not for the life of me remember where I got the nudge to dive into movies - myself never having any inspiration to do film or theater work. But, somewhere I got the idea to dissect Vietnam War movies. I certainly had followed 'Nam movie progression in the theaters, rentals, and purchase over the years having lived through that war era.
But, one thing I do remember. Professors often ask for a rough draft of an essay - to see if you are on the right track. Ol' Professor Norma Coates looked at my movie paper draft and said simply, "You know Bob; this is Master's thesis idea material."
She had done her job in nine words. A light bulb popped on in my pea brain.
I was off to the murky world of...., Vietnam. I expanded this movie theme several times in my travels through grad school. By the beginning of 2005, I had made plans to actually visit the country of Vietnam. Poetically, by April of 2005, it would be the 30th anniversary of the end of the "American Vietnam War."
For a trip to Vietnam, at the time I actually did have the humble resources, the time, and I had also learned the cleverness to pull it off via 35 years of blue-collar working. There was of course, all the collective myths I would have to deal with: "Why the hell do you want to go to that damn place, Bob? The Vietnamese hate Americans; the Vietnamese eat their pets; your travel will be monitored and restricted; and, you will be disappeared once you get there.
All of these notions were false of course...., at least by January, 2005.
I did a ton of research on the current Vietnam culture before the trip. In the spirit of my movie theme, I bought several dozen Vietnam War movies and watched them all. As it turned out, they were useless in regards to today's Vietnam. Of course they were all made from the "American" point of view. Some of the more useful movies were actually contemporary stories facilitated by Vietnamese directors and made since the 1990s.
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One blog posting - one book chapter vignette in no way does three visits to Vietnam and Laos justice. So, my Vietnam travel, like my Iraq travel is fodder for future and separate books. But, I will relate a couple of instances that absolutely highlight my visits to 'Nam.
With the time change of traveling to Asia, it looked to me like the Airline was pushing the limit with a connecting flight in Tokyo and I was right. It was my Christmas break in January of 2005. My flight was non-stop from Chicago to Tokyo. I then had an hour to hop on a Vietnamese Airline flight to Saigon (Ho Chi Minh City) - not enough time of course; a delay right off the bat in Chicago caused me to you guessed it..., hopelessly miss my Saigon flight.
To my stunned surprise, a cute and smiling Vietnamese flight attendant met me in the horde of people exiting the flight in Tokyo. She held a sign that said, "Mr. Keet." I had my suspicions it was actually for me so I lingered in the foyer of the terminal. Sure enough I was the only one left and we both managed to determine Mr. Keet was indeed...., Bob Keith.
Within an hour I was in a comfortable room in a hotel adjacent to the airport. And, I was staying for free, compliments of my airline. I had several hours of daylight left so I strolled down to a hilly and pleasant neighborhood not too far from the airport. I found a little cafe and had some soup and thought about the journey I had undertaken. But, the real reflection came back at the hotel as I sat in the top floor bar and looked out over the lights of the Tokyo airport. I began to get nervous.
"Would I ever actually get to Vietnam? What hurdles await me tomorrow? I am so close now."
The next day I huddled with a gaggle of Vietnamese people in the terminal waiting for our flight to Saigon. Down below us we could see the bright blue shiny plane from the Vietnam Airline fleet. Neatly dressed employees of the Vietnamese Airline cheerfully helped us toward our seats. What a contrast to the dreary war images from the 1960s and '70s.
My heart raced as the big blue jet took off ultimately heading for the country "we" had fought a war with for at least 15 years. The chow was actually quite good in-flight. The flight attendants were so nice and pretty I remember actually being a bit frightened of them.
In a few hours we were over Saigon. As we dropped down below the clouds, You could make out the roads, buildings, huts, and people going about their daily toils. It looked eerily like the war footage from the 1960s. The countyside however, was the greenest green I had ever seen.
Then rather abruptly, we were coming in for a landing at Tan Son Nhat International airport. And then it hit me.
As we landed on the old bumpy tarmac landing strip, we passed the concrete bunkers the United States military had used to hide their jet fighters in during our war there. There the bunkers were - 40 years later. A chill went up my spine.
I had arrived. Yes, arrived at the old 'Nam in my memory gleaned from living through that era in childhood and being in the military during the end of said war era. I arrived to that place in my mind...., but, via the new Vietnamese culture and its relatively modern airline and that big beautiful blue jet plane with its many pretty flight attendants and confident Captain.
The beginning of the many contradictions and paradoxes of current day Vietnam were just beginning....
...., at least for me!
Note: This blog "Fate Fairies" - book version Category is a work in progress. The original vignettes are being edited for book form. Go to the Cooldadiomedia Web site and the Fate Fairies Page for an ordered chronology of the book vignettes (chapters).
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| Posted by Bob Keith at | | | |
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Wisconsin Military Service Person Special Mention of the Week
(each week Cooldadiomedia mentions a Wisconsin service person killed in Iraq or Afghanistan)
Army Sergeant James W. McDonald, 26, Neenah, Wisconsin, died on Monday, November 12, 2007, at Fort Hood, Texas, while recovering from a severe head wound sustained in a roadside bomb blast in Iraq in May of 2007. He was assigned to the Rear Detachment, 1st Battalion, 5th Cavalry Regiment based at Fort Hood, Texas.
The Web site iraq.pigsty.net using information from the Washington Post and Associated Press notes that after the bomb blast, Sergeant McDonald was treated in Germany and had later underwent extensive facial surgery in August, 2007, after returning to Fort Hood. He was found in his barracks deceased. At the time an autopsy could not determine the exact cause of death. Before he died, Sergeant McDonald had worked on the base at a weapons room and the post office. He had plans to leave the Army in January of 2008 and pursue a career in firefighting. The Web site posting went on to say McDonald was remembered as a strapping 6-foot-3, 200-pound man and soldier. He had served two tours of duty in Iraq and was also remembered for his love of the military.
The publication Isthmus, out of Madison, Wisconsin, says Sergeant McDonald was knocked unconscious in the roadside blast. The Isthmus noted that according to the Government Accountability Office, 30% of U.S. troops evacuated from Iraq and Afghanistan have suffered brain injuries. Sergeant McDonald's symptoms included headaches, short-term memory loss and massive nosebleeds. The nosebleeds had become particularly frequent and profuse in the weeks before his death.
The Web site findagrave.com notes James McDonald was born on July 14, 1981. He graduated from Neenah High School in 2000. He participated in football, choir, drama club, Youth Go, and the Wisconsin National Guard Cadet program. He entered the United States Army in 2002. Some of Sergeant McDonald's awards and medals include: the Purple Heart; Army Commendation Medal; Good Conduct Medal; Humanitarian Service Medal; Global War on Terrorism Expeditionary Medal; Global War on Terrorism Service Medal; and, Army Service Ribbon.
At the time of his death Sergeant James W. McDonald was survived by his parents Doug and Joan McDonald; two sisters Jennifer and Kimberly; two nieces Justyce and Jade; paternal grandparents Wayne and Elaine McDonald; aunts and uncles Duane and Carrie McDonald, Dorothy and Greg Scovronski, Donna and Tom Mills, Mike and Sue Keyzers, Janet and Dennis Ponschock, Raymond Keyzers, Joe and Sharon Keyzers, Jim and Lynn Keyzers, Jean and Paul Biesterveld, Dan and Karen Keyzers, Jane and Tim Cason-Gossett; and, numerous cousins, friends and other family members. Sergeant McDonald was laid to rest ot Greenlawn Memorial Park in Neenah, Wisconsin.
Sergeant James W. McDonald is the 107th military service person that has been identified by Cool Dadio Media as having Wisconsin connections and that either died in Iraq, or died due to injuries sustained there since the Spring of 2003.
As of this blog entry's posting date:
104,967 Iraqi civilians have been killed in Iraq since Spring, 2003 (actually documented).
10,125 Iraqi Security Forces have been killed in Iraq since Spring, 2003.
4,487 Americans have been killed in Iraq since Spring, 2003.
1886 Americans have been killed in Afghanistan since October, 2001.
318 Coalition soldiers have been killed in Iraq since Spring, 2003.
990 Coalition soldiers have been killed in Afghanistan since October, 2001.
1 American/Coalition casualty in Libyan "Operation Odyssey Dawn" since March, 2011.
32,226 U.S. troops have been wounded in action in Iraq since Spring, 2003.
592 Wisconsin military service persons have been wounded in Iraq since Spring 2003.
15,262 U.S. troops have been wounded in action in Afghanistan since October, 2001.
192 Wisconsin military service persons have been wounded in Afghanistan since October, 2001.
107 Wisconsin military service persons have been killed in Iraq since Spring, 2003.
37 Wisconsin military service persons have been killed in Afghanistan since October, 2001.
3 Wisconsin military service persons have been killed in the U.S. related to "The War on Terror" since September, 2001.
151 journalists (several nationalities) have been killed in Iraq since Spring, 2003.
22 journalists (various nationalities) have been killed in Afghanistan since September, 2001.
5 journalists (regional and independents) have been killed in Libya since March, 2011.
Wisconsin military service person special mention of the week, military casualty, and journalist casualty information sources: Committee to Protect Journalists; cnn.com; Milwaukee Journal Sentinel; washingtonpost.com; thehighground.org; Wisconsin Department of Veterans Affairs; iraqbodycount.org; www.defense.gov/news/casualty.pdf; and, icasualties.org .
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| Posted by Bob Keith at | | | |
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Cool Dadio is not particular to hunting down fish frys at national fast-food chain type joints. In fact, a quick check of my fish fry list reveals a conspicuous absence of any chain outfits to speak of. But, I got a tip the other day that the A & W in Janesville has a fish fry some folks are rather fond of.
Heide and I inched our way across town in the slippery blizzard to the place famous for hawking root beer. We had decided to make a lunch time of our fish fry this week. To our surprise, we were the only customers. The people of Wisconsin sure have gotten soft in all things regarding weather. I remember a time when every day of winter was like Friday's storm. None-the-less, our reward, everyone else's loss. We sat right by the raised fire place.
Fish fry here at the root beer place is not taken lightly. A sandwich board announcing our fish options greeted us as we walked in. Heide and I started off our meals with a bowl of cheesy broccoli soup and chili respectively. It was not grandma's recipe but on this snowy day if fit the bill. We both choose the salad bar option as well. They have a humble and neat little salad bar. The lettuce was crisp and fresh. There was my favorite salad topping of big hunks of boiled eggs. The usual suspects of tasty macaroni salad and fresh cottage cheese were also among the many options. Of course, we topped our salads off with French and Ranch dressings.
We both ordered the two-piece fish dinner. Heide chose a side of onion rings and I a side of fried mushrooms - the consummate burger joint decadence. The deep-fried fish came in long tasty bricks - a style of cut I have not run into before. The whole presentation wasn't too bad for a chain restaurant.
Heide had a coupon for a root beer float, but we were so full by the end of our meals we'll have to take a rain-check on that - or in today's case, a snow-check.
The A & W in Janesville is cool with Cool Dadio. Find them at 936 Conde Street in Janesville. Heading south down Center Avenue toward the airport and Beloit, they are at the corner of Conde. Call (608) 754-0097 for more information.
Note: You can find a chronological list at the Cool Dadio Media Fish Fry Page of these fish frys as we have visited them. The list presents the most recently visited fish fry at the top, in lieu of alphabetical order.
Wisconsin Military Service Person Special Mention of the Week
(each week Cooldadiomedia mentions a Wisconsin service person killed in Iraq or Afghanistan)
Army Reserve Sergeant First Class Anthony "Tony" Raymond Wasielewski, 50, Ladysmith, Wisconsin, died at his home on Sunday, October 7, 2007. He was recovering from injuries he sustained in an improvised explosive device attack on May 15, 2007, in Ramadi, Iraq. Wasielewski was a member of C Company, 397th Engineer Battalion, based in Wausau, Wisconsin. Two other soldiers from the unit were also injured in the attack.
The Web site ladysmithnews.com said Wasielewski was born on December 17, 1956, in Milwaukee, Wisconsin. He married Carol Lynn Romano in 1990. Wasielewski had served over 20 years in the Army Reserves. He had also served in Afganistan. The Web site went on to say that in civilian life, "Tony worked for Weather Shield Manufacturing in Ladysmith. He had also served as a volunteer firefighter; belonged to bowling leagues; and, had been made an honorary member of the Wisconsin Bikers Association." Family gave him the nickname, "Rambo of the Flambeau."
The Milwaukee Journal Sentinel notes that Wasielewski's Reserve unit was reactivated in July 2006. Although he was eligible for retirement, he elected to go with his unit to Iraq. He had spent a year in Afghanistan in 2004 through 2005. When he was growing up he attended South Division High School in Milwaukee. As a young man he had played guitar and belonged to a band. Back when he met his wife he was working as a roofer. He was remembered as being a creative guy as he loved oil painting and charcoal sketching. The Journal Sentinel went on to say, "He also became an avid fisherman who enjoyed catching bass on the Flambeau River."
The Milwaukee Journal Sentinel went on to explain that Wasielewski suffered severe back injuries in the Iraq bombing; after surgery in Germany, was spent several months at Walter Reed Army Medical Center and then at a Veterans Administration hospital in Minnesota. He was able to be at Volk Field in Camp Douglas, Wisconsin, to meet his Reserve unit's return from Iraq.
The Web site weau.com related the severity of Wasielewski's wounds, noting he was recovering from a spinal cord injury, traumatic brain injury, broken back, and hearing loss, all a result of when his vehicle was hit by the roadside bomb in Iraq.
The Barron News-Shield out of Barron, Wisconsin, emphasized that as an Army Engineer, Wasielewski was, "highly adept at the most dangerous job in Iraq, finding bombs."
At the time of his death Sergeant First Class Anthony Wasielewski was survived by his wife Carol; his mother Jean; son Chris Cummings; two brothers Jeff Martin and Dale (Mariellen) Martin; his sister Jody (Jim) Yerkes; his uncle Ronald Wasielewski; and, nieces and nephews. He is also survived by Carol’s family including son Daniel Scherbert; grandparents John and Verna Pierce; father and mother-in-law Nicholas and Judith Romano; two sisters-in-law Jody Romano and Susan Romano; and, nieces and nephews. Wasielewski was also survived by his cat, Sarge.
Sergeant First Class Anthony Wasielewski was laid to rest with full military honors at Riverside Cemetery, in Ladysmith. He is the 106th military service person that has been identified by Cool Dadio Media as having Wisconsin connections and that either died in Iraq, or died due to injuries sustained there since the Spring of 2003.
As of this blog entry's posting date:
104,602 Iraqi civilians have been killed in Iraq since Spring, 2003 (actually documented).
10,125 Iraqi Security Forces have been killed in Iraq since Spring, 2003.
4,487 Americans have been killed in Iraq since Spring, 2003.
1875 Americans have been killed in Afghanistan since October, 2001.
318 Coalition soldiers have been killed in Iraq since Spring, 2003.
985 Coalition soldiers have been killed in Afghanistan since October, 2001.
1 American/Coalition casualty in Libyan "Operation Odyssey Dawn" since March, 2011.
32,226 U.S. troops have been wounded in action in Iraq since Spring, 2003.
592 Wisconsin military service persons have been wounded in Iraq since Spring 2003.
15,204 U.S. troops have been wounded in action in Afghanistan since October, 2001.
192 Wisconsin military service persons have been wounded in Afghanistan since October, 2001.
107 Wisconsin military service persons have been killed in Iraq since Spring, 2003.
37 Wisconsin military service persons have been killed in Afghanistan since October, 2001.
3 Wisconsin military service persons have been killed in the U.S. related to "The War on Terror" since September, 2001.
151 journalists (several nationalities) have been killed in Iraq since Spring, 2003.
22 journalists (various nationalities) have been killed in Afghanistan since September, 2001.
5 journalists (regional and independents) have been killed in Libya since March, 2011.
Wisconsin military service person special mention of the week, military casualty, and journalist casualty information sources: Committee to Protect Journalists; cnn.com; Milwaukee Journal Sentinel; washingtonpost.com; thehighground.org; Wisconsin Department of Veterans Affairs; iraqbodycount.org; www.defense.gov/news/casualty.pdf; and, icasualties.org .
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| Posted by Bob Keith at | | | |
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I was pretty pleased with myself. I had just graduated from UW-Whitewater. For my own graduation present, I bought myself a used Harley Davidson - a 1998 teal and cream Softail. I had sacrificed, subscribing to theory of delayed gratification, and waited until my degree was in hand before doing anything flippant. It was the summer of 2003.
Straight away, we partook in some motorcycle events. One such event was in Monroe, Wisconsin. The plan was to gather at the Harley dealer and then there would be a group ride for some particular charity. It was a very hot and humid Wisconsin summer day. The ride was to leave at noon. With all the heat, I was beginning to feel tired.
Plenty of people and motorcycles herded up in the dealer parking lot. There was not much shade in said location. It did not take too long for me to realize what was happening. I kneeled in the shade of the brick building and checked my pulse - my heart beat felt like a poor running lawn mower sounded. This was a bad one. And, it had only been a couple of years since the last bad heart episode. They were getting exponentially more frequent.
"Shall I take you to the hospital?" Heide asked.
"No," I said. "Let's get the Harley back to the house and I will take myself up to the ER. You hold down the fort at home," I continued.
By the time I got to the emergency room in Madison, I was very tired and began to feel light headed. This time the triage nurse du jour could tell I was really sick. She launched into a lecture about driving in while so sick.
An ER doctor I had not seen before took my case. He was Asian and had an accent of some sort, but I was not sure from which corner of the world - I did not care at that point anyway. I was becoming groggy.
"We need shock you Mr. Keet," the doc said with a pleasant smile. He had a reassuring demeanor about him.
"I know the drill," I said. "You kill me with a lightning bolt, and then hope my heart starts again with a good rhythm," I continued with not much spirit in my voice.
The doc paused for a moment and then said with an incredulous look, "We no like to say it quite like that Mr. Keet."
There was a flurry of activity in my cubicle as a nurse and a technician wheeled in a brand new defibrillator. The protective clear factory plastic still covered some of the machine. The commotion continued as they all tried to figure out where all the cords and plugs got plugged in to.
As the nurse started to attach the electrodes to my chest, the Asian doc held up a cord with an odd looking plug on it and said, "Where in hell this one go?"
"Hang on," I said, trying to buy some time. And then I asked, "What are odds my heart will not start again after you stop it, Doc?"
The Doc held the cord in one hand and rubbed his chin with the other and then he said, "I'd say there is about 10 percent chance you heart never start again in case like this, but no worry for you Mr. Keet."
"Well, what if I am in the 10 percent?" I asked.
He paused again, scratched his chin one last time as he jammed the cord in an outlet on the wall. Then he said with that pleasant smile,
..., "How whucky you feewe'n tuday, Mr. Keet?"
Note: This blog "Fate Fairies" - book version Category is a work in progress. The original vignettes are being edited for book form. Go to the Cooldadiomedia Web site and the Fate Fairies Page for an ordered chronology of the book vignettes (chapters).
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| Posted by Bob Keith at | | | |
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Here is yet another tale I searched for in my scribblings and came up empty. It never ceases to intrigue me how a particular memory can become so deeply ensconsed in one's psyche. So ensconsed in fact, that the person believes the occurrence surely must be written down some where. But in my case, a search of my humble scripts is to no avail.
My little fleet of two Geo Metros took me through an era of thousands of miles of commuting to college, living in the country, and working quirky hours at yet even quirkier jobs.
Back when I was a kid we did not see many deer in the course of our daily rural toils. I left for the Army for three years, then wife and I moved to Texas for another ten years and low and behold..., on our return to the great Midwest, deer had become ubiquitous. There were so many deer, the culture had become permeated with nuances warning the many citizens about the romping critters. Like everyone else, when ever behind the wheel of a motor vehicle, the thought did indeed waft around my noggin regarding said frolickng deer.
We had been back in Wisconsin almost 10 years and it must have been the late 1990s. We had moved 40 miles out of Madison to a rural house in the middle of Green County. It goes without too much arithmatic, we commuted tens of thousands of miles over the years while we lived in that rural setting. But..., no deer threatened our travels.
One day I was on a stretch of Highway 92 as I cut cross country from Janesville to New Glarus - there is no good way to make that journey. There is a section of 92 that goes through a marsh of sorts. I was tired. My mom was fading on us and I had to make frequent pilgrimages to Janesville to check on her. On the way home one day, I putzed along at 50 miles per hour contemplating our situation as Mom's age and health deteriorated.
Out of the marsh wandered an old and rather large deer. I caught him in my eye to the right..., boom! He disappeared under my tiny Metro. "Fludump," the car bounced over the beast. He got up and hobbled back into the marsh.
Distraught, I shook off my surprise and stopped the little Geo to assess the damage. To my stunned amazement, the only damage was the black plastic front bumper. It was broken clean in half.
I tied up the two pieces of the bumper and headed home to tell my tale. After I relayed the tale to Heide she smiled and reminded me how lucky I was.
A couple days later a package wrapped neatly with Christmas paper and a bow on top, sat on the kitchen table. A card suggested I open my off-season present with dispatch. Inside, I found a roll of black duck tape.
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A couple years after the first deer encounter, my schedule had notched up exponentially. The little blue Metro still answered the call to duty - front bumper neatly taped back in place with..., black duct tape.
I was on my way home from the west side of Madison via Highway 69. I can't even remember now what was so damn important; perhaps, I was hurrying to get back for an ambulance shift. I had just a half mile from the four-way stop in the little berg of Paoli just south of Verona. At that point there was at the time and probably still is a good stand of brush and trees at the edge of the village. Within a half mile of the intersection I still had the little car up to 75 miles per hour.
To my left entered a streak. It was just barely discernable as a..., racing deer. In the micro-seconds the event took place, a quick assessment by my pea brain ascertained the frenzied beast would plow into my little car at the driver's door with its head smashing into the window.
I closed my eyes in anticipation of..., death. I envisioned the beast thrashing around in my front seat kicking me to death as we both careened into one of the old hickory trees along the road.
Nothing happened. There was silence except for the whining little engine. I opened my eyes in time to catch a glimpse of the white tale of the deer in the right door mirror. The creature had made the perfect jump over the small car and was just making another bound over the wire fence along the road.
"All judges award scores of 9s, except the Russian judge of course," I thought to myself and smiled.
I looked in the rearview mirror and a middle-aged woman in a Cadillac pulled up behind me at the intersection. It took all my effort to resist hopping out of the car and going back to beg her to follow me home and be my witness.
No one would ever believe this!
Note: This blog "Fate Fairies" Category does not list the brushes with fate chronologically - I write about the experiences as they pop up in my memory and I often revisit an older event. Go to the Cooldadiomedia Web site and the Fate Fairies Page for an ordered chronology.
Wisconsin Military Service Person Special Mention of the Week
(each week Cooldadiomedia mentions a Wisconsin service person killed in Iraq or Afghanistan)
Army Reserve Sergeant First Class Anthony "Tony" Raymond Wasielewski, 50, Ladysmith, Wisconsin, died at his home on Sunday, October 7, 2007. He was recovering from injuries he sustained in an improvised explosive device attack on May 15, 2007, in Ramadi, Iraq. Wasielewski was a member of C Company, 397th Engineer Battalion, based in Wausau, Wisconsin. Two other soldiers from the unit were also injured in the attack.
The Web site ladysmithnews.com said Wasielewski was born on December 17, 1956, in Milwaukee, Wisconsin. He married Carol Lynn Romano in 1990. Wasielewski had served over 20 years in the Army Reserves. He had also served in Afganistan. The Web site went on to say that in civilian life, "Tony worked for Weather Shield Manufacturing in Ladysmith. He had also served as a volunteer firefighter; belonged to bowling leagues; and, had been made an honorary member of the Wisconsin Bikers Association." Family gave him the nickname, "Rambo of the Flambeau."
The Milwaukee Journal Sentinel notes that Wasielewski's Reserve unit was reactivated in July 2006. Although he was eligible for retirement, he elected to go with his unit to Iraq. He had spent a year in Afghanistan in 2004 through 2005. When he was growing up he attended South Division High School in Milwaukee. As a young man he had played guitar and belonged to a band. Back when he met his wife he was working as a roofer. He was remembered as being a creative guy as he loved oil painting and charcoal sketching. The Journal Sentinel went on to say, "He also became an avid fisherman who enjoyed catching bass on the Flambeau River."
The Milwaukee Journal Sentinel went on to explain that Wasielewski suffered severe back injuries in the Iraq bombing; after surgery in Germany, was spent several months at Walter Reed Army Medical Center and then at a Veterans Administration hospital in Minnesota. He was able to be at Volk Field in Camp Douglas, Wisconsin, to meet his Reserve unit's return from Iraq.
The Web site weau.com related the severity of Wasielewski's wounds, noting he was recovering from a spinal cord injury, traumatic brain injury, broken back, and hearing loss, all a result of when his vehicle was hit by the roadside bomb in Iraq.
The Barron News-Shield out of Barron, Wisconsin, emphasized that as an Army Engineer, Wasielewski was, "highly adept at the most dangerous job in Iraq, finding bombs."
At the time of his death Sergeant First Class Anthony Wasielewski was survived by his wife Carol; his mother Jean; son Chris Cummings; two brothers Jeff Martin and Dale (Mariellen) Martin; his sister Jody (Jim) Yerkes; his uncle Ronald Wasielewski; and, nieces and nephews. He is also survived by Carol’s family including son Daniel Scherbert; grandparents John and Verna Pierce; father and mother-in-law Nicholas and Judith Romano; two sisters-in-law Jody Romano and Susan Romano; and, nieces and nephews. Wasielewski was also survived by his cat, Sarge.
Sergeant First Class Anthony Wasielewski was laid to rest with full military honors at Riverside Cemetery, in Ladysmith. He is the 106th military service person that has been identified by Cool Dadio Media as having Wisconsin connections and that either died in Iraq, or died due to injuries sustained there since the Spring of 2003.
As of this blog entry's posting date:
104,602 Iraqi civilians have been killed in Iraq since Spring, 2003 (actually documented).
10,125 Iraqi Security Forces have been killed in Iraq since Spring, 2003.
4,487 Americans have been killed in Iraq since Spring, 2003.
1875 Americans have been killed in Afghanistan since October, 2001.
318 Coalition soldiers have been killed in Iraq since Spring, 2003.
985 Coalition soldiers have been killed in Afghanistan since October, 2001.
1 American/Coalition casualty in Libyan "Operation Odyssey Dawn" since March, 2011.
32,226 U.S. troops have been wounded in action in Iraq since Spring, 2003.
592 Wisconsin military service persons have been wounded in Iraq since Spring 2003.
15,204 U.S. troops have been wounded in action in Afghanistan since October, 2001.
192 Wisconsin military service persons have been wounded in Afghanistan since October, 2001.
107 Wisconsin military service persons have been killed in Iraq since Spring, 2003.
37 Wisconsin military service persons have been killed in Afghanistan since October, 2001.
3 Wisconsin military service persons have been killed in the U.S. related to "The War on Terror" since September, 2001.
151 journalists (several nationalities) have been killed in Iraq since Spring, 2003.
22 journalists (various nationalities) have been killed in Afghanistan since September, 2001.
5 journalists (regional and independents) have been killed in Libya since March, 2011.
Wisconsin military service person special mention of the week, military casualty, and journalist casualty information sources: Committee to Protect Journalists; cnn.com; Milwaukee Journal Sentinel; washingtonpost.com; thehighground.org; Wisconsin Department of Veterans Affairs; iraqbodycount.org; www.defense.gov/news/casualty.pdf; and, icasualties.org .
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| Posted by Bob Keith at | | | |
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Cats usually have lots of names. And of course T.S. Eliot wrote about just that topic. In the case of our gaggle of cats, I defer to the many names of Little Beanie the cat: Beanie; Beanie-weenie; Littlebeanie; Tiny-tiger; Beanie Kitty; Mini-bike Beanie (due to her high pitched long reverberating meow when picked up); The Little Pisser, The Mad Piddler, and, Sam's Beanie. And, she was named after our odd-colored fuzzy old and likeable pumpkin cat named Sidney.
Little Beanie never got to meet Sidney. He died at 15 years old, the fall before that cold winter Little Beanie was found on our farm house porch in a frozen flower pot. Sidney too had many names: Sid; Sidney-kitty; Sidney-bean; Kidney-bean; Kidney-Kitty; Sidney, and of course he had been called Beanie as well. Especially, the name Beanie was evoked when he had just peed on something. "Beanie! Stop that! Bad kitty!" The lecture was always to no avail. He would promptly blink his fuzzy eyes and rub your leg and purr.
The wise old Mama Kitty had led her late litter of three kitties on to the porch at our farm house hoping someone would save them from the pending Wisconsin Arctic winter. She was right....we were suckers. The kittens were dwarfish probably due to their late season births. They were too small for their age. Ol' Mama Kitty knew what had to be done. In desperation, the feral beast brought her babies to the enemy. Like a desperate and near defeated army sending their wounded and civilians to the victorious enemy. The two sisters survived, the boy died later the next spring.
One girl was a calico like Mama Kitty but its personality was not feral. We called her Symantha. She was very loving and affectionate. Little Beanie was just the opposite of Symantha and more like Mama Kitty in personality....a fiery bundle of furor; but, she was solid pumpkin yellow/orange - the same odd color as old Sidney. Little Beanie was a third of his size. Her original name would be.... Little Beanie. She would never get big.
Little Beanie was a terror. We had put her and her sister in the huge upstairs bathroom at our farm house, complete with a big sunny window with a screen that let in a warm breeze. Symantha tamed down quickly and graduated to house-kitty forthwith. Little Beanie flunked good-kitty skills.
When I took her to our local veterinarian to be spayed and get her vaccinations, she scratched up every soul in the clinic. They were all so relieved when I came back to pick her up. All of them seemed a bit embarrassed to have been roughed up by a tiny cat.
To give Little Beanie a wide birth, I took her to my Mom's house in Janesville to live with Sam the cat until we decided what to do with the property....and Little Beanie. Mom had died the past spring. The house was still in limbo as to what to do with it. Sidney who I had also brought to the house to keep Sam company had died to that fall. I checked on the house at least four times a week and stayed there overnight at least a couple days a week for my college work.
The summer of 2002 was no different than several past. The Mother and Father-in-law spent the summer in Lake Geneva. One pleasant Friday, I headed over to their big camper and the plan was to all go out for fish. I stopped at Mom's house to feed the kitties and do my ritual house checking.
There was Little Beanie no friendlier now than the day she was born. She sat behind my Mom's idle television which still sat by the patio door. I had put it there so Mom could look out into her garden while watching the tv in the last months of her life. During those end days of her struggle, a hospital bed sat in the dining area by that patio door. Beanie was sitting there catching a bit of sun coming through the big glass sliding double door. She gave me an odious glower.
I never give up - a fault my former co-worker pal Charles always claimed would no-doubt some day get me killed. Charles must have gotten a laugh this day as he looked down from what ever heaven he ended up in. Without thinking, I reached behind the television to pet Little Beanie.
"Good kitty," I said hopefully. "Poor sad kitty, come out and be friendly...."
There was a pop and a snap, and then a snarl. It took me a second to realize what had happened as I jerked my hand back. It was too late. Blood poured out of my little finger near the knuckle. I could see the bone. Being on an ambulance service I knew enough to quickly douse it with peroxide. My Mom had stashes of it everywhere. I held direct pressure on the wound and kept it raised. I wrapped up the finger, and hand, collected my ego, looked sad at Beanie, and pet Sam the cat on the head as I headed out the door. By the edge of town, I had forgotten the incident.
It was 40 miles over to Lake Geneva. By the time I got there, my hand felt uncomfortable, but I lived with a lot of discomfort off and on due to my blood and heart condition. By the end of fish fry, I was getting a bit concerned as the hand had swollen quite a bit. By the time we got back to the camper, the hand had doubled in size.
Heide had planned for us to sleep over night in the parents' big camper and enjoy Lake Geneva the next day. I thought for a couple minutes, graciously declined, and bid everyone good night. Off I headed to my hospital in Madison before the hand became too inflamed and I would not be able to get to my own docs.
It would be a 75 mile journey. I had plenty of time to make up a story. I did not want the medical people meddling in an animal bite. Beanie had had her rabies shots. And I did not want to have to prove it. I would tell them I smashed my hand with a hammer. What a dummy. Being an ambulance guy I knew it was obvious it was not an abrasion or crush.
In to my emergency room cubicle waltzed an old doc I had dealt with before with my own past heart and blood emergencies. As well, I had brought a few patients to him from time to time while on ambulance duty. This day he was followed in by a couple of apprehensive looking med students - a young man and young woman.
"Hey All-star," he said. "What in hell bit you?"
Busted.
"My little cat," I said defeatedly. "She has had all her shots."
"Not my problem," he said and smiled. I will treat your wound. If you have rabies, that is your problem." And then he gave me a wry laugh.
Two intravenous medication lines pumped antibiotic in me most of the night. By morning, they determined I need not be admitted for a longer stay.
Before the clever old doc left his shift in the morning, he popped his head in the cubicle.
"Hey All-star, too bad you did not wait an hour or two longer to come in," he said.
I gave him a confused look.
Then he explained.
"You see, the infection caused your hand to swell so bad, a couple of your fingers were only minutes away from being broken by the pressure. I sure would have liked to have had to rebreak your fingers and put them back in line again. I had a couple of medical students shadowing me last night. It sure would have been great experience for them."
Then he threw me that wry laugh one last time.
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"Get rid of that crazy little cat," came the mantra from every hill and dale. The chorus came from every friend and every enemy alike.
To the chagrin of all parties, I made it my mission to tame the savage little beast Beanie. I spent hours and hours petting her..., with heavy welding gloves on..., and trying to win her over. It took a while to dawn on me because she was so aloof for so long, that she had some of the softest fur I had ever felt. And too, she had the longest whiskers I'd ever seen.
Heide always said, "Some other poor kitty has Beanie's tiny whiskers; Little Beanie ended up with some big kitty's whiskers."
Sadly, however, I began to think she would always be feral like her mother cat. Maybe everyone was right - you can't save them all.
Heide would often wryly snark, "The only reason that little terror is still alive is because..., you are still alive. She better hope you never kick the bucket."
We were on the precipice of finally giving up on the small temperamental beast.
Then one day out of the blue..., she jumped up on my lap, put her head on my knee, and purred and purred. Apparently, she simply just arbitrarily surrendered her feral shtick.
She became my kitty in a house of kitties. For years and years she followed the routine, jump on the lap, head on my knee, purr and purr. She loved to be picked up and she would make her odd little high pitched long-reverberating mini-bike meow, as she purred at the same time.
She even won Heide over with her water antics. She would stand on the edge of the sink and give that famous meow until a trickle of water was turned on for her. Then she started the habit of only drinking out of the water bowl while lying down with her head drooped lazily in the water.
She won the rest of the doubters over once they saw how she went on to fall in love with Sam, our gray handsome tiger five years her senior. She shadowed him all day long and often slept on top of him in a heap. Ol' Sam was harnessed trained and would parade around the back yard on a twenty-foot leash. Beanie would hover at the door with her worried little face, like a possessive girl friend waiting for her boyfriend to get done playing a softball game with his beer drinking buddies. When he would prance back into the house with his macho bright red harness smelling like the garden, she would scold him with that haunting meow.
"That can't be that same cat that bit you is it Bob?" People would ask.
I finely won one.
Note: This blog "Fate Fairies" - book version Category is a work in progress. The original vignettes are being edited for book form. Go to the Cooldadiomedia Web site and the Fate Fairies Page for an ordered chronology of the book vignettes (chapters).
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| Posted by Bob Keith at | | | |
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A 45 year old college junior, one fall morning in 2001, I was on my way to the University of Whitewater - Wisconsin. I was in my second semester there after transferring in from Madison Area Technical College. My mother had died of cancer in March of that year. It was an exhausting ordeal. I had put my job and college on hold for a semester to care for her. I had some medical training. All that remained from the battle to help Mom was her house in Janesville and her old car. I would stop by to check on the place on my way to UW-Whitewater on the commute from Green County.
On that particular morning, I was bringing an ancient house cat of mine over to the empty rambling house to let him live out his life until we decided what to do with the place. He would join Sam the little barn tiger who had already made himself at home there. We were glad we saved the humble estate through the medical ordeal, (many people lose their homes at the end of life) but because she was so sick for so long, the house had fallen into a bit of a shambles. We were now the owners of what other people who did not look at it close, might think was a blessing, but was in reality an expensive and falling apart house to maintain.
Anyway, I decided to put some life back into the place and brought over a couple of cats from our farmette to sit in the window as they will do. An old car in the driveway and a cat in the sunny picture window made the place look at least a bit lived in. I was there every day anyway; the surrogate security guard felines would be easy to care for.
Sidney, the now elderly "odd-yellow" (Mom's description) fuzzy Tom with the bent ear, would routinely get car sick when transported. The radio seemed to exacerbate his agony. So, I rode to Janesville in silence with Sidney in his usual state of travel distress.
Taking the opportunity during the silent ride to make a couple calls, I dialed up "The Y." Having had nine pool supervisors in five years at the YMCA, I thought it best to give a call and remind them that this particular day would be the first day I would no longer be working for them. From experience, I imagined someone wondering why I had not shown up. The 40 mile daily travel to Whitewater was just too grinding. There was no room to put another 40 mile commute to Madison to work at "The Y" as well. On a side note, there was a couple supervisors I had never even met. I took the early shifts and I was long gone by the time they came to work at nine-ish. That is why I thought it best to remind someone I was actually done working for them.
I got a hold of boss du jour and reminded her I would no longer be under her employ. There was a pause. "I remember," she said sadly. It sounded like she was crying. She said she wished I had given her more notice, but bid me good luck in a distressed weak sounding voice.
"Damn," I thought. I never bummed someone out so much before because I quit. I had only met the woman once."
When I pulled into town, it was eerily quiet. Something was fishy. On any given Tuesday, Janesville being the County Seat, would normally be bustling. I pulled into Mom's driveway and the street looked like a ghost town. One odd lawn mower ran off in the distance; the neighborhood was usually alive early in the a.m. with the retired crowd I lived amongst doing their daily minutia yard care.
I shoved Sidney into his new dwelling and paused to look back out to the street. It was like something out of those movies where everyone has died except one poor schlep. I kept Mom's old radio that sat on her kitchen counter turned in all the time. It served as a dandy burglar deterrent. I had never changed the dial she always had set at, "News, sports, and talk, 720 (AM) WGN," out of Chicago. It was the same station her own mother had listened to. Grandma grew up in Chicago. But this morning the usual distinctive Chicago voice was not on-air. There was a plethora of other voices prattling out of the old radio.
One rather distressed unfamiliar voice coming over the air waves said something to the effect, "They are gone...both towers are gone...this is awful...all air traffic is grounded...there is some kind of attack."
An odd feeling passed over me as the blood rushed to my head. I looked at Sidney now inspecting the kitchen counter of his new digs.
I had this uneasy feeling even with only that small bit of information that our lives had just changed for the rest of my lifetime at least. On the way to Whitewater when my thoughts got back to my daily toils it dawned on me. It wasn't me that had upset my boss. She must have been watching the television in the YMCA office.
It was September 11, 2001.
Note: This blog "Fate Fairies" - book version Category is a work in progress. The original vignettes are being edited for book form. Go to the Cooldadiomedia Web site and the Fate Fairies Page for an ordered chronology of the book vignettes (chapters).
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| Posted by Bob Keith at | | | |
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Marine Reserve Lance Corporal Branden Paul Ramey, 22, Belvidere, Illinois (attached to Marine Corps Reserve, Madison, Wisconsin), died on Monday, November 8, 2004, in Lutifiya, Babil Province (south of Fallujah and Baghdad), Iraq. He was one of two Marines killed while fighting enemy forces. Lance Corporal Ramey was assigned to Company G, 2nd Battalion, 24th Marine Regiment, 4th Marine Division, Marine Forces Reserve, based out of Madison, Wisconsin.
The Web site legacy.com using information from the Fresno Bee out of California, mentioned that Belvidere, Illinois, was Branden Ramey's home town. He was born on October 6, 1982 in Rockford, Illinois. Branden graduated from Belvidere High School in 2001.
The Web site iraq.pigstye.net using information from the Rockford Register Star notes that while in high school, Branden Ramey had been homecoming king, and participated in football, baseball, and wrestling. After high school he joined the semiprofessional Belvidere Rush football team. Ramey also was close to earning his associate's degree from Rock Valley College in Rockford when his unit was deployed. He had been in Iraq only six weeks when he was killed.
The Web site wisn.com notes Lance Corporal Ramey was one of two members of Company Golf, 2nd Battalion, 24th Marine Regiment, killed in the battle. Lance Corporal Shane O'Donnell of DeForest, Wisconsin was also killed. Their unit consisted of 175 Marines.
At the time of his death Lance Corporal Branden Ramey was survived by his parents Randy and Sandy Ramey, and Pamela and Eddie Trevino; his fiance Stacey Lee; brothers Nicholas Ramey, Bryce Trevino, and Brent Trevino; sister, Melissa Ramey; grandparents Gordon and Betty Ramey, Paul and Joyce Lightner, Richard and Janice Gritzmacher, Concepcion Trevino, Arnold and Diane Vance, and Kathleen and Cecil Herzing; and, great-grandparents Lela Unglesbee, and Dorothy Fordsmand. Lance Corporal Ramey was laid to rest at Belvidere Cemetery, Belvidere, Illinois.
Information for this short biography about Marine Lance Corporal Branden Paul Ramey was pieced together from the following sources: legacy.com, Fresno Bee, "Branden Ramey," November 17, 2004; iraq.pigstye.com, Rockford Register Star, "Branden Ramey," November 10 2004; wisn.com, "2 Wisconsin-Based Marines Die In Iraq," November 9, 2004; Wisconsin Department of Veteran Affairs "Fallen Heroes Page"; and, CNN.com "War Casualties Page."
Note: This "Wisconsin Military Casualties Afghanistan Iraq Compilation" Daily Dadio blog Category is under construction. Go to the Cooldadiomedia Web site and the Wisconsin War Casualties Page for a list of names noted by date of death. ( If readers know of other military service persons with Wisconsin connections that are not on the Web site comprehensive list of fatal casualties, or notice errors, please email Bob Keith at keithrg13@cooldadiomedia.com ).
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| Posted by Bob Keith at | | | |
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