CASUALTIES OF WAR
When I was 18 years old, I was stupid in all the ways you’d expect an 18 year old to be stupid. Shallow and silly, irresponsible, and with no fear of my own mortality...in other words, a perfect candidate for America’s armed forces. In those days the war was in Vietnam and I reached draft age in the middle of my forgettable college career. But I had a student deferment and so, in the beginning at least, I gave little thought to the war raging 15,000 miles away.
But some of my college buddies were approaching graduation and the end of their deferments. One of them was an eccentric fellow named Don McGinty. For reasons I never knew, his nickname was "The Cheeseman." We were both, improbably, in a fraternity—he and I were known for our reclusive ways and not really "fraternity material," but somehow we’d survived the winnowing process. He was a senior, I was a freshman—the Old Man and the Kid.
When I was 18 years old
I was young and stupid in all the ways
you’d expect an 18 year old to be...
In other words, a perfect candidate
for America’s armed forces
We lived in the fraternity house on Third Street, a building that dated back to before the Civil War. It was a rambling three story brick home with slate roofs and copper gutters. From the roof’s edge to the ground was more than 45 feet. Among his many talents, Cheeseman liked to run what he called "roof patrols." He’d swing over the creaky wooden fire escape, boost himself onto the nine inch wide gutter and make his way around the perimeter of the house. He did this on a regular basis. My fraternity brothers and I could often hear him up there, stomping about, and figured it was only a matter of time before Don made a quick trip, downward, to the front yard. We put his odds of survival at 50/50. After all, forty-five feet just isn’t enough distance to reach terminal velocity.
One night, Don poked his head in my door; I was listening to Glen Campbell’s "Wichita Lineman" for the 76th consecutive time and had assumed that he, like my neighbor Bemis, had come to throw my record or my stereo, or me out the window. But instead, he made me an offer that I could not resist. He asked if I’d like to join him for tonight’s roof patrol. How could I say no?
Don led the way and I sallied forth without fear. It never occurred to me I could slip and plummet to my death, even when we had to make a free parabolic sprint between two chimneys, across the slippery slate, in order to traverse the west side of the old house. Nothing to it, I thought. We spent a bit of time on the roof’s apex, enjoying the quiet spring evening, then returned to the tv room to celebrate our triumph with a couple of Falls City beers. Our brothers were impressed. We’d looked danger in the eye and laughed. We were immortal!
Six weeks later, McGinty graduated and was promptly drafted into the United States Army. By September he was in Vietnam. We rarely heard from Cheeseman over the next year and a half. As before we were too young and stupid to think any harm could come his way. He was The Cheeseman. He defied Death each time he dashed across the slate roof. Finally, ahead of schedule, my pal Danny got a card from Don—he was coming home.
But instead of the gala greeting we’d planned, Don slipped into town quietly, without fanfare and it was a week later that we discovered he’d rented a small apartment, not far from campus. Don was not the Cheeseman anymore. Like so many other Vietnam vets, he didn’t want to talk about his time there, wanted to simply put it behind him and move on. But it wasn’t that easy; he finally showed us his wounds, or some of them. He spoke cryptically of the dread and the fear and uncertainty that haunted him for more than a year, until shell fragments from a Viet Cong booby trap ended his tour of duty early and sent him to an army hospital and finally back home.
He’d left Louisville, a 21 year old kid, who loved acid rock and Falls City beer and dancing on the gutters of the old fraternity house. He came back home, ages older than the 18 months he’d been away. More serious, more reflective and now certainly aware of the fragility of Life, he had become, ironically and because of his service, exactly the kind of man the recruiters avoided. He’d discovered how quickly a life can be changed, damaged or snuffed out. And certainly the U.S. Army has no need for that kind of maturity.
I lost touch with Don over the years. I have no idea how his life turned out. I hope it went well for him and he was able to deal with the demons that had been thrust upon him by a government, once again, willing to sacrifice its young. I know for sure that there are young men and women right now, almost 40 years later, being sacrificed once again, to satisfy the wrong-headed goals and even the egos of a government that never seems to look closer than the statistics, that never understands what "casualties of war" really means. For the Cheeseman, war took some of the lightness out of life. By the time he’d returned from Vietnam, "roof patrol" was a quaint memory. Now he knew what it really meant to stare Death in the eye. And he wanted no part of it.
A "PEACE" POSTSCRIPT
A couple years later, I found myself in imminent danger of the draft and a tour of duty in Vietnam. I didn’t want to follow in the Cheeseman’s footsteps, but I’d quit college, sacrificed my student deferment and was traveling west on a Yamaha 350, bound for the Grand Canyon and eventually, California. I figured I’d keep moving until the induction letter caught up with me.
America was, if anything, more divided and polarized than it is now. Along I-40 I’d stopped in Fort Smith, Arkansas for gas and had been given the evil eye by the filling station owner, a man who regarded anyone with hair over his ears as a Commie and a draft dodger. I paid for the gas and walked slowly to my bike, but the man’s son, a kid my age, I guess, ran after me. He pulled from his back pocket a stack of computer punch cards and handed me one of them. "Here," he said, "I don’t want you to think everyone from Arkansas is a redneck." I held the card up to the light and smiled.
Thirty-five years later, I still carry it in my wallet.
As for draft, I avoided it in athe worst of ways---I ran head-on into a southbound Buick, going north on my Yamaha. Sailed through the air. Smashed my ankle. Flunked my draft physical. I almost got killed, just to stay alive.
TRAPPING in GRAND COUNTY: A Broader View
I have followed the recent trapping controversy in Grand County and naturally my sympathies lie with the dogs. While there are many aspects of a rural lifestyle that I have, in recent years come to defend, I can find nothing in leg-hold traps that could ever be justified. To me it is still a cruel and barbaric practice that has no merit, under any circumstance.
Many years ago, my own dogs stepped in leg-hold traps, and remembering those horrible cries still haunts me. I ran in the direction of the wails and found both Muckluk and Squawker in significant pain. Trying to decide which dog to free first was excruciating. But I was able to extricate them and I made sure those traps would never be used again.
I’ve heard no one speak up
in defense of the animals
for which the traps were intended.
But one aspect of the current debate has gone missing. Most of the protests have come from citizens who have exclusively objected to the pain and injury the traps have inflicted on their pets or the risk imposed on them. I’ve heard no one speak up in defense of the animals for which the traps were intended.
According to Bill Bates, from Utah DWR, "For live sets... trappers are required to check their traps every 48 hours. The most sought after species in Utah for trapping are the bobcat, coyote, muskrat and beaver." He explained that a furbearer’s license is required for some species, like bobcats, but that coyotes are not protected at all in Utah. Bates explains, "Wildlife Services, a branch of the federal agency Animal and Plant Health Inspection Services, or APHIS, removes coyotes through trapping, aerial gunning and the use of M-44’s to protect livestock in the area. Statewide, there is a considerable predation problem, especially with domestic sheep."
So animals targeted by trappers can legally be allowed to remain in the trap for up to two days, whether it’s 110 degrees or -20. When the end finally comes, usually by gunshot or clubbing, death is a blessing. Coyotes can be trapped indiscriminately in numbers as large as the trapper can claim, and usually despite the perceived "predation" problem, the real motivation for most trappers is the income from the pelts. It’s a money-maker, plain and simple. I know trappers who finance their vacations on the furs their traps yield for them.
I hope that as this debate continues, more people will extend the scope of their outrage to include the thousands of coyotes and foxes and bobcats and muskrats and beavers and badgers and porcupines and rabbits and mule deer fawns and even redtail hawks that have fallen victim as well. The leg-hold trap is not very discriminating. There is no reason why we should be. Let’s save our dogs, but let’s not forget about the others.
"THE RANKS ARE THINNING."
As many of you know, I printed both Zephyr winter issues early last year and I worried about the risk. I even included a disclaimer that said in part, "If events occur between the time this issue is printed and the time it reaches newsstands that causes all or part of it to be in bad taste, I apologize." To be honest, I was thinking of national or world events; it never occurred to me that barely 24 hours after the issues were printed, my best friend might die suddenly. Bill Benge passed away last October of a massive heart attack; he had planned to help me unload the papers on Saturday and had looked forward to seeing his latest ads, which had become a familiar sight on the Zephyr’s back page. I was at first mortified to realize that his law practice ad would continue to appear, months after his death. I even considered tossing all 30,000 copies and doing another press run. Ultimately though, I decided Bill would enjoy the irony and maybe even watching me squirm a bit. That darnn Willie Flocko. I still miss him more than I can describe. (More about Bill on page 23.)
In the weeks that followed Bill’s death, even more oldtime Moabites left us—among them legendary river runners Brian Coombs and Linda Wittkopf, both too young to depart so prematurely. And though attorney Rose Reilly, lived in San Juan County, her life touched many Moabites. She died from injuries sustained in a car accident---again, too young to go.
But when I heard my old pal, VW mechainic/philosopher Tom Arnold had died, at least I could take comfort knowing he’d lived a long and happy life.. He was one of the first Moabites I met when I came to town. He reminded me of Frank Morgan in the Wizard of Oz. Imperturbable, joyous and full of life, right to the end, he was one of a kind. I drew the accompanying doodle of Tom Tom, more than 25 years ago. He never lost his smile.
KUDOS to the MOAB DINER
In our relentless 24/7 world, it’s always refreshing to find someone willing to buck the trend. So hats off to the Moab Diner for deciding to close on Sunday. Sure, it might be an inconvenience to some, who think all businesses should be open and available all the time, but isn’t it good to know there’s a business out there that puts something above maximizing profits. Like TIME OFF!
Well done, Jeff.
UDOT’S SUMMER ROAD PROJECTS:
Have they got some delays for us!
If you’re planning a trip to Moab this summer, be ready for some intense delays, thanks to a series of massive Utah Department of Transportation (UDOT) road projects on US 191 and US 491. The Road Department plans to spend in excess of $20 million on three separate projects, both north and south of Moab, and along a nine mile stretch of US 491 just east of Monticello.
The delay that will have you pulling your hair (I’m already in a state of self-induced thinning) occurs south of Moab, from about Hole n’ the Rock to Hatch Wash, a distance of 15 miles. In two separate areas, UDOT contractors are adding passing lanes and making major realignments. What’s particularly frustrating is that much of this same stretch of road was plagued by highway delays last summer as well. In 2006, they resurfaced this section and flaggers stopped traffic well into September. Now they’re going back and widening the highway in the same places.
And don’t think you can wait until 5 PM to avoid the mess. The contractor plans to go 24 hours a day, five days a week. The work is scheduled to last until September. According to Myron Lee of UDOT, the work may be done earlier than that but the contract doesn’t require completion until September. This means, says Lee, that if the contractor feels he’s making good progress, he can leave this work site temporarily and work another project.
If you think you can at least have a nice chat on your cell phone while you wait for the pilot car, don’t hold your breath. Much of the construction zone is out of cell phone reach...one bar. And finally, once this work is done, can we expect an unimpeded ride in 2008? Nope, more road projects on US 191 and on US 6 are in the offing.
Happy motoring.
AND FINALLY...BRAVE NEW WEST
My book, "Brave New West: Morphing Moab at the Speed of Greed," is finally out there on the shelves. Writing it was easy...now comes the hard part. Promoting the damn thing. The University of Arizona Press has arranged for two book signings, so far. The first will be at Ken Sanders Rare Books in Salt lake City on March 30, at 7 PM. The second will be at Back of Beyond Books, in Moab, on (wouldn’t you know it), Friday the 13th (of April) at 7 PM.
I am absolutely terrified of public events like these and I hope as many of you as possible will show up with smelling salts, if need be, to keep me in an upright position. And if it seems I’ve forgotten your name, don’t be insulted. Last month, Melody Sakrison’s name briefly slipped right out of my brain, despite the fact we’ve known each other for more than a quarter century.
I still insist, however, that it’s not the years, it’s the mileage. So I hope to see you all there, whoever the hell you are.
