tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-74049574035790121372023-11-15T11:02:46.405-08:00The start of the end or the END of a start?Dave-O a.k.a. Chimpohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02283755319483950850noreply@blogger.comBlogger4125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7404957403579012137.post-7096608853016624122016-05-22T16:54:00.000-07:002016-05-22T16:54:57.766-07:00DV, the new ED Hardy/Tapout for vets?<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">This is
bound to get quite a few people up in arms, but I ask that you read it in the
fullest before making statements bellow.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"> First I’d like to lead off with this
in case someone is unclear as to the comparison. Ed Hardy was a popular and at
one point in time an expensive brand of clothing. It was soon taken over by the
“hipsters” of the early 2000’s and the, well for lack of a better term, douche
bags we all seen around where we work and live. Tapout followed the same path,
a clothing company that was designed for MMA and those types of people soon
turned to represent people that had the attitude of “I wear it so I am it”. Now
alas, it seems to me and a lot of vets that DV has started down this road.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"> I’ll be the first to say, I liked
their clothing as a funny thing. Their stuff said things that I thought and/or
agreed with, but wouldn’t wear it around. Not because I would be embarrassed by
it but because for the added attention it would bring to me. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"> For example, “Does not play well
with others” and “Stay back 100 meters”. It’s funny, it’s part of a lot of
deployments, and yes it makes me chuckle. But not for the reasons you think. It
makes me laugh because for someone wearing a “Does not play well with others”
it would appear to me that you are wanting the added and unnecessary attention
that it is bringing to you. Of course when you wear a shirt that says something
like that people are going to do one of two things. They are either going to
ask you about it forcing you to explain what it’s about (or blow them off
furthering the bad attitude stereotype that veterans have, which we’ll cover in
a post coming soon), or they will smirk and make quiet comments about how
ridiculous and idiotic it is for someone to wear something along those lines
and when finding out it’s a veteran’s shirt and clothing line it will again add
to the poor stereotype that the veteran community is facing in this day and
age. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"> It seems to me that if you really
are a “dysfunctional” individual you wouldn’t want people to interact with you.
But a NARCOSIST would…. you WANT people to ask about the shirt, you WANT people
to inquire about your service, and you WANT to propagate the bad stereotypes
that people are getting about veterans now days. You think it’s “cool” and “funny”
to watch “potatoes” look at your shirt and walk away. You think it’s funny that
“potatoes” can’t understand your “sense of humor” or will ever be able to “get”
you. News flash bub/bubbets, if you climb down off the pedestal you’ve put
yourselves up on and actually TALK and COMMUNICATE with people you’ll find you
are actually NO BETTER THAN ANYONE ELSE……..HOLY SHIT……did the wind just get
taken out of your sails?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"> You are a VETERAN! Yes, you took an
oath to defend this country, you volunteered to serve this GREAT nation, and
yes, you ARE the 3%. But what you are not is better than a civilian that did
not serve. Everyone has a calling and not everyone’s calling is to serve in the
military. But putting that aside just because you did serve does not make you
any better than anyone else. That’s a does or reality number one.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"> Dose number 2, just because you are
a veteran does not mean you are “dysfunctional”. Surprise, surprise sunshine, I
know momma told you that you were special but that doesn’t mean the same thing.
Something that is extremely funny to me and I’ve set back and watched this the
last couple of years is the number of people that wear and act the “dysfunctional”
way. I’m not tooting my own horn here but merely setting an example. I fought
in the invasion of Iraq in 2003 AND in the first battle of Ah Fallujah in 2004,
both as an Infantry Machine gunner. My brothers and I saw a lot of stuff and experienced
a lot of things. You know how many of them preach the teachings of “dysfunctional
veteran”? Not very many, actually less than 5%. We all thing the clothing and
facebook post are funny (mostly) but that’s as far as it goes. The reason I set
this here is for my next observation. The amount of people I see wearing and
boasting about being “dysfunctional” are generally people that seen or done
little to no combat missions let alone tours. Before you get to butt hurt, yes,
I do understand that NOT being in combat doesn’t mean you can’t “suffer” from
PTSD or feel “dysfunctional”. Just hold on I’ll be clarifying my stance
shortly. I say this because, in my and some of my brothers experiences, the
ones that wear these shirts and talk (loudly most of the time) about DV are
ones that will tell you a “war story” in a heartbeat without even being asked
about it or will have a very detailed and gnarly story to share that seems more
tailored to make the listener understand “why they are a dv” and less about
letting someone know that they are in fact a veteran. A lot of this comes from
the entitlement mentality (that I will be sharing another post all about soon)
that a lot of our veterans have. New age vets seem to be taught and coached on
how to get what disability ratings from the VA when the only disability they
actually have is laziness to not work. So instead of becoming a productive
member of society that happens to be a veteran they don on “veteran” gear, put
on an act at the VA, get very defensive to anyone that indicates they aren’t
buying their act, are rude and disrespectful to “potatoes”, and generally are
not someone that any self-respecting human wants anything to do with. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"> Third dose of reality. Believe it or
not, there ARE some civilians that have had it (mentally and/or physically)
worse than you. Just because they never served doesn’t mean that that civilian
you just were rude to doesn’t have PTSD/PTS/TBI. That “potato” that you just
scoffed at or thing has no idea what you’ve “been through” does in fact know
what you’ve been through 10 fold. That “civie” that you thing “wouldn’t get my
humor” has a more twisted sense of humor than you ever thought, mainly because
they actually think it’s funny where as you think it’s funny because DV said so…you
see where I’m going with this? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"> You want to put veterans up on a pedestal
and then act like a damned fool then wonder why/how vets have such a bad name. You,
who have no actual reason for being “dysfunctional” other than being a veteran,
you have just become that “douche bag” that dons on the ed hardy and tapout
gear thinking it makes you look badass or like you are somebody. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"> I was taught both in life and the
military, the actions of a man determine the character not his looks or appearance.
That squared away Marine may be the biggest shit bird in the unit but he keeps
is camies nice and pressed. That Marine that hasn’t used an iron in years will
more than likely be the best damned Marine in the battalion. Your cloths only
make you look foolish and draws attention to you, attention that you claim you
don’t want. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><b>-CHIMPO OUT</b><o:p></o:p></span></div>
Dave-O a.k.a. Chimpohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02283755319483950850noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7404957403579012137.post-64511496080586011562015-11-09T18:46:00.003-08:002015-11-09T18:46:38.010-08:00The beginning end<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 8.5pt;">Let
me set the scene for you.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 8.5pt;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 8.5pt;">It’s a sunny, getting hot morning probably around
1000, July 2<sup>nd</sup> day. Normal activity is going on around a OP
(Observation Post) that we have affectionately dubbed “OP 88” or simply “Aiming
Stake” (as best my depleting memory will serve me). We dubbed it this simply
because the insurgents of Iraq in 2004 seemed to be using it as an aiming stake
for their mortars for a couple weeks or so up until this particular day. They
were sporadic, a couple one day, none for a couple of days then one. Never
developing a pattern nor accurate with the mortar fire. Some would be close,
others nowhere near us. They had made impact on the OP one time before this
date, no major injuries, and it was in the evening time so they undoubtedly had
no clue they had made impact. But today, today was different, there was an
uneasy “peace” with the morning. There hadn’t been any mortars for a couple of days,
looking back, it was a strange sense that morning and no one had the slightest
clue. I even believe a comment had been made about them giving up or was
slacking on showing us their marksmanship. You got to understand, if you’re not
a GRUNT, we have a very twisted sense of humor. At this point in time my
company and battalion had so many Purple Hearts awarded that we started calling
them “Iraqi Marksmanship Badges”. There was good humor in the air this morning
though. We had all been out of the FOB for 2 to 4 days and was finally getting
to go back with a chance of an actual shower, not a baby wipe shower, and some
half assed slop they called food in our chow tent, if the fobbets didn’t eat it
all up and use up all the water before we got back. Our gear was half ready to
pick up the moment the trucks got there and half ready to deploy in case of a
firefight. We were there, we were ready, or so we thought. I can’t tell you
what time it was, I can’t explain to you the sinking feeling when you hear the
sudden THUD of a launching mortar that you KNOW isn’t your own mortar sections
tubes firing. But I can try.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 8.5pt;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 8.5pt;">The
first THUD sounded, we all knew what it was, so we ducked inside of the bunkers
set up on each corner of this OP. BOOM, first impact, probably 50 meters or so
away. Time had ceased to exist after the first launch, and hindsight being
20/20, I knew something was going to change that day. The air seemed to grow
stale and sounds seemed to be louder and bass’ier than any other time. BOOM!
Second impact, those sons of bitches were walking them in on us! I, to this
day, have no clue how many mortars dropped on us that day but I just know the
ones I remember. We’re all in our bunker now, half thinking this is a normal
shoot and miss like usual, and half thinking “Is this our number?”. Then
BOOOOOOMMM!!!!!! IMPACT INSIDE OP and the dreaded, unnerving, familiar voice
scream out…..”I’M HIT, I’M HIT, I’M HIT!!!” I remember the impact, it was so
close, seemed to hit right on the bunker door. I remember it rocking me harder
than any close explosion had a couple months prior inside of Fallujah. I
remember taking a step towards the door because that was a fellow Devil Dog
that was hit and hurting out there. What I don’t remember, is what happened
next. I’ve been told that I went out there to pull that Devil Dog into our
bunker. I’ve been told that when that mortar landed beside me within 15 or so
feet, it threw me up against the HESCO barrier like a rag doll. I’ve also been
told that shrapnel impacted that HESCO all around me but left me mostly
untouched. I’ve been told that the Marine hit first had ended up in a rut or
something and that shielded him from the last mortar. What I do remember
though, is coming to with my squad leader looking at me with a look of sincere
concern and asked me, “ARE YOU HIT?” I know that sounds ridiculous, but honestly
looking back, I wasn’t rattled with holes, my gear and cloths weren’t ripped
off of me, and for all I knew I was just hit in the head with a rock. We began
working on the hit Marine. Hole in the arm, torso punctures, and leg entry
wounds. His arm was unusable, he was terrified, he was human. Let me say that
again, HE WAS HUMAN. I know that sounds pointless, but you just don’t
understand if you think that way. We had just come out, months earlier, of some
of the bloodiest house to house fighting seen since Hue City, Vietnam. We felt
inhuman, invincible even. Even though we lost a lot, we had survived, I’m
speaking solely from my own thoughts here, but that’s how I felt over all. This
young Marine was injured, no one knew how badly, all we knew, MEDAVAC was
happening and it was happening yesterday. We have lost to many to let another
one go. Then, out of nowhere, BAM! A sharp searing pain in my leg like I had a
piece of molten steel hop out a weld and into my leg. “DAMNIT!!! I’M HIT”,
pulling down my trousers there it is, a hole about a half inch around right in
my upper left thigh. All I could think was “You mother fuckers, gave me the
damn Forrest Gump wound!” Oh I was pissed, and hurting. I had no idea what lay
in wait for me, but I knew this...I’m not sitting down for the MEDAVAC ride. Not
with hot steel in my ass. I stood the whole way to the RAS (Regimental Aide
Station), got seen by a nurse while lying in the bed next to the Marine that
was hit before me. For a skinny dude he was stout, he was giving those Doc’s a
work out trying to calm him down and asses his situation. They hook up the good
ole morphine to me, but it’s not working, touch my leg and now I’m feeling
EVERYTHING! “OUCH!” Nurses can’t figure out why I’m able to feel them poking
and prodding me. They realize my arm was up and not allowing the medicine to
flow, straighten out my arm and BAM a sea of numbness washes over me. It seems
2 seconds later I feel my body moving and look down to see a nurse full length
finger deep in my leg trying to feel for the shrapnel, with no luck. Wouldn’t
you know it, surgery here I come. In the end, I find out it missed my sciatic
nerve by a half inch or so and months later after getting state side I had
small fragments working their way to the surface of my skin. The Marine that
was injured before me, he made a full recovery and is living a full and vibrant
life, I think he is even going for his PhD is a field of science. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 8.5pt;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 8.5pt;">After
it was all said and done, all the brothers we lost, all the blood that was shed
in that god forsaken sand box, what did we really leave behind. I know my
injuries were nowhere near the extent most others were. But a big piece of me
stayed there when I came home. We left a job undone because politics became
more important than seeing our task all the way through. We left a city
unsecured and a worse place to go for the next wave to go through it later that
same year. But that day, that fateful day of July 2<sup>nd</sup>, that was a
rebirth and a death of me. I knew and know I am lucky to have been spared and
unscathed as I was. But at the same time a large chunk of my personal motivation
and drive died that day. It has sense began to return, but at night, when it
gets really quiet, and I am in that magically deceitful hell in between sleep
and awake. My mind relives that point over and over and over again. To the
point I swear I can hear the primer striking before the explosion. Time after
time I hear that scream, “I’M HIT”, I feel that concussion wave, and I feel myself
tell myself goodbye. It’s taken me years, to be able to put all this into words
and I know there are a great number of people out there that understand what I am
saying without the little explanations I’m putting out as well. But to come to
the realization that a large chuck of me has separated from myself and I will
never be the whole man I was when I left to go on this deployment is something
that I have struggled with for a while. It wasn’t until I talked to an older
Marine who was a Korean Vet that pulled my head out of the water and let me see
a light. He said to me very short words but struck chords within myself that
will forever be ringing. “We all see battles and actions that should have been
done differently, those of us luck enough to come home owe it to those that wasn’t
to live our lives as fully and wholly as we possibly can. Got it lil brother?” <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 8.5pt;">In
the end, I leave you with this. A lot of us have some sort of survivor’s guilt
in one way shape or form. But Odin didn’t see fit to have his Valkyries call us
to Valhalla. Instead he seen fit to let us roam the lands for a time further.
Our battles were not over then, nor are they now. As a veteran, it is our duty
to keep in contact with our brothers and sisters. We all fight demons in our
own way, but we never fight them alone. Do a buddy check on the 22<sup>nd</sup>
of each month, or on a time that you see fit. But do one, you never know what
the phone call or text message may be the stopping someone from doing. Semper
Fi family, we are the 3%, we have to watch each other’s 6’s.<o:p></o:p></span>Dave-O a.k.a. Chimpohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02283755319483950850noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7404957403579012137.post-60200077741230577022015-11-09T16:37:00.002-08:002015-11-09T16:37:53.112-08:00Tired. Old. Hands.<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 8.5pt;">Yes,
it was intentional to put the periods between these words. You can say these
words together all day long and the same thoughts will come to mind. But, if
you will, take a look at your hands. Now close your eyes and say these words
like I have typed them out. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 8.5pt;">Old.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 8.5pt;">Tired.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 8.5pt;">Hands.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 8.5pt;">Did it change anything for you? For me it did. I had never put
much thought into. It's something that I have said out loud and to myself
numerous times throughout the years. We have all lived different and similar
lives, done all the things that has made us who we are today, and had our own
perspective of what we did vary even with the brothers and sisters that were
right beside of us. But today, as my mind got to pondering over my upcoming
240th birthday (OORAH MARINE CORPS) and Veterans Day following it the next day,
those three simple little words jumped out to me. As I settle into my hotel
room, actually watching as my fingers move while typing this very sentence,
it's resonating with me more and more. Here is what those three simple little
words are saying to me.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 8.5pt;">I watched my hands work, on auto-pilot, taking my contacts out,
placing them on their dishes and putting the fluid in the container. Sealing
the lid on JUST tight enough. I watch as I rewash my hands afterwards, thinking
about all the things I have done with this set of tired aching hands. I grew up
playing and running around in the Kentucky woods I called home. I trained and
became a Marine, beating and banging every ounce of strength I could squeeze
out of these hands to just do ONE MORE PULL UP. Or the time in boot camp when
we were on a formation run when I tripped over a root and got ran over by
4 or 5 guys that were running behind me, getting to the training dome for MCMAP
and going through all the hand to hang training for the day while my finger and
thumb nail was wanting to fall off because I feared like a mutha sucka about
being dropped back to TD 1 and pushed through everything I had to with pull ups
and all the IT'ing to keep from failing anything. Had skin ripped off my
fingers and knuckles while learning the art of Machine Gunning through School
Of Infantry. Hot brass and links burning the piss out them while training on
hot ranges while in the fleet. All the training pre deployments, all at a time
before gloves were a mandatory thing in the military, we had a thing called callouses.
All the trash, crap, rocks, you name it, all over the sandbox called Iraq.
These hands have patched wounds, caused wounds, held the hands of the fading
away. They have caught more tears than any hand ever should. Sometimes they
shake from anticipation, from anxiety, from love, from memories I would rather
not have, and from memories I pray I never lose but are fading more and more as
the same hands reach out clinging to every fiber of the memory that they can
possibly hold onto. These hands have felt the loving touch of cold hard steel
of that blade and firearm that is more of a tool to me than a screwdriver is to
an electrician. A finger that better knows what the feel of a proper trigger
squeeze and sear reset is more so than what his own wife’s hands feel like just
from memory. These hands have dealt punches and blows in fights and brawls to
idiots that want to exercise their freedom of speech to a group of returning
Marines in a bar that should had just stayed home to drink. These hands, these
worn out hands, what pain and suffering they have delivered in their short time
on this earth.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 8.5pt;">But, these hands have done marvelous things as well. These hands,
these old tired hands, they have traveled the world. They have helped build up
countries in the worst of conditions. They have held the hand of a small child
and played patty-cake with a young girl that isn't even 8 years old yet and has
seen more death and destruction than most adults that have lived in a
"First World Nation" ever will in their life to include watching the
T.V. They have held the embrace of a fellow brother that "just had
enough" and needed to be held while he broke down because the demons had finally
made head way in his mind. They have held the hand of a spouse and children of
a brother that couldn't take it any longer and took the step that he never can
come back from. They have been sheathed into my pockets while my body to an onslaught
of slaps and punches from a spouse that couldn't find anyone else to blame when
their husband took that final step away from the world. These hands have felt
the loving embrace of family. They have held the son that I was told I would
never have, that same finger that knows the trigger squeeze like a lover was
held oh so tightly by my son. These hands have been held and acted as a conduit
of love and understanding by my wife in times I felt myself slipping into a
dark dark world, and always unsure if the journey out of will be possible. They
have held the hand of my mother as she spent her last hours on earth, and the
hands of my father that had to say good bye to his wife, soulmate, friend, and
partner of 30 years.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 8.5pt;">At the end of each long and eventful day it's this pair of old
tired hands that turns off all the lights, puts the children to bed,
pulls the blankets up and over the body, and settles into the most
comfortable position that they can so we can get up and start the day all over
again in the morning. Though we have all went through our own personal journeys
in this life, we have all ended up in relatively the same place. Our paths have
crossed at least one time if not many. We have seen and been through our own
fair share of trials and tribulations and have come out of them stronger and
more experienced than we entered them. So I want to leave you all with this as
a final thought. As Veterans Day draws near and passes, think about where we
have been, what we have accomplished, and keep our fallen brothers and sisters’
memory alive. Write down your memories while you remember the details because i
assure you, one day they will start to fade. At the end of the day when your
washing up before bed, take a look at your hands, take a long look, and see the
journey that you have made and the one you are working on now. Everything we
have done has lead us here, where will you go tomorrow......<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 8.5pt;">-Chimpo<o:p></o:p></span>Dave-O a.k.a. Chimpohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02283755319483950850noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7404957403579012137.post-82172749774835313122015-10-12T17:38:00.004-07:002015-10-12T17:38:41.221-07:00the beginning “Glad I set up shop early, damn sun sets in Oklahoma.” He said as he took the last couple pulls off a crumbly stale cigar. It begins to fall apart as he rolls it between his finger and thumb,<br />
“They don’t make them like they used to. Shaun would tell me I didn’t add enough water to the bag, I’d tell Shaun that it doesn’t fucking matter when the shops humidor probably quit working 2 years ago!”
He tosses the cigar on the ground angrily as he struggles to get out of his fold out chair. The last few years has been rough on him and his body was telling him daily. He straightens his body and stretches out his arms while stiffing the rest of his body. Then out of nowhere, he lets out a stretching yell.
“AGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!” and laughs.
“Ha ha ha, good ole Mongo, scaring up the wildlife again”
Off in the distance roosting birds in the trees fly off squawking at him.<br />
He folds his chair up, carefully places it in its sleeve, and lowers it into the RV. He hears a sound off in the distance and knows they will be in his area anytime now but he’s not in a hurry. As long as the sun stays out he knows he’s safe.
“Ha, safe, that’s a thing that we haven’t actually seen in years.” He mumbles to himself as he looks off to the sunset. “As long as you keep burning my dear, so will I. Well damn, there you go off to the other side of the world and I’m not even buttoned up yet, bitch.”
He gives one last wave to the sun and slides down the ladder to the inside of the RV.<br />
As he is locking the last of the four securing pins he hears them again but this time he knows they have watched him.
“Damnit, they seen you get in!” He said as he looked into the mirror. “Now they’re going to be tearing at Beast all night. Well, at least I’m in Beast instead of some stock P.O.S. out there. HA! HA! HA! Plus I got me some of those noise canceling headphones so I don’t have to listen to those damn nails scratching at the steel again.”<br />
He walks around doing one last safety check in his live in tank, turns out all the lights, and gets settled in his easy chair for the night.
“Well ole girl, once morning comes we’ll be headed to Ohio to the plant to see if we can get you a bigger engine, and maybe some more steel plating. But until then, you keep me safe one more night and I’ll make sure your dash is polished like you like.” He said as he clicked on the red lights, pulls up his blanket and waits.<br />
THUD! THUMP! SCRATCH! THUD!<br />
“Shit” he exclaimed as he jumped at the first sound. “You’d think I’d be used to that after 2 damn years.”
He settles back into his chair getting comfortable under his blanket. As he interlocks his fingers behind his head he listens to the rhythm of the thumping and scratching and thinks of the old days as he drifts off to sleep.
Dave-O a.k.a. Chimpohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02283755319483950850noreply@blogger.com0