CRISPY CRITTERS

This be another senile rambling for my kids as a "reference" to who I am at this advanced stage of senility and some insight as to why it "happened"? (As previously stated, I ain't sure where this is going, but we will know when we git there?)

In 1970, after a period of seasoning (3 months) as a Trooper, I was serenely "patrolling" the west side of San Antonio preserving the peace and dignity of the populace on a warmish August evening.

To the anguish of the United States Air Force, a two pilot jet "trainer" crashed in a residential neighborhood.

First on the scene was the Wright City wonder boy Trooper to (didn't have a clue what I needed to do??????)

Second on the scene was the Kelly Air Force Base Fire Department who proceeded to douse the surrounding world with more white foam than a Kool Whip factory ever dreamed (coating the plane, pilot victims, grass, you name it?) in the foam flame retardant.

After the hoopla died down, the ever officious TROOPER (picture a 20 year old green butt didn't know nuthin' kid) was asked to help lift the charcoal appearing pilot remains into rubber "body bags" for transport to???????. Never one to shirk a (unpleasant?) task, said neophyte Trooper shoved his hands under the first pilot to respectfully lift lift the "remains" into the "body bag" and "lifted".

Now picture the "lift" allowing air to get to the JP-4 jet fuel flowing under the fire retardant foam, the white hot metal of the jet adjacent to the fuel, and the "heat" causing the "fuel" to flash burn!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Now picture the totally scared butt, juvenile Trooper running like his posterior may incinerate at any minute and breaking the 100 yard dash national, olympic, and world record! As a matter of record, when the dust settled, I had a perfect imprint of someone's boot on the thigh of my pant leg. That "sucka" only got one foot on me afore I hit the "afterburners" as I have no clue who it was and he didn't get a second chance to slow my escape!

All was good (and we know that I did not become a "crispy critter" from the extreme exposure), but, when my heart returned to a mere 1,000 beats per minute, I realized that my pistolo was not in its trusted holster.

OK, this has many implications!

As an officer of the law in a economically deprived (San Antonio West Side) minority neighborhood where the "government" has caused carnage, I am UNARMED!

OK, forget that, as a (rookie) Trooper, I have LOST something that I will not be able to 'splain all that easy (if EVER)?????????????

Nothing to do but start walking back and forth bent over with my fingers spread sifting thru that foam and HOPE????????? (that I find what I desperately hope to find and not auxiliary pilot body parts?)

End of story: The good Lord smiled on me that night and I found my trusty wheel gun, got it cleaned of the goo, and was able to survive yet another "adventure" as a costumed crime fighter in a foreign (San Antonio?) land.

And, I carved another "notch" in the exterior of the person I am today due to the reality check that experience etched on my ability to relate to others.

Not an excuse, just an explanation of something that forever changes anyone in the moment and causes the weaker soul to seem more unforgiving due to the damned "callous" that builds on one's heart after a lifetime of such experiences?