‘NO MAN NEEDS BE REMINDED OF HIS PAST FAILURES’

            There ain’t a man alive what hasn’t done somethin’ that he’s ashamed of or better yet, not very proud of. Maybe it was somethin’ big or maybe somethin’ small; maybe everybody knew of it or maybe it was he alone that knew of it. Regardless, though, it was a failure to him, and he most likely took it very personal. It caused angst in his life and to some degree diminished his self-worth, and getting’ past it prob’ly took a bit of doin’. Yet, having accepted his responsibility for and learning from his mistake, he need not dwell on it any longer. For undoubtedly, he’ll do his durnedest from now on to try to make better choices and do what’s right.

Integrity is a quality that every man worth his salt aspires to have. It encompasses many of the best and most admirable traits in a man: honesty, uprightness, trustworthiness, fairness, loyalty, and the courage to keep one’s word and one’s promises, regardless of the consequences. In short, a person’s level of integrity is what determines the kind of man he truly is. Integrity is a man’s moral compass, helpin’ to guide him how best to handle situations that arise each and every day as he goes through life. Yet, keep in mind, men are human… and as such, we sometimes fail miserably. After havin’ recognized their failure or mistake for what it was - a regrettable, yet brief, lapse in judgment - most men try their damnedest to get back on the right path, ‘cause like I said… a man’s level of integrity is what defines him.
            Now, don’t think this ol’ man is preachin’, ‘cause I’m a sinner and backslider as well as anyone when it comes to tryin’ to live a life of integrity; but I do at least try. I’ve learned the hard way that living with integrity is way easier than living a deceitful life. Living with integrity brings wholeness and peace. Your conscience can rest easy, and you can look yourself in the mirror with pride.

With all that said… I suggest that you stop and think from now on before you speak in regards to what’s in a man’s past. No man wants nor needs be reminded of his past failures or mistakes, no matter how innocently nor in jest a comment may be. Doing so is akin to throwing that man’s low point, his failure up in his face; effectively reminding him of a time when he was lesser than the man he desires to be. And really, who would wish to treat any man so, to set him back, at least emotionally if not physically? It should be in all of us to build up our fellow man, not tear him down.

“Remember that failure is an event, not a person.”

- Zig Ziglar, motivational speaker

‘A REAL LOAD OF BULL’

During the bull-ridin' event at the Missouri State Fair’s rodeo this past Saturday, one of the rodeo clowns was wearing a President Obama mask when the announcer asked the enthusiastic spectators if anyone would like to see “Obama run down by a bull”. And, of course, the audience responded enthusiastically.

Well, wouldn’t you know it? Out of more than 8,000 spectators there, one took offense and felt the need to post a photo of the clown in the Obama mask on his Facebook page. Not long after, it found it’s way onto the Progressive blog site showmeprogress.com, and the political-correctness crowd was immediately fired-up. The offended spectator stated online that he felt “a sense of fear” from the “level of enthusiasm" from the crowd that filled the fair's grandstand. Likening it all to “some kind of Klan rally you'd see on TV", he described it as “cruel” and “disturbing”, stating that he’s “still sick to his stomach over it”. He even went as far as to call it “blatantly racist”.

             And ever since photos and video of the performance were posted online, it seems like anybody that’s got a soap box to stand on feels the sudden need to act all offended and tore up over the comical acts of a couple of rodeo clowns tryin’ to put on a good show.
            Numerous Missouri officials have since denounced the performance, citing the “obvious disrespect and ridicule directed at the president” and what they perceived as the suggestion of violence toward Obama; in the form of an encounter with a bull.

After some Democrat lawmakers suggested there should be financial consequences for the fair, the State Fair officials jumped on the band wagon, as well; lettin’ it be known that they were checkin’ into takin’ action against the Missouri Rodeo Cowboy Association, the contractor responsible for Saturday's event, and then the Fair officials went and slapped a lifetime ban on a rodeo clown involved.

In 1994, a bull attacked a dummy wearing a

  George H.W. Bush mask without the world coming to an end,

 anybody being fired, or any press outrage.

Heck, even the rodeo announcer bailed on his compadre - the rodeo clown, announcin’ that he was quittin’ the Professional Rodeo Cowboys Association in protest since the clown has yet to be banned from its membership. Yeah, right. I’m sure it ain’t got nothin’ to do with his tryin’ to hang on to his full-time job as superintendent of the Booneville School District, which announced Monday that they themselves are hirin’ an investigator to look into whether HE – the announcer, was involved in any "inappropriate conduct" during Saturday's bull riding event.

So far, and not surprisingly so, the only ones to publicly take up for the much-maligned clown have been his peers from the Missouri Rodeo Cowboy Association memberhip, several of which were at Saturday's event. They stated that there was nothin’ offensive or unusual about their friend’s actions, pointin’ out that rodeo clowns have long performed such acts, often imitatin’ sittin’ presidents. According to the Professional Rodeo Cowboys Association, it's not unheard of for a rodeo clown, depending on how he reads his audience, to play politics.

Any president comes in for a fair amount of public mockery, and what happened at the Missouri State Fair doesn’t seem any worse than that other presidents have had to endure. That’s just part of the job… it’s pretty much a given, so thin-skinned people need not apply.

          Now… with all of that said… I want to make one simple, yet astute observation. Regardless of what all that political-correctness crowd might think – no matter if they’re the Governor, a State Fair official, or some big time news network reporter – they ALL have totally missed the REAL story here.

In the offended spectator’s own words, “everbody screamed” and “just went wild” as the announcer talked about having the bull run down the clown with the Obama mask.

Huh! “Everbody screamed” and “just went wild”… think about that… that was HIS description of the crowd’s reaction. Speaks volumes of how that crowd must really feel about the president. Kinda hard to blame THAT on a couple of cowboy clowns pokin’ fun while dodgin’ Brahma bulls.

‘A FLOAT-FISHIN’ ADVENTURE… COMPLIMENTS OF GOOGLE EARTH’

            Well… this tale rightly got its start with me a playin’ on the computer on that dag-blasted GOOGLE EARTH. That’s where I got to lookin’ at and a wonderin’ about that stretch of the Conasauga River what winds its way back and forth across the Tennessee-Georgia border a couple of times as it comes outta the mountains.

            Now, to my way of thinkin’, I could just see all the fish through there that were just awaitin’ to be caught by a couple of adventurous paddlers. Now, never mind that that there stretch of river was way back in the mountains, surrounded by nothin’ but National Forest lands; no roads, no houses, no nothin’ anywhere near, just the fish, the snakes, the squirrels, and maybe a bear or two. Now… surely you can see the kind of spell that durned GOOGLE EARTH threw on me, a modern-day adventurer.

'The Falls' rapid

After a few weeks of searchin’ the Internet about that section of the river, with nothin’ but a few vague whitewater kayakin’ references and nothin’ on the fishin’ back in there, as well as, pourin’ over topo maps and satellite photos, I determined that the only way to really know what was back there was to push off in a ‘yak and find out for myself.

Well, now, Keith was all about float/fishin’ the river when I texted him askin’ if he wanted to go on the followin’ Friday; although, somehow or another, he missed the ‘where’ of the intended trip. We were halfway to the put-in when he asked what section we were floatin’, and you shoulda seen the look on his face when I told him. Now, Keith’s a trooper, and even though he’d just spent the last several hours on-shift at the fire department fightin’ a commercial structure fire, he grinned and said, “I’m in.”

'The Falls'

We put-in just below the Taylor’s Branch Rapids; me on my ‘Weak If You Don’t’ sit-on-top and Keith jammed inside an old sit-inside ‘yak. For somebody that’d never been in a ‘yak before, Keith took to it pretty darn quick, and after the first couple of hundred yards or so, he was a pro.

            Good thing, too, ‘cause right after that we come to the roughest rapid on the river, the one folks call ‘The Falls’. It’s a long, tricky-to-navigate Class III rapid with a 3-foot drop at the very end that, ready or not, you gotta plunge right through. Like I said, it was rough, and we’ve got a busted paddle blade to prove it.

            Once past that, the river settled out for a good ways, and we went to fishin’, pullin’ Bass out of them clear, cool waters, one right after another. Now, these weren’t your everyday, run-of-the-mill ol’ Largemouth Bass what most everybody else fishes the lower stretches of the river for. These were Redeye Coosa Bass. The same little jewels that I’d brought famed outdoor writer Wade Bourne up here to fish for, not two years past*. And, boy, let me tell ya… they were fighters, each and every one of ‘em! Those hard-fightin’ li’l river fish caught on an ultralight rod was fishin’ at its best, and I’m tellin’ ya… we wore ‘em out.

For the rest of the day, we’d work our way through the rapids, routinely hangin’ up on barely-submerged rocks, bangin’ off midstream boulders, and occasionally havin’ to walk a particularly shallow run. Sometimes I’d go into a slot wrong and get unhorsed from my boat; other times, Keith would hang on a rock, lean a bit too far over, and have his ‘yak suddenly fill with water. Yeah… it didn’t take long for us to figure out that the whitewater wasn’t as much a problem for us as was the low water conditions. A river gauge readin’ of 5’ or more would make for a much better float than the 3½‘ it showed on that day. We were still havin’ a good day, though.

As we came out of each rapid, Keith and I would fish the heck outta the runs and long pools below. Back there where they get very little to no fishing pressure whatsoever, the fish were both eager and cooperative. At times, it was almost too easy.

A nice Redeye

In between sips of Crown Royal and cussin’ all the hidden rocks we kept hangin’ up on, we were reelin’ in true trophies, one of which was a 2-lb. Redeye; that had I had the presence of mind to keep it, would’ve made a beautiful mount on my livingroom wall. Alas, though, I tossed it back without thinkin’ as I pulled five more fine fish from the same ‘hole’, while Keith was doin’ equally well in a ‘trough’ not a half dozen feet below where I was.

Oh, and the scenery was just gorgeous. Mountains rose almost straight up all around us, with rhododendron bloomin’, thickets of mountain laurel, and towerin’ Hemlocks all along the way. For quite a ways, the river ran through a sort-of walled-in section, kinda like a gorge, with the sides of the mountains rising nearly straight up from the water’s edge. It was obvious that if you had to get off the river through here, it was gonna be tough goin’, for sure. And, talk about remote… why, other than one small airplane and a high-flying Medi-vac chopper, there were no sounds of vehicles, trains, or other signs of civilization back where we were; just the incessant noise of cicadas and the constant sound of rushing water.

Deep in the mountains

By the time we finally reentered Tennessee for the second time in nearly two-miles, we were beginnin’ to get tired. All the pushin’ and a shovin’ we’d had to do to get through some of the rapids was beginnin’ to tell on us, not to mention the early mornin’ fire Keith had worked. Besides that, the sun had already started down behind the ridges, so we stowed the fishin’ rods and set to paddlin’ our way on out of the mountains.

            We paddled through rapid after rapid, around bend after bend, so ready to see some sign of our finally nearin’ Willis Springs and ‘the outside world’, once more. The closer we got, the river seemed to widen some and became a bit shallower, causin’ us to hang up even more.

            While waitin’ for Keith at the bottom of one particularly troublesome spot, I noticed somethin’ shiny bobbin’ along in the current towards me. I had to grin when I recognized what it was. Apparently, a stainless steel whiskey flask rides rather high in the water when near empty. Yep… when the whiskey runs out, it’s time to call it a day.

Just before dark, we finally found a place to take-out within easy reach the road. We were just past Minnewauga Creek, and still a good two-miles shy of our intended take-out spot. We didn’t care, though. We were tired; we were sore, and we stunk, having been on the river for a full 10-hours plus. Yet, we had accomplished what we had set out to do. We had floated the National Forest stretch of ‘our’ river, exploring the route and samplin’ the fishin’ through there. We now knew as much about it as any man, and a lot more than most. As a matter of fact, we were already talkin’ ‘bout doin’ it, again.

Only, next time… we’ll make sure the water is up.

  J

* - See the July/August 2012 issue of BASSMASTERS magazine - 'The Redeyed Princess of Northeast Georgia'

‘HEAVEN… ONE GREAT BIG FAMILY REUNION’

           

            This very moment, my wife’s grandmother is laying in the hospital, a very sick lady. A good, God-fearin’ woman, she’s lived a long and happy life, and says she’s ready to go when the Good Lord decides to call her home. We hope that she’ll recover from this illness, but there are no guarantees. Like I said, she’s a very sick lady. All we can do is pray and trust in Him.

            Her being ‘ready to go’, though, has brought up a lot of mixed emotions in our family… especially for me, as I lost my own grandmother not two years past. A loved one’s passing is an emotional one. There’s sadness, grief, and a deep feelin’ of loss, but as I get older, I’ve come to realize that it can be a joyous time, too.

My Mamaw & Papaw Jennings

           Like most Southerners, I come from a deeply religious family. We all grew up in church, and were raised to believe that once washed in the blood of the Lamb that one of these days we’ll get to walk through Heaven’s pearly gates and stand accountable before the Lord.

            Now, I kinda look at things a li’l different than most, especially when it comes to Heaven. I’ve heard preachers tell that Heaven’s gonna be one way, and then another sky pilot comes along and says it’s gonna be a different way. The only thing they all seem to agree on is that Heaven’s gonna be a place of unbelievable happiness and rejoicin’; and that’s good enough for me.

Mamaw Vassie & Papaw Carl Pittman

            With that said, don’t you just know that Heaven’s gotta be one heck of a place? I’ll betcha they ain’t no place prettier… not even in parts of South Alabama or rural Mississippi. Ha! I’m also a thinkin’ there’ll be nothin’ but blue skies and perfect temps there; everybody there’ll be happy and friendly and a smilin’ all the time. No grief, no strife, no troubles whatsoever; just unbelievable happiness. Man, my heart swells just thinkin’ ‘bout it!

            Now, me… I figure there ain’t much of anything that could make a body happier than bein’ amongst family and gettin’ to see all your loved ones once again. I like to imagine that the day I finally set foot there, that my Uncle Ruffin will be a waitin’ at the gates for me, a big ol’ grin showin’ through his gray beard, with a big hearty back-slappin’ hug for me.

My Mamaw & Papaw Pittman

             I figure to find my Papaw Pittman in the Good Lord’s vegetable gardens, tellin’ the angels how best to tend to this or that; and from somewheres off down one of them streets of gold, I suspect I’ll hear the sound of a smoke alarm goin’ off, lettin’ me know that my Mamaw Pittman’s burnt the bread, again.

My great-grandfather Paw Jennings

                 And, ohhh, I so look forward to seein’ my sweet, soft-spoken Mamaw Jennings and my wonderful Aunt Ann, once again. I have missed them so. I can’t wait to sit on the porch at Paw Jennings’ feet, watchin’ him weave white oak splits into baskets as he tells his tall tales, and then later gettin’ to go quail huntin’ with my Uncle Harvey, who I have no doubt will have already traded the archangels out of their very best bird dogs. But, best of all… I’ll finally get to fish with and get to know my Papaw Jennings, who passed away when I was but just a baby. Mamaw always told me that out of all the grandkids, I was the most like him.

My daddy-in-law 'Bud' Bradley

            And, you know… for it to truly be Heaven, there’s gonna have to be a big ol’ kitchen table up there for all the kinfolk and friends to gather ‘round and visit with one another. And, that’s where I’ll find my daddy-in-law Bud, sittin’ there sippin’ a cup of coffee he just reheated in the microwave, as he listens to Amanda’s Aunt ‘Non’ catch us all up on the goin’-on’s around Heaven. Polly will be there, as will R.V. and Amanda’s Papaw Austin. Boy, there’s gonna be some interestin’ tales told ‘round that table.

My Papaw Clay

Of course, there’ll also be a collection of web-bottomed foldin’ lawn chairs sittin’ outside under the shade of some trees, where all my Crane Hill kinfolk will congregate. My Uncle James’ll be a tellin’ jokes, makin’ Uncle K.L. horse-laugh, while Papaw Clay chuckles and whittles on a piece of stick. Papaw Carl Pittman’ll be quietly sittin’ over to one side, grinnin’ ear-to-ear, as he and Uncle Paul Speakman listen to the rest of ‘em carry on. Off to one side, my Mamaw Clay and Mamaw Vassie will be a settin’, listenin’ as Aunt Judy cracks funnies of her own. And the first person that jumps to her feet to hug my neck and kiss my cheek when I show up’ll be my dear Aunt Dwynelle.

My Aunt Dwynelle

And then there’s all the others that I’ll get to meet, as well. Folks that I’ve heard tell of, but have never met; folks such as my grandparents’ grandparents, their aunts, uncles, and a whole passel of cousins.

There’ll be food aplenty, and lots of singin’, ‘cause you know when the Jennings’ get together they’s always a bunch of hymn-singin’. And, lawd, at the story-tellin’. Kinfolk’ll be a comin’ and a goin’, stoppin’ to visit and socialize. It’s gonna be a good time! Matter of fact… it wouldn’t surprise me one bit if’n the Father himself even showed up. If for nothin’ else but for a piece of my Mamaw Jennings’ homemade pound cake or Aunt Ann’s chocolate pie.

            Heaven… it sure is gonna be one heck of a family reunion!

 







‘FLASKS! A LI’L NIP HERE, A TINY DRINK THERE...'

“Whiskey in a flask is my all-season, all-terrain vice.” - Unknown

                  

          Ahhhh... the timeless stainless whiskey flask; while some perceive it to be a drunkard's accessory, that ain't hardly fair... to the container or the carrier. Most flasks don't hold enough liquor to get really drunk on; just enough for a toast amogst a few friends or for just a li'l discreet sippin'. A fishin' buddy of mine carries his in his tackle box, sandwiched between a couple of freezer packs to keep it cool. He says a sip here and there helps him unwind durin' a day on the river; plus, he adds... you can't never tell when you might need a li'l nip.

That reminds me of the fella what ran out of worms one day while Bass fishin’ down on the other side of Atlanta. About that time, he spotted him a Cottonmouth snake closeby, with a frog in its mouth. Now, that frog was just the kind of bait that feller was a needin’ to keep on fishin’, so… knowin’ the snake couldn't bite him with the frog in its mouth, he grabbed that ol’ snake right behind the head, took the frog out of it’s mouth, and tossed it in his bait bucket.

Now, though, he had him a dilemma; how was he gonna let loose of that snake without getting’ bit? Well, it didn’t take him just a second a’fore he had that ‘un figured out. That feller pulled out the whiskey flask he kept in his tackle box, unscrewed it’s top, and poured a swig of JACK DANIELS whiskey down in its mouth. Well now, that ol’ snake’s eyes rolled back in his head, and the damn thing went plumb limp. The fella then slid the snake back into the lake with no problem, and went right back to fishin’, usin’ that frog for bait.
It t’weren’t but just a little while later, though, the fella felt him a nudge on his foot. Can you believe it? That fella looked down to find that damn snake back… with two more frogs.

Seriously, though, totin’ a whiskey flask has been a tradition among outdoorsmen for more than a century, making flasks great commemorative items for your huntin’ and fishin’ and campin’ buddies; one they’ll apprectiate and actually use for years to come.

Back years ago, I presented a life-long huntin’ and fishin’ buddy of mine with his very own stainless steel flask as a wedding gift. I’d had his name engraved on it and filled it with 12-year-old Scotch, which, along with another’s flask full of straight moonshine, sure come in handy the day of his wedding, when a sudden cold snap put a chilly twist on their mountain-top, outdoor spring nuptials. To say he was pleased with his gift is an understatement. And I’ve since shared a sip out of it while standin’ waist-deep in the Hiwassee River on a freezin’ December day, as snow swirled all around and ice clogged our fishin’ rod guides.

Now, just to set the record straight, what a fella puts in his flask is a matter of personal taste and choice. There ain’t no right or wrong liquor to use. Heck… it you prefer sweet tea, then I reckon that’d be just as acceptable (Just please don’t put lemon in it if’n you’re gonna offer this ol’ boy a snort). Take ‘Doc’, for instance, one of my huntin’ and fishin’ buddies. He keeps 20+-year-old GENTLEMAN JACK in his, where another friend of ours won’t tote nothin’ but Canadian whisky in his. And then there’s a third crony of ours, who we’ve shared camps with for years. He swears by his WILD TURKEY 101.

Also, most flasks end up personalized in one way or another. I’ve seen ‘em stamped, engraved, marked up in all kinds of ways; with pictures around the sides and even with leather ‘skins’ or coverings over the lower half of ‘em. As a matter of fact, I recently saw a firefighter friend’s flask that he’d adorned with his department’s patch embossed on the side. Regardless of what it looks like or what you carry in it, though, it’s all about makin’ it yours.

I myself have an old flask; a plain-jane model with a finish that’s kind of dulled with age. It sports a couple of small dents that I have no recollection of exactly how they got there. I’ve had the thing for a long time; many, many years. It generally stays in the side pocket of my ol’ backpack, always close to-hand, and always filled with GEORGE DICKEL White Label. It goes most everywhere with me. To me, there’s nothin’ finer or smoother than Tennessee sippin’ whiskey for warmin’ a man’s innards on a cold day on the water or afield or for celebratin’ an outdoor accomplishment, such as the catch of an exceptional fish.

Plus, once back in-camp of an evenin’, while sittin’ around a toasty warm fire, enjoyin’ good company, with a full moon overhead; out comes that ol’ flask of mine to be passed around for a final salute to a great day.

‘WHEN IT COMES TO THE OUTDOORS... SIMPLER CAN BE BETTER'

       Over the years, a lot of things have changed for those of us who enjoy the outdoors. We still hunt and fish and camp; only, for some of us our focus has changed drastically. No longer do the majority of fishermen enjoy the simpler pleasures of fishin’ small rivers, creeks, and ponds; they prefer instead to race over huge impoundments in high-dollar bass boats, competin’ against dozens of others in bass fishin’ tournaments  Where squirrel, rabbit, and bobwhite quail used to be the preferred game animals of hunters, now it’s trophy deer and turkey. It don’t hardly seem like anybody much appreciates a good bowl of quail and dumplin’s or a paper plate full of pan-fried Bluegill anymore… and that’s a shame.

          Gone too are the rustic, bare-bones huntin’ and fishin’ camps of old. Nowadays, the typical huntin’ camp is full of big fancy RVs, noisy electric generators, and a variety of four-wheelers and all-terrain vehicles for haulin’ hunters and downed game to and from the field. As for fishin’ camps, it’s pretty much the same, only in place of ATVs are pontoons and bass boats, and the camp is usually confined to one or two sites in a lakeside commercial campground.

          Give me a well-trained bird dog backin' another that’s on point; the explosion of wings and adrenaline as a covey of quail burst from cover just underfoot, shockin' novice and expert alike into not even gettin’ a shot off at their quarry. Or standin' around in a thicket with family and friends on a good ol' January rabbit hunt; pickin' at and teasin' one another about missed shots and such, as we wait on a mouthy pack of Beagles to circle a long-eared Cottontail back around to us.

          I know nothing more fun than pullin’ in hand-sized Bluegills and river-wise Spots on ultralight tackle, while wading a cool, clear stream; and then later cleanin’ a mess of those same fish at stream-side before grilling or pan-fryin’ ‘em up for supper. And as much as I love my STARCRAFT camper, stayin’ in some crowded campground ain't no where near as peaceful and relaxin' as campin’ on a secluded, sandy riverbank somewheres back up in the boonies; a cool breeze wafting through an open tent flap, a hint of campfire smoke in the air, with just the light of the moon and stars to illuminate the night.

          Life gets complicated enough on its own. Who needs the added pressure of tryin’ to bag a wall-hanger buck or the heaviest limit of bass durin’ your off time? Not this ol' man, that's for sure. If I sound like a romantic, it’s true. I am one. To me, huntin’ and fishin’ and campin’ is all about the basics; about spending time in the great outdoors, enjoyin' every day afield, and about gettin’ away from all the stress and boredom of every day life.

          So, I reckon me and mine’ll keep floatin’ the creeks in canoes, pot-shottin’ squirrels durin’ the ‘cuttin’ season’, and sittin’ by a campfire way back in the woods, listenin’ to the crickets and the frogs and the night birds, late of a night... which beats the heck out of the incessant hum of a HONDA generator, anytime.

‘THE FINEST PEOPLE YOU’LL EVER MEET’

'Granite Mountain Hotshots'

Yesterday, nineteen of the elite 20-member Prescott, Arizona’s ‘Granite Mountain Hotshots’ firefighting crew were killed in an Arizona wildfire. Known for battling the region’s worst fires, they had recently spent weeks fighting fires in New Mexico and Prescott.

So, as a heat wave across the Southwest sent temperatures into the triple digits, they hiked into the smoky wilderness over the weekend with chainsaws and backpacks stuffed with heavy gear to remove brush and trees as they fought the lightning-sparked fire, that encompassed more than 8,000-acres, destroyed at least 50-structures, and threatened 500-people in the small town of Yarnell.

'Granite Mountain Hotshots' demonstration

It was the most firefighters killed battling a wildfire in the United States since 1933. The average age of the men in the crew was only 22-years-old.

          Of the firefighters who all were part of his city’s fire department, an emotional Fire Chief Dan Fraijo said it plainly, “We just lost 19 of the finest people you'll ever meet."

My heart goes out to the Prescott Fire Department and its families. The have suffered a devastating loss. One that I hope our own community never has to experience.

Whether it’s a structure, a vehicle, or woodlands, fighting fires is dangerous work, and the risk is well-known to the brave men and women who don their gear daily, 24/7, and battle the flames. And I, for one, am very proud of the men and women that protect us here locally.

The next time you see a fire truck headed down the road, lights flashing and siren wailing… say a simple prayer for these wonderful men and women. For each and everyone is truly a hero; highly-skilled professionals who selflessly put themselves in harm's way to protect the lives and property of their neighbors and fellow citizens, many of which they have never so much as met. These guys and gals are MY heroes, for sure, and without a doubt... some of the finest people you'll ever meet.

"When a tragedy like this strikes, all we can do is offer our eternal gratitude to the fallen, and prayers for the families and friends left behind. God bless them all." - Arizona Governor Jan Brewer