One of my recent fun activities is getting together with a group of friends, named the BMH Social Club.  This is a beer-tasting club; BMH stands for Barley, Malt, and Hops.  Meeting once a month, we’ve pre-determined the kind of beer we’ll be tasting prior to arrival.  Each of us brings a bottle or two of a particular beer that we each taste and rate.  Lest you think we’re sitting there drinking numerous bottles of beer, we’re just drinking an ounce or so of each of the offerings.

Currently there are only 5 members of the club, so the amount of beer sampled is not that much.  Last month was our first meeting with Winter Ales and other seasonal special beers as our theme.  That was fun, because I really enjoy the Winter Ale kind of beer.

Last night was our February meeting, and being the month of Valentines, we decided to rate Chocolate beers.  The Boulevard Chocolate Ale was to be the star of the night, but the friend bringing that one couldn’t attend.  So, we had 4 other offerings that made for an interesting night and the discovery that chocolate beers are not all created equal (The Ommegang Seduction was king).  I’m hoping to create a blog that will report all of these findings.  Keep your eye out for the report.

I was going through old photos this morning and stumbled upon a picture I hadn’t seen in quite a long time.  However, every time I see it I get a little misty-eyed remembering the fun I used to have with my 1969 Volkswagen Karmann Ghia.

It wasn’t my first car – I wrecked that one about a year after I got it (the day I paid it off, in fact).  No, the Karmann Ghia was my second car – purchased for $450.  The passenger door didn’t have a latch – it was held shut with a bungee cord wrapped around the passenger seat head rest.  The seatbelts were wrapped around the seat frame (not bolted to the floor).  The body of the car had plenty of dents and rust.  Also, it was a very old, sickly baby blue color.

My dad and I did a lot of work on that car.  Bondo filled in a lot of the gaps and covered the rust-holes that were knocked out.  I didn’t have the money for a real paint job, so I painted it myself…with spray paint.  Yep – black spray paint.

I don’t know how many times I replaced the tailpipe on that thing.  I began to make regular trips to a salvage yard in Topeka that had old Volkswagen parts.  I know very little about cars, but I got to know that car very, very well.

The car was parked at my parents house while I was in Desert Storm.  I’m told it was accidentally backed into and the small amount of damage that was done totaled out the car.  When I returned from the war, my car was gone.  I didn’t even get to tell it goodbye or take it for one last spin with Beach Boy songs blaring out of the tiny speakers.

Whenever I see a Karmann Ghia on the road, I’m like the dog in the movie “Up” that is easily distracted by a squirrel.  My head turns, my ears perk up, and my heart races just a bit.  Linda and I joke that some day I’ll have a Karmann Ghia again.  As the years go by, it seems less and less likely.  Sigh…

Linda and I spent Saturday at the BG William Menninger Army Reserve Center in Topeka with a bunch of old Army folks.  The scary thing is that I was one of them.  We had gathered to celebrate our return from Desert Storm 20 years earlier.

Our unit was a 400-bed evacuation hospital (think M*A*S*H, but bigger).  There was more than 400 different staff – everything from doctors, nurses, medics, pharmacy staff, lab staff, communications, laundry, mechanical, drivers, administration, and many others.  I was a medic in the emergency ward of our series of tents; I worked the night shift just about 7 days a week.  I had just turned 20 years old and on a journey to growing up.  I had been pulled out of my studies in Music Education at Kansas State University and found myself learning a lot about myself and what was important in my life.

As most know, I changed my major to nursing upon returning and I asked Linda to marry me.  My experience in the emergency ward in Desert Storm had a very strong impact on my decision to enter the medical field.

At the reunion, I met up with several individuals that I had not seen in over 18 or more years.  Unfortunately, my best friends from the war were not there.  In fact, I’ve lost touch with the one person that meant the most to me.  I still hold out hope that I’ll find him some day.

The unit commander was the first to see me upon arriving.  He made a bee-line to me and Linda and quickly relayed to Linda how much I meant to him when under his command.  He recalled a pretty nasty incident that occurred between me and a senior enlisted and how I had conducted myself with class; he commented on how much that had impressed him at the time.  His eyes began to tear up while telling Linda how much this meant to him.  I can’t tell you how much this meant to me.  Thank you, COL Crisler!