Memoirs of Donald J. Snodgrass

"The Journey is the Reward"

           ~ Steve Jobs

You are welcome to download a printable version
at https://donandpat.com/snodgrassmemoirs.pdf 

Introduction

I have lived a long, and full 85 years. Now that I am in the later chapters of my life, I want to look back at the major milestones that helped shape the person I am today. As the tennis great Arthur Ashe once said, "Success is a journey, not a destination. The doing is often more important than the outcome." For me, the journey getting there has always been the best part.

My hope is that one day, down the road, our grandsons, Trevor, and Evan, as well as others will find my Memoirs. They might benefit from hearing about the unique challenges I faced and the lessons I learned as someone who lived through the massive technological boom following the end of World War II including the birth of television, the internet, outer space exploration, and artificial intelligence (AI).

To give context to where my story begins, I have spent several years tracing my paternal Snodgrass heritage back 14 generations to the year 1580 in Scotland. Here is the straight line list of grandfathers I’ve found who came before me, paving the way to the American Midwest:

• John Snodgrass (10th Great-Grandfather): Born in 1638 in Renfrewshire, Scotland. He lived a remarkably long life, passing away in 1742 at the age of 104.
• John Jr. (9th Great-Grandfather): Born in 1660 in Scotland; lived to be 84.
• John III (8th Great-Grandfather): Born in 1690 in Scotland. Died in 1759 at age 69.
• James (7th Great-Grandfather): Born in 1715 in Scotland. He was married three times, fathered six children, and passed away in 1785.
• William John (6th Great-Grandfather): Born in 1740 in Scotland. He raised a massive family of 26 children, braved the Atlantic crossing to America, and was eventually buried in Quarryville, Pennsylvania, in 1810.
• William Jr. (5th Great-Grandfather): Born in 1765. He moved our lineage down into Virginia, had 17 children, and died in 1835.
• David Glenn (4th Great-Grandfather): Born in 1790 in Glade Spring, Virginia. He had 19 children and lived a long life of 89 years, passing in 1879.
• David (3rd Great-Grandfather): Born in 1815 in Tennessee. He married Nancy Polly Carson and died in 1882.
• Allen Weir (2nd Great-Grandfather): Born in 1840 in White Pine, Tennessee. He was married twice and raised a large family before passing away in 1910.
• William Russell (Great-Grandfather): Born in 1865 in Tennessee. He married Harriett McGuire, had 16 children, and died in 1935.
                Note: William & Harriet had 6 sons and 8 daughters. The home place is in Dandridge,                         Tennessee.
  
• Carl McGuire (Grandfather): Born in 1890 in Tennessee. He married Caroline Pieper in Ogle, Illinois, in 1915, officially bringing our branch of the family to the Midwest. Grandpa died in 1965.
• William Anton (Father): Born in Illinois in 1915. He married my mother, Lucille Moore, in 1938. Dad passed away in 1990 at the age of 75.

The family name Snodgrass originated in the late 17th century in Scotland.  It has been said that the name means "dweller in the smooth grass."  The first records of the family in America are in the mid 18th century in Pennsylvania.  From there they have spread across the continent and today there are more than 6000 Snodgrass families in the United States.  

More about our family heritage by visiting the webpage at  https://donandpat.com/about-us/family-tree.

Chapter 1:   Early Years

My earliest vivid memories begin around the age of five on our Northern Illinois farm where life centered entirely around hard work, shared sacrifice, and responsibility. Mom and Dad worked as a tightly synchronized team to plant crops, harvest fields, and care for an array of livestock, including dairy cows, beef cattle, and hogs. In those days, we lived with my grandparents who played a massive role in helping raise my sister, Nancy, and me. 

Grandpa Snodgrass taught me practical, hands-on life skills, while Grandma kept us well fed along with a steady hand on our spiritual upbringing. Together, they instilled in us a deep dedication to the land and to one another. The farm always came first. Catering to our own personal wants simply wasn’t a priority. Yet, it was a deeply rewarding childhood, and I am incredibly thankful for the unbreakable bonds and values my family gave me.

Being the youngest, I was considered the "spoiled” baby of the family, and I took advantage of that dynamic whenever I could! Moreover, because I was the only son, there was an immense amount of attention focused on me, along with a natural cultural expectation that I would eventually grow up to take over the farm. My mother doted on me and would do absolutely anything for her boy. Dad usually just went along with it. Truthfully, I didn’t much like farm work. I was much happier tinkering with farm equipment, learning to drive our pickup truck, and figuring out how things worked. Because Nancy was older and physically stronger, she was often the one who got stuck helping Dad with the heavy, grueling chores outside. She certainly wasn't spoiled except when it came to her horses. Understandably, it created a lingering friction between us.  I remember one specific childhood afternoon that perfectly illustrated that friction. I was about ten years old. We were out in the front yard, and she had climbed high up into a large maple tree with a long wooden pole to poke at a bird's nest. I was standing under the tree, looking up and pestering her with an endless stream of annoying questions: "What are you doing? Why are you doing it that way?" Eventually, she snapped and told me to shut up, but I just kept right on talking. The next thing I knew, that heavy wooden pole came crashing down, striking me square on top of my head. To this day, I believe she might have dropped it on me on purpose! It hurt terribly and started bleeding profusely, but I was too angry to cry. I yelled, "Why did you do that?" and we launched into an argument over whether it was an accident or a targeted strike. When I ran into the house with blood dripping down my face, I knew it wasn't going to be treated like a major family crisis. Living on a farm, you learned early that the daily work aways took precedence over everything else.

Nancy eventually graduated high school, got married, and had two wonderful sons, Bob and Joe.  Both have lived exceedingly successful lives. Thankfully, Nancy is doing well. We continue to share a deep respect for each other and where we came from.

Dad worked incredibly long hours working the farm, with Mom right by his side. He utilized a heavy dose of "tough love" on Nancy and me. I didn't fully appreciate his methodology then as much as I do now.

I think he realized early on that my mind might be geared for other career choices.   I was right there by his side the night he passed away, reflecting on how much he truly meant to me.

Mom, on the other hand, was a city girl and a high school dropout. Moving to a rural farm after marrying Dad was a massive culture shock, but she faced that abrupt transition with incredible grit and determination. She favored me, while Nancy was Dad's favorite. Mom was the dominant force in our family life, a role she maintained for a very long time. Even after Dad passed, she kept charging forward, living to be nearly 100 years old despite losing her sight to macular degeneration. What an absolute rock she was.

Our upbringing dictated that responsibility and hard work trumped all else, and that extended directly to our education. We were expected to get to school, study hard, and do our absolute best—no excuses allowed.

Back in the 1950s, school districts didn't give out "snow days" or "sick days" like they do now. Nancy and I caught the school bus, at our farm about two miles outside the town limits of Mount Morris. One bitter winter morning, a ferocious blizzard slammed the area, leaving massive snowdrifts in its wake. The school district actually called to cancel the bus route, explaining that the back roads to our neck of the woods were simply too treacherous. They asked if there was any way we could make it in on our own. My dad didn't hesitate. He bundled Nancy and me up in heavy winter gear, walked us out to the shed, and fired up the farm tractor. He hoisted us aboard. We took off toward town, the tractor plunging through a bitter, howling wind which drifted the snow directly across our path, obscuring everything.  I was absolutely horrified, having no idea if we were going to end up trapped or frozen out there. But my father steered with calm, absolute certainty, while Nancy and I endured the trip. We were never so glad as when we finally saw our schoolhouse doors. That was the defining environment of my youth: you don't complain about the circumstances, you just find a way to get the job done.

Coming of Age

Adjusting to the city school in Mount Morris was incredibly difficult for a country kid. Early on, I hit a major wall when I failed the third grade. At the time, it felt completely devastating. It didn't help feeling that the city kids looked down on me as some sort of uneducated country hick. Arithmetic was my absolute Achilles' heel; I simply couldn't grasp the concepts and resorted to adding and subtracting by secretly counting on my fingers. Because of these academic struggles, my teacher and parents agreed it was best for me to repeat the grade. It was a deeply bitter pill to swallow, but in retrospect, it turned out to be one of many critical turning points of my early development.

I didn't fully realize the immense benefit of that setback until I entered high school. Life as a freshman moved at lightning speed including football, extracurricular activities, social scenes, and girls. The class I had joined after being held back was a truly special, tight-knit group.  They helped me develop a tremendous closeness with them. Furthermore, because I was nearly a year older than most of my new classmates, they naturally may have looked up to me. Thanks to the daily labor on the farm, I had developed physical strength far ahead of my peers. Being older and physically stronger, I earned a starting spot on the varsity high school football team. That immediate success on the gridiron and the newfound respect of my peers completely altered my life’s trajectory.

Looking back, the aftermath failing 3rd grade confirmed a profound life lesson that when you are simply not ready for something, it is always better to pause, face the facts, and lay a stronger foundation rather than blindly rushing ahead into failure. I don't know if modern school systems would handle a struggling student quite that way today, but it made all the difference in the world for me. Right then and there, I developed a lifelong motivation to achieve excellence. I realized that if you don't get something done right the first time, your best option is to get right back to work until you do it right.

Farm safety was a distant secondary issue in those days. Serious accidents were an unfortunate reality of rural life. The most critical accident of my youth occurred in our hay barn during the autumn hay harvest when I was a teenager. We stored our alfalfa hay bales in the "hay mow," which was the vast second story of the barn. Running directly under the peak of the roof was a long steel track equipped with a heavy cable and pulley system. One worker would stand on the hay wagon below, secure several bale onto the lifting forks, and signal the tractor driver at the opposite end to pull the cable and hoist the bale up into the mow.

One afternoon, while I was on the wagon loading the bales, and Nancy was outside on the opposite end of the barn driving the tractor. I remember giving her the standard signal that the bales was secured and ready to be pulled.  Suddenly, as her tractor engaged, my right hand accidentally slipped and got severely caught inside the heavy steel pulley. Nancy, unaware of the crisis, kept driving. The cable tightened, and the system began hoisting me and the bales bodily into the air toward the high ceiling of the barn. I was screaming at the top of my lungs, trying desperately to yank my trapped hand free as I was being lifted closer and closer to the undercarriage above. If my body had hit the top timber framework, i would have been raked me across the structural steel track potentially resulting and more serious injuries. Fortunately, Uncle Merle Snodgrass heard my screams and was able to stop Nancy just in time. She slammed the tractor to a halt when I was just two feet from the top. They lowered me down, but the damage was severe, especially the little finger and the next finger on my right hand which had gotten smashed beyond belief.

We rushed into town to see Dr. Stengel. He was our truly extraordinary, dedicated, compassionate, small-town family doctor.  Dr. Stengel didn't panic for a second. He calmly went to work, meticulously patching my mangled hand and fingers back together. Thanks to his immense surgical skill, he saved both fingers. This entire crisis happened in the middle of the high school football season, and our next big game was just days away. Dr. Stengel wrapped my hand up tightly, secured it in a rigid splint, looked me dead in the eye, and calmly said, "Okay. Go ahead and play." So, I did.

That experience taught me that sometimes you have to grow up quickly, even when you're still just a kid. You cannot use an injury, a hardship, or bad luck as an excuse to quit. You have to lace up your boots and get the job done. I have kept that attitude throughout my entire life. Even today, as I face complex challenges with my own health, my foundation remains unshakable: don't complain, don't feel sorry for yourself, just get on with it and get the job done.

My hometown, Mount Morris, Illinois, is a beautiful, idyllic community where people genuinely care for one another, and crime hardly exist. We didn't even lock our front doors at night. The local police chief was a perfect example of how the town operated; he wasn't just a law enforcer, he acted like a supportive big brother to all us teenagers growing up there. A perfect example of this community trust occurred when I turned 16. I had finally gotten my driver's license, and my dad helped me secure my very first car, a beat-up 1949 Oldsmobile that burned almost as much oil as it did gasoline! Because I was a farm kid who needed a reliable way to get back and forth for early football practices, my dad actually went into town and worked out a personal arrangement with the chief of police. The chief agreed to allow me to drive my car to school, provided that I kept it parked on a quiet side street a few blocks away from the high school and walked the rest of the way. An informal handshake arrangement like that would not be achievable in today's bureaucratic world, but it happened then because of the mutual trust, safety, and respect of the era. The police chief looked out for us, and we respected his authority completely.

The single individual who had the most profound impact on my life's direction was my high school agriculture teacher, Mr. Mel Burkhalter. He was a visionary mentor. He was the one who claimed to see potential in me that I didn't see in myself. He took it upon himself to convince my parents to send me to the College of Agriculture at the University of Illinois. In our rural community in those days, farm kids rarely went off to major universities; rather they stayed home to follow in our fathers' footsteps. Furthermore, as a steady C+ student in high school, I wasn't exactly a prime candidate to survive a rigorous university curriculum. But despite the academic doubts, my parents trusted Mr. Burkhalter’s judgment. I accepted his challenge, packed my bags, and headed off to college that fall. Years later, when Mr. Burkhalter passed away, his widow personally asked me to serve as a pallbearer. I was deeply honored to accept. The lifelong impact that he and my parents had on my trajectory was simply beyond measure.

• More about growing up in Mount Morris at https://donandpat.com/about-us/dons-hometown
• More about my high school class of 1959 at https://donandpat.com/other/mmhs-class-of-59-website

Chapter 2: College Days

When I first stepped onto the sprawling campus of the University of Illinois, I felt like a complete fish out of water, particularly during fraternity rush week. In those days, a farm kid from a smalltown like Mount Morris typically didn't join a prestigious, high-profile fraternity. The crowds of young men going through Rush week's recruitment process were almost exclusively city kids from Chicago and other large metropolitan areas. I didn't observe any other farm boys being interviewed, and I felt the stark cultural divide immediately. But just as I had done when facing failure in the third grade, I realized I had to adapt and find a way to prevail despite the circumstances. Before I even stepped foot on campus, I had carefully rehearsed in my mind exactly how I was going to present myself during rush week.  I made a firm, conscious decision that I was going to be completely genuine, lay all my cards on the table, and present myself in a mature and truthful fashion.

The brothers of Alpha Tau Omega (ATO) fraternity may have recognized some degree of leadership potential in me, and selected me to join their ranks. Going off to college meant leaving my immediate family behind and learning to navigate the world independently, but fortunately, I found a powerful new family in my fraternity brothers. I threw myself into the organization, eventually being elected as the fraternity Pledge Class President and, later, serving two-terms as Chapter President.  A big plus was being able to live in the house rather than a dorm.Yet, there was a massive irony to my collegiate situation. While I possessed immense, unshakeable confidence in my leadership and social abilities, I had absolutely none when it came to actual classroom performance. I harbored deep, agonizing doubts that I could successfully make it through a major university and earn a degree. High school in Mount Morris hadn't been geared toward "college prep," and I had never truly learned proper study habits. I felt like I was missing the fundamental academic skills needed to survive, and I was constantly consumed by anxiety over getting good grades.

That academic anxiety reached a boiling point toward the end of my very first semester. Overwhelmed and utterly convinced I didn't belong; I finally approached my assigned fraternity Big Brother. He was an incredible, brilliant guy who would later go on to become a highly renowned physician. I sat down, looked him in the eye, and laid it out as clearly and curtly as I could: "I don't think I'm going to make it. I think I need to pack up my things and go back to the farm." He looked me straight in the eye and said with absolute, intense certainty: "You are going to make it, and I am personally going to make sure you do." He said it with such fierce conviction that I couldn't back out. It was the exact same kind of no-nonsense challenge my father would have given me out on the farm—a firm declaration that the job will be done, paired with an unbreakable promise that he would stand right there beside me until it was finished. My Big Brother kept his word. He provided the relentless push that I desperately needed. Thanks to his guidance, the pieces fell into place, and I survived that crucial first year and the years that followed.

By the time I reached my senior year, I was in a proud position to pay that debt forward and become a Big Brother to a new incoming freshman. By pure happenstance, I chose a young man from the city of Chicago who reminded me exactly of what it felt like to need a steady, guiding hand. I did my absolute best to mentor him, just as I had been mentored.  My ultimate payback came years later, watching that young pledge brother go on to build a spectacular public service career, eventually being elected as the Mayor of San Diego, California. Alpha Tau Omega wasn't a social club for playboys; it was a leadership crucible that forged us into responsible men.

Moving On

Right after graduation, my journey with the fraternity expanded to a broader scale. The national headquarters of Alpha Tau Omega fraternity happened to be located right there in Champaign, Illinois. The director knew me well and didn’t hesitate hiring me into a newly created position of Traveling Chapter Services Secretary. I was the very first person in the history of the national fraternity to hold down this job. The purpose of the role was to take a recent, highly successful graduate who possessed real, firsthand experience in fraternity management and deploy him to chapters across the country. At the time, there were close to two hundred chapters nationwide. My job was to fly or drive from one university to the next, spending about three days at each fraternity house observing their operations, conducting rigorous evaluations, and reporting my structural findings directly back to national headquarters. Essentially, I was acting as a big brother to the chapter leadership themselves. I absolutely loved the experience. Traveling the country made me feel like I was accomplishing something of importance. Moreover, it allowed me to actively repay the fraternity for everything it had done to save my own education. That job permanently reinforced the defining truth of my entire life: that cohesive teams led by strong leaders are the ones who get the job done well. That is the very essence of the fraternity experience—students living together as a dedicated team, all pulling together to make it through the university and strengthening each other's ability to succeed. It certainly did that for me.

However, I always knew this prestigious role was only temporary. I had bigger goals in mind, and with the dark shadow of the Vietnam War looming large over our generation I anticipated I might be drafted. After all, I was young, single, and had  recently graduated. There was no way around it, and truth be told, I didn't want to get out of it anyway. Serving my country was an absolute honor. So, when that draft notice finally arrived in the mail, I eagerly packed my bags, closed this chapter of my youth, and prepared to step bravely into the military unknown.

A Change in Plans

 Fortunately, through my travels, I had met the Commanding officer of the Glenview, IL Naval Air Station. Much like my high school agriculture teacher, he may have seen something unique in my character and believed that I possessed the right leadership skills to serve my country as a commissioned naval officer. So, once the draft notice arrived, I called him. Utilizing his connections, he was able to persuade the Army to formally release me from my draft notice, provided that I immediately join the Navy and attend Navy Officer Candidate School (OCS) in Newport, Rhode Island.   

My mom and dad, true to form, encouraged me to work hard and do my absolute best in making it through OCS. I kept my promise. They drove all the way from Illinois to Newport to proudly attend my commissioning ceremony. For me, this commission was not just a personal achievement, but a profound honor to begin service to my country in a true leadership role. Unexpectedly, my draft notice had transformed into a golden ticket to my future.

Chapter 3: Navy Career

My naval career would ultimately span twenty-seven mostly successful years, marked by sea assignments on eight different warships—two of which I was deeply honored to command. My shore duties were equally high-stakes, including a prominent tour in the Pentagon as the Director of the Amphibious Warfare New Ship Building Branch. I also studied at the prestigious Naval War College, where I concurrently earned two master's degrees in management and strategic planning. By the end of my service, I was humbled to be awarded the Bronze Star with Combat V Insignia, the Legion of Merit, and the Meritorious Service Medal.

Yet, through every single mile of that long voyage, the real foundation of my success was my wife, Pat. She was my wonderful, unwavering companion and supporter. My deep affection and admiration for her was, and remains, solid and enduring. Our shared experiences through the decades only strengthened our bond. Pat was the epitome of a remarkable Navy wife, and I state without hesitation that I could never have achieved my high professional goals without her endless support and sacrifice.

Ironically, I initially had no intention of making the Navy a long-term career. Just prior to completing OCS, a counselor sat me down and asked what specific class of ship I wanted to be assigned to. I looked him dead in the eye and said: "I don't want to be assigned to any ship. I grew up on a farm in the Midwest so being out on the open ocean doesn't interest me in the slightest."  Amused, the Navy decided to send me to the tropical island of Guam instead. That first assignment turned out to be one of the absolute enjoyable and rewarding points of my life. Stationed at a Naval Air Station, I decided to take full advantage of our remote geographic location to travel. Fortunately, The U.S. Coast Guard shared the air station and maintained a several rugged seaplanes. Courtesy of those generous crews, I was able to hitch a ride on several excursions across the various exotic islands of the Trust Territory of the Pacific. Visiting untouched islands like Palau was an unforgettable adventure, a story entirely unto itself.

Onward to Navy Flight Training

Toward the end of my tour in Guam, the commanding officer of the air station pulled me aside. He told me he was highly impressed with my performance and convinced me that I should formally apply for Navy Flight Training in Pensacola, Florida. It sounded like an incredible way to extend my aviation adventures, so I applied and was promptly accepted.

Beginning Navy flight training was an absolute thrill. I started out flying the T-34, a single-engine, propeller-driven aircraft. I will never forget the immense, chest-swelling excitement of completing my very first solo flight after several weeks of intense preparation. Before long, my proven performance in the cockpit earned me a coveted spot in the elite jet airplane pipeline. I was transferred to Meridian, Mississippi, to fly the T-2B single-engine jet.

I didn't know it at the time, but my tactical formation flight instructor in Meridian was none other than John McCain who would later be shot down over North Vietnam, endure years as a POW, and eventually serve as a prominent U.S. Senator. He was a remarkable flight instructor with a unforgettable personality. McCain would routinely take four of us students up for formation flying practice, each piloting our own aircraft in a razor-thin, tight formation, while he flew off to one side in a chase plane within eyesight, critiquing fiercely over the radio about what we were doing right or wrong.

Once finishing that training syllabus, I moved on to advanced jet training in Beeville, Texas. It was there, shortly before completing the flight syllabus, that my life's trajectory once again shifted forever.   It happened one sunny afternoon while practicing aggressive, complex dogfighting maneuvers with another jet piloted by an instructor. When the intense exercise concluded, the instructor peeled off and headed back to the airfield. Following standard safety protocols, I waited the mandatory five minutes before turning my jet to follow the instructor back to the field. As I leveled out, I glanced down at my instrument panel and felt my stomach drop. Apparently, due to the violent, high-G maneuvering of the dogfight, my aplane had suffered a catastrophic instrumentation failure causing a loss of all instrumentation. I was completely disoriented in the sky, with no visual landmarks and no idea where I was. Faced with a rapidly dropping fuel gauge, I had to make a swift, life-or-death decision. I keyed the radio and declared an emergency, calling "Mayday " back to the field. The radar controllers picked up my signal, instructed me to execute a few specific, rigid maneuvers to confirm my identity, and skillfully vectored me back toward the air station. When my wheels finally touched down safely on the runway, I was incredibly glad to be have safely brought the airplane back on solid ground.

That harrowing incident made me realize, right then and there, that I wasn't cut out to be a career Naval aviator. The margins for error were just too thin, and my passion wasn't there. I walked straight back into the ready room and officially announced my decision to terminate flight training. In retrospect, I deeply wish my roommate had made that exact same decision. Tragically, he had crashed his jet off the end of the runway the day before my incident, losing his life. Seeing his empty bunk underscored the brutal reality of aviation.

Since I still had to fulfill the remaining six months of my active-duty reserve commitment, the Navy reassigned me to an amphibious assault ship homeported in San Diego, CA. At that point, my plan was still firmly to return to civilian life. I was close to finishing my required five-year service commitment, so I began actively interviewing for civilian corporate employment. It turned out to be a thoroughly disappointing and deeply frustrating experience. Most recruiters only wanted to offer me entry-level retail sales positions. They seemed completely reluctant to recognize, value, or understand the immense experience I had gained as a naval officer.

A Crucial Career Pivot

I remember walking back to our small apartment in San Diego one afternoon, feeling utterly deflated and defeated by the civilian job market. I sat down, looked at Pat, and said gloomily: "I just don't know if I'm ever going to find a civilian job. Pat looked right back at me with unshakeable calm and said: "Well, perhaps you should make the Navy a career." I was absolutely stunned. I couldn't believe a Navy wife would willingly condone such a career path. Certainly, she knew with absolute clarity the grueling sea duty, constant relocations, and the long, lonely months of separation that choice would entail. But she believed in me, and her profound strength gave me pause. I thought about it and realized that just maybe she was right.

The very next morning, I spoke with the Executive Officer. I was honest with him knowing that I was technically four years behind the power curve compared to other officers of my grade.  I had a mountain of professional catching up to do and I knew I needed help. And just as it had happened so many times before in my life, he became the mentor I needed at that juncture.  He took me completely under his wing. When I told him I wanted to augment into the regular Navy and commit to at least a twenty-year career, he didn't hesitate. "You bet," he said enthusiastically and promised that he would personally ensure my career augmentation paperwork went through smoothly, and make certain that my very next assignment would be to the prestigious Navy Destroyer School in Newport, Rhode Island. He kept his word.

Into the Crucible of War

The years passed quickly, and I steadily earned my promotions to Lieutenant to Lieutenant. Not long after graduating from Destroyer School, I received my orders to a hard-working destroyer, the USS Hamner (DD-718). Almost immediately after I reported aboard, we deployed to the Western Pacific, specifically tasked with providing naval gunfire support off the coast of North Vietnam.

Sadly, I had received news regarding my promotion track.  I had been “passed over” for promotion to Lieutenant Commander.  This was such a devastating professional blow that I honestly thought my Navy career was effectively finished. I broke the disappointing news to Pat, and despite our heartbreak, we made a commitment to make the absolute best of the situation in order to somehow get picked up by the selection board the following year.

Then, halfway through the deployment, destiny intervened by way of a downed A-4 Skyhawk pilot. We were conducting active naval gunfire operations against enemy shore batteries off the coast of North Vietnam when an emergency alert suddenly started crackling furiously across the radio. A pilot had been shot down with a surface to air missile near our position. Luckily, I happened to be standing watch as the Officer of the Deck on the bridge of the destroyer at that exact moment. I scanned the vast, rolling open water off the starboard side of the ship, straining my eyes through the haze, until spotting an object floating motionless in the distance which was likely the downed pilot. I immediately ordered, "Right full rudder!" swinging the destroyer around to steer the ship toward his position. When we came close alongside the downed aviator to where he was bobbing helplessly in the swells, we soon realized that the was severely incapacitated, and unable to help himself climb aboard. The designated rescue swimmer was ordered to jump in and assist. He braved the swells, swam to the pilot, and secured the rescue harness around him, allowing our deck crew to pull him safely aboard.

Our ship subsequent received a formal, high-level citation for the flawless rescue, and I was personally awarded the Navy Commendation Medal with Combat V for my role on the bridge that day. Not long after, the calendar rolled around, and it was time for my second and final opportunity to be considered for promotion to Lieutenant Commander. I was overjoyed upon being notified that I had been selected promotion. I credit that successful rescue of the downed pilot as the ultimate catalyst that saved my Navy career.

After completion of a successful tour on the Hamner, I transitioned into the Amphibious Warfare community, which eventually became my primary operational specialty. I was eventually assigned as the Executive Officer of an amphibious dock landing ship deployed to the Western Pacific.  This deployment was quite eventful including participation in a high-stakes joint exercises with the South Korean Navy off their freezing coast. One particular winter morning, we were scheduled for a massive, coordinated ship-to-shore amphibious landing exercise. It was 4:00 AM, pitch-black, and bitterly cold. A biting wind was howling across the deck and the surrounding water was near freezing. We had already lowered our landing craft into the swells and debarked the infantry troops onto them.

As the heavily laden boats were circling the ship in the darkness, waiting for the synchronized signal to head to the beach, the radio suddenly crackled with the most terrifying words any sailor can ever hear: "Man Overboard! Man Overboard!" One of the fully geared soldiers had lost his footing and fallen overboard from a moving landing craft directly into the frigid, dark sea. All nearby landing craft were ordered to cut their engines and go to complete silence  to enable every ear to hopefully hear a single human voice hollering for help.

What happened next felt like pure divine intervention. Through the absolute, dead silence of the freezing night, one landing craft heard the soldier shouting for help in the distance. Aided by the sound of his voice, the nearest landing craft quickly vectored to his exact position. They fished him out of the freezing water just before hypothermia could claim him and delivered him back aboard our ship.

The exercise continued while our medical team went to work tending to the soldier. He was shivering uncontrollably from extreme exposure. After we got him bundled up in warm blankets and administered some medicinal Navy brandy to warm his core, the young man actually walked up to the bridge. Standing there in the dark, still trembling slightly, he looked at us and deeply thanked everyone involved for saving his life.

Three years later I assumed command of the USS Peoria (LST 1183.  While deployed to the Western Pacific we were called on to embark a Navy construction battalion and proceed to Tinian Island to uncover the overgrown runway where the B-29 bomber Enola Gay once took off to drop the first atomic bomb on Hiroshima, Japan.  One Sunday morning I led a group of five shipmates on a spelunking expedition to the caves on the southern end of the island.  Eventually, in the back of one of the caves, we found the skeletal remains of a Japanese defense force soldier with his name clearly visible above the front pocket of his uniform.  We gathered up his remains in my pillowcase which we later turned over to a state department representative at our  next port of  call.  Several months later we received a plaque from the soldiers family thanking us for returning his remains.      

Looking back, those and other specific high-stakes memories define what a 27-year Navy career truly teaches a man. Unlike any civilian profession, when a Navy ship goes to sea, she is entirely on her own. If a catastrophic emergency occurs, you cannot simply dial 911 and wait for help to arrive. You have to save yourselves and save the ship. Surviving requires absolute, relentless training, total discipline, and superior teamwork.

My naval journey eventually brought me ashore to the nation's capital, where I served in the Pentagon as the Director of the Amphibious Warfare New Ship Building Branch for the Office of the Chief of Naval Operations. It was a high-stakes corporate role, managing the multi-billion-dollar future of the entire amphibious fleet.

Chapter 4: Transitioning to Civilian Life

By January 1989, having achieved my highest professional goals with the endless love and support of Pat by my side, I made the momentous decision to retire from active duty.

When I took off my Navy uniform for the final time in January 1989, Pat and I knew we were at a crossroads. Our first major decision was determining exactly where to build our new civilian life. Because of my recent high-profile tours at the Pentagon and my decades of maritime experience, it would have been easiest to remain in San Diego and transition into a high-paying defense related position.

But our hearts were pulling us back home. A 27-year military career demands immense family sacrifice, but I always missed the quiet Midwestern lifestyle and the closeness of the family we had left behind decades ago. As such, we made the deliberate choice to forgo the easy, lucrative defense route, sold our California home, and let the Navy move our furniture one final time. We headed back east to our roots in Northern Illinois, purchasing a beautiful, home in Grand Detour, a small town close to my hometown of Mount Morris, famous as the historic site where John Deere invented the steel plow. Visit the webpage at https://donandpat.com/about-us/dons-hometown for my reflections on growing up in Mount Morris.

Just as we were settling into our new civilian rhythm, life dealt a heartbreaking blow. My father, who had suffered silently for many years from severe emphysema, passed away. It was a deeply bittersweet time. My primary motivation for moving back to Illinois was to spend meaningful, quality time with my and Pat’s aging parents. Losing my father so quickly cut that dream short for me. Yet, true to our farm and Navy roots, Pat and I forged ahead. We grew to absolutely love living in Grand Detour, built a wonderful, supportive circle of lifelong friends, and fully embraced the quiet, historic rhythm of small-town Illinois life.

Starting a Second Career

With our feet firmly planted back home, I had to decide what to do with my restless energy. Financially, we were in a highly fortunate position as my Navy pension was excellent, and I didn't need to work to survive. However, I wanted to work. I needed a fresh challenge. I decided to embrace the country’s future in ongoing technology and computer science advances. It was the early 1990s, and the internet was just beginning to emerge, running slowly on dial-up connections but gaining momentum by the day. I bought stacks of complex computer architecture books and html internet language, determined to master this new digital frontier.

That self-taught technical expertise paid off handsomely when I accepted a position as the Extension Unit Director for the University of Illinois Cooperative Extension Service in nearby Lee County, Illinois. I recognized early on that the internet could revolutionize how we shared vital agricultural and educational data with the public. Putting my new coding skills to work, I personally designed and launched a website for my Extension unit which was a first  in the state of Illinois, bringing our agricultural and youth training programs squarely into the digital age. It became the proud hallmark of my tenure there.

Driven by a persistent eagerness to try new things, I eventually moved on to sample an incredibly diverse array of civilian worlds. For a time, I served as the Director of Education Programs at the state prison in Dixon, Illinois, managing complex rehabilitation programs designed to give inmates the vital vocational skills they needed to rebuild their lives upon release. While the work was deeply meaningful, the daily environment of a prison was steeped in a negative, chaotic energy that conflicted with my desire for order. I simply didn't want that much chaos in my life, so I chose to move on. I even spent time working as a local radio disc jockey, having a wonderful time utilizing the microphone skills and vocal presence I had honed over the airwaves as a licensed amateur radio operator.

Onward to San Antonio, Texas

Pat and I again felt wanderlust so we sold our Grand Detour and moved to Texas where bought a home in the Texas hill country near San Antonio.   I was soon selected to head up the customer technical support branch for ProDoc in San Antonio. ProDoc was a cutting-edge software application designed to help attorneys completely streamline and automate the creation of complex legal documents—an industry that was just coming of age.

When I arrived, the company ran a basic telephone-based technical support call center with a lean staff of five people working under me. I convinced the company president the wisdom on this new on-site customer training model.  He quickly realized the importance of this strategy to truly capture a top place in a competitive market, we had a serious need to extend our technical training capacity directly into the field, traveling to law firms across the entire massive state of Texas. To pull off this major operational shift, I had to double my support staff and build a high-performance team capable of hitting the road while keeping the home office technical support center running seamlessly. It turned out to be one of the greatest hallmarks of the company's statewide success, empowering thousands of attorneys to master the digital tools that would transform their legal practice.

On the Road Again

We eventually left Texas in 2003 and settled in Murray, Kentucky, which proved to be a truly magical place to live. It was during our quiet time in Murray that life threw another massive physical obstacle directly into my path.

I had successfully quit smoking during my Navy years and had passionately taken up physical fitness including running, and long-distance bicycle riding. One afternoon, while riding hard on a trail, I couldn't quite generate enough momentum to make it up to the crest of a steep, grueling hill. I lost my momentum, fell completely off my bike, and tumbled hard into a side ditch.

An evaluation at the local hospital the next day revealed something shocking and unrelated to the fall: I had a ping pong sized cyst lodged in the septum of my heart. I saw numerous cardiovascular specialists, many of whom were reluctant to operate because they feared the mass might contain parasites. Finally, we located a brilliant, heart surgeon at the world-renowned Mayo Clinic in Rochester, Minnesota, who agreed to tackle the high-stakes operation.

Pat lovingly drove me up to Minnesota, where I spent ten days inside the fantastic, elite care of the Mayo Clinic while they successfully performed open-heart surgery and removed the cyst. The long, painful drive home with Pat was a profound experience in itself, bringing absolute clarity to my soul. Right then and there, I decided to officially retire from and simply enjoy the beautiful life Pat and I had built together.

Troubles along the way

We eventually left Murray, Kentucky and then moved on to a beautiful, two-story, 5,000-square-foot log home near Metropolis, Illinois that sat a little over a mile away from the banks of the Ohio River. Because of our elevation, I never truly believed the river could reach us. Wrong!

Soon we began to receive alarming forecasts warned of massive, heavy rains in our region. Within days, those warnings were upgraded to urgent flood notices. Recognizing the looming threat, our neighborhood banded together to form a tight-knit team, pooling our strength to aggressively sandbag all the properties. It was grueling, back-breaking labor, but we worked with a shared sense of urgency as the river continued to breach its banks.  Eventually, I watched the water creep relentlessly in to our backyard, including our pond. When the river waters finally reached our doorsteps, panic started to set in.

Fortunately, I had procured a portable sump pump, hoping to evacuate any water that breached our sand bagged perimeter. Unfortunately, we soon learned a bitter lesson about sandbag walls were only as good as the seal between the bags. The river water began seeping directly through the gaps between the bags. All that monumental effort had been for nothing. I fired up the big pump, but the rising tide completely overwhelmed it, and water began spilling across our main floor and into our sunken living room.

Next came the official evacuation notice. I kept hoping the rains would halt and the river would recede, but mother nature had other plans. In the dead of night, the disaster reached a crescendo. The power abruptly failed, plunging us into total darkness with the river water kept on rising. Realizing we were utterly surrounded and out of options, I finally swallowed my pride and called for extraction. I managed to contact the National Guard. I told them, "There is water all around us. We need a big truck with high axels to get us out of here."  When the National Guard truck finally arrived, the brown river water was well past the truck’s axles as it braved our long driveway.   We waded out through water past our knees to be loaded up and evacuated us to our waiting car that I had pre-positioned at a nearby higher ground gas station.

We piled into the car headed to Northern Illinois to seek refuge with my nephew. Sitting in his home, safe but physically and emotionally exhausted, Pat and I faced a stark financial crossroads. The damage was severe, and the temptation to simply throw up our hands and declare bankruptcy was real. But after a long, mature discussion, we rejected that path and decided to bear down, face the music, and save our home. It was one of the best decisions we ever made.

About ten days later, the floodwaters finally receded, leaving behind a thick layer of muck and a foot of standing water trapped inside our sunken living room. As we returned to Metropolis, the town was crawling with emergency vehicles and high-priced restoration companies charging exorbitant fees to clean up the devastation. True to form, I refused to pay those high bucks. I looked at the mess and decided we would handle it ourselves. Aside from hiring a professional crew to replace the main floor carpeting, Pat and I restored our flood ravished home ourselves. That took weeks of relentless work until we finally finished its restoration.  About a year later, having conquered the river and proven our resilience once again, we sold the log home and moved back to Murray, Kentucky where we had lived prior to moving to the log home.

Looking back, this experience was one of the greatest tests of our marriage. Pat and I once again were an unbreakable team. 

Onward to life in the deep South

After leaving Murray for the final time, we ended up in Hattiesburg, Mississippi, then came Covington, Georgia and finally Montgomery, Alabama where we live now.  Most likely, this will be our final destination as we are both in our mid 80s now enduring various health issues.   

Chapter 5: Reflections

In retrospect, I have come to several conclusions:

• Despite my very best efforts and technological successes, I never did find a civilian position that came anywhere close to measuring up to the deep responsibility, total accountability, and profound sense of purpose I held in the Navy. Perhaps it was foolish of me to expect a corporate office job to ever compete with the gravity of commanding a multi-million-dollar Navy warship on the high seas.
• In hindsight, a part of me occasionally wishes I had used my hard-earned veterans' education benefits to go straight to law school. I have always had a strong feeling for the legal profession. I somewhat regret now that I had pursued it.
• A lifetime cannot be measured by the roads I didn't take; it can only be measured by the grit, integrity, and heart it took to travel down all each road during the journey. With Pat faithfully by my side, it has been an incredibly rich experience of a lifetime.
• Our choice to embrace a life of independence, and shared adventure was the right one.   It gave me the opportunity to fully channel my creative energy into hobbies like website design, amateur radio, antique furniture restoration, landscape horticulture, handmade wine making, and continuous learning.

I look back at a life that has beautifully come full circle. In July 2021, Pat and I packed up our lives one final time and relocated here to Montgomery, Alabama. At 85 years old, I find that the core discipline and daily routine instilled in me as a Midwestern farm boy, and honed by twenty-seven years in the Navy, have never truly left me.

I continue to go to the local fitness center daily, keeping my body shaking and rattling with weight training and yoga. At home, Pat and I enjoy our home, quiet hours together, and tending to our beautiful perennial flower beds. And, of course, no day is complete without our cat, Mocha, curled up and sleeping away the hours nearby, completely oblivious to all that's going around her.

Conclusions

When I reflect back on the grand arc of my 85 years, I am left with a profound sense of gratitude, but also the realistic, clear-eyed perspective that only comes with age. My life was never a straight, easy line. It was a dynamic series of rapid transitions and deliberate reinventions.  No regrets.  Life has always been more about the journey than the final destination.  A life well-lived cannot be measured by phantom roads. It is measured by the integrity, effort, and heart you poured into the road you actually walked. From the farm fields of Illinois to the waters of the South Pacific, from the cockpits of tactical jets to the high-stakes tech rooms of Texas, I took on every obstacle life threw at me and did my absolute best to transform it into a profound opportunity.

I spent 27 years in the U.S. Navy, where competence was the only currency that mattered. Integrity and clear decision-making were not leadership buzzwords; they were the difference between mission success and catastrophe. That experience shapes how I view today’s political landscape, and it should concern every American. We are witnessing a slow-motion triumph of spectacle over competence. The question of who is best qualified to lead has been buried beneath an avalanche of drama that rewards performance over preparedness, a dynamic that now threatens the foundations of our democracy.

This shift toward image over substance did not happen overnight. It began with the rise of television, which elevated appearance over ability, and was later supercharged by the internet. Since 2016, national elections have increasingly resembled reality television, where the loudest voices and most theatrical stunts dominate the digital town square, crowding out serious debate and proven leadership traits. Today, this pattern is no longer confined to presidential politics. From Washington, D.C., to local councils, figures are elevated to power not because of demonstrated expertise or the capacity to manage complex institutions, but because of their willingness to perform for cameras and inflame cultural divisions.

The result is a governing culture in which failure carries little consequence, so long as the “performer” maintains the audience’s attention.

A healthy democracy depends on a press corps and an electorate capable of separating fact from fiction. That safeguard is eroding under three distinct pressures.

First, the line between reporting and commentary has blurred, making it harder for the public to distinguish what happened from what is being argued. Second, the routine dismissal of legitimate journalism as “fake news” has undermined the very notion of a shared reality. Third, artificial intelligence is rapidly reshaping the information battlefield, allowing falsehoods and synthetic authenticity to be manufactured at scale.

When people can no longer trust what they see or hear, they fall back on perceived likability and the cues of social media influencers. We are no longer choosing leaders; we are casting characters.

Just as Americans expect accurate, vetted information during a national emergency, we should demand the same standard when selecting a commander in chief. This is not about restricting free speech; it is about protecting the public from deliberate deception. If we hope to restore trust in our institutions, we must demand a political process that values preparation over performance. We need leaders who are committed to the hard work of governance. The stakes are too high to accept anything less.

A Little Advice

As you navigate your own lives, and build your own respective careers and families, you will inevitably encounter your own challenges. When those moments of testing come, I want you to remember three core principles that helped guide me rise from a reluctant Vietnam War draftee to a United States Navy Captain:

1. Navigating the Power Curve - Their will be times in life where you change direction, step into a brand-new environment, and suddenly realize you are completely out of your depth. You might feel like you are falling behind the power curve. When you find yourself in that predicament, do not panic, and under no circumstances should you quit. Put your head down, study the problem, develop a plan and renew your fierce determination to succeed. Adaptability is the ultimate human superpower.

2. Teamwork and Radical Accountability -   If a critical emergency occurs or a fire breaks out in the middle of the dark ocean, you cannot always wait for a help to arrive. You must act. Don't look around for someone else to blame, and don't sit back waiting to be rescued. Step up, look at the tools you have, and handle the situation to the absolute best of your ability.

3. Never Be Too Proud to Accept a Mentor - No man is an island, and nobody succeeds entirely on their own. Throughout my life, the right person always appeared at the moment I needed to help me pick myself up and carry on. Never let pride get in the way of a good lesson. Look for the people who possess the wisdom and experience you lack and listen to them with genuine humility. They will surely help you steer your course.

My parents raised me to believe that if a job is worth doing, it is worth doing well. I applied that rule to my childhood farm chores, aboard ship, and positions in the civilian sector. These memoirs are roadmap of how a Midwestern kid ended up navigating the world. The Navy uniform is boxed away, the warships have long since been decommissioned and the fast track has slowed to the peaceful, beautiful hum of a Montgomery afternoon. But the journey was worth every single mile. Walk your own paths with courage, take care of one another, and honor your heritage.

Beside me through every single mile of this grand journey has been my wife, Pat. As we approach nearly six decades of marriage, I am reminded daily that the greatest command decision I ever made in my life wasn't aboard a warship.  It was choosing Pat as my partner in life.   As such, I thought it would be appropriate to ask her to contribute her perspective on my Memoirs. She agreed and provided her thoughts in Appendix A.  Appendix B shares stories about several life events that i remember the most. Appendix C is contains several more of our favorite photographs taken over the years.

Appendix A

Once Upon a Time

Don was working a summer job in 1962 in my hometown of East Moline, Illinois. He was my first and only blind date, set up by the wife of Don’s boss. When he came to pick me up, I vividly remember telling my mother, "If he looks like his last name (Snodgrass), tell him I’m sick!"  He easily passed that test. so out we went on our first date.

In those days, people really dressed up for a date. Don was no exception.  He showed up in a suit and tie, and I wore a dress and heels. Obviously, I was pleasantly surprised. I should add that Don was going into his junior year at the University of Illinois, and I had just graduated from high school. Our first date was a movie, followed by a trip to a restaurant and bar owned by friends of my parents, where we danced together for the very first time. It was a wonderful evening, but no second date was mentioned. I figured it was just a one-time event. 

During the subsequent eight years, we only had a few face-to-face dates. Most of our keeping in touch was done the old-fashioned way: by letter. We didn’t have email or texting at the time, so we truly had to put pen to paper. Every now and then, Don would just show up on my parents' front porch without notice. A couple of times, I was actually heading out the door with another date, so Don would end up spending the evening visiting with my parents and my two aunts instead! Whenever he was in town, he would call to see if I was available, but more times than not, I wasn't. One night, he called me from a phone booth. When I told him I already had plans, he left town in a huff, immediately got a speeding ticket, and naturally blamed the whole thing on me! Go figure.

San Diego and a Fast-Moving Mind

Don received his draft notice after graduating from U of I. Thanks to a Navy Captain intervening, he was able to transition out of the Army draft and into the Navy.

At the time, I had no idea what events were transpiring in Don's life, but I thought about him often. One day, I made a chance call to his mother to ask how he was doing and to see if I could get an address to write to him. She was rather reluctant to provide the information at first, but finally relented. He had quit flying and was aboard his first ship.

After reading my very long letter, Don sent me a tape recording in return. One thing led to another, and he eventually invited me to vacation in San Diego. He explained that he thought I would love the city, and suggested that if I wanted to check out local employment possibilities, I could look around and even sublease his apartment while he was away on deployment.  He even offered me to use his car so he wouldn’t have to put it in storage. Don knew I was ready to make a change in my life. He has always been the one to make things happen!

As it turned out, I did spend my vacation in San Diego, and a lot of things happened while I was there. The absolute highlight, of course, was Don and I getting engaged and immediately throwing ourselves into wedding plans.

We had to move incredibly fast. His ship was scheduled to deploy to the Western Pacific for eight months, leaving us with only a few short weeks to travel back to Illinois, get married, and race back to San Diego before he had to board his ship. It may have taken me almost eight years to convince him that I was the one, but he certainly moves fast once he makes up his mind!

Setting Up House Alone

Before he left, we had to make a major decision: would I stay in San Diego, or move back in with my parents in Illinois while he was away at sea? Many young Navy wives opted to go home to their parents during deployments, but for us, this was about starting our marriage—setting the foundation for what would become a 27-year Navy journey.

Having never lived away from my parents' home except for my college years, you might think I would have struggled with the choice. However, I didn’t think twice about staying in San Diego. I was a married woman now; I needed to set up our household, and just being in San Diego made me feel closer to him.

Still, it was a strange realization that once his ship pulled away, I knew absolutely no one and would have to start our married life entirely alone. We had been married for only three weeks when he left for that first deployment. More experienced wives would tell me, "Oh, the first deployment is easy because you haven't been married long enough to miss him yet." Over the years, I would find that none of them were easy. You simply learned how to adjust, cope, and manage.

Before Don left, I "what-iffed" him to death, asking what I should do if this or that went wrong. His advice to me was: "Make a decision, even if it’s the wrong one." He put his full trust in me, and I was determined to do everything I could to carry on.

Life on Point Loma & A Solar Eclipse

My first priority was figuring out how to make the time move quickly, which meant keeping busy. I didn't know my way around San Diego at all, but I wanted to get a job, which meant venturing out into the unknown. As luck would have it, I applied for one job and was hired on the spot. I became the new Executive Secretary to the General Manager and Coach of the San Diego Rockets professional basketball team. I was elated. Unfortunately, my dream job was short-lived. I soon found out I was pregnant, and due to some early complications, my doctor insisted I quit work and check into Balboa Naval Hospital. I spent five days there before returning to our apartment in Point Loma. Our place was right across the street from the Pacific Ocean; I could watch the surfers during the day and listen to the foghorns lull me to sleep at night. The rest of the pregnancy was relatively uneventful, except for the fact that I went from 127 pounds to 170 pounds! In those days, weight gain wasn't the micro-managed concern it is today. Plus, I took full advantage of the old saying that I was "eating for two."

When Don finally came home, I was no longer the slender, blushing bride he had left on the pier. To this day, Don loves to tell friends that when his ship rounded the pier, there was a sudden eclipse of the sun because I had gotten so large! It was certainly an adjustment for both of us.

A couple of months later, our son, Mark, was born. Don always had a difficult time coping with hospital maternity waiting rooms, so he decided to head back to the apartment to wait for the call. Well, he fell fast asleep. By the time the hospital finally called him, Mark was already five hours old. Needless to say, I have never let him forget it!

The Journey of 19 Houses

When Mark was just three months old, we received orders to a new duty station in Norfolk, Virginia. That cross-country move was a true adventure: driving across the country with a baby bassinet wedged into the back seat of a Ford Mustang! We stopped in Illinois to visit our families along the way, and then pushed onward to Virginia.

The weather was cold and rainy when we finally arrived, so we checked into a local motel. Don told me he was going to head out the next day to scout out rental properties. Because Mark was still so young, we decided it was best for me to wait behind in the room.

After about four hours, Don came back to the motel and told me he wanted me to see what he had found. We drove out to a brand-new subdivision near Virginia Beach. He stopped the Mustang in front of a beautiful house and asked me what I thought of it. I looked at it and said, "Don, it’s absolutely beautiful." He smiled and said, "I'm glad you like it because I already signed the purchase contract!"

Making those early house payments was never easy. At the end of each month, if we found ourselves with a grand total of $5 left over, we would celebrate by going out and splitting a single McDonald’s hamburger. But those were wonderful times, and we were off to a beautiful start.

That house in Virginia Beach turned out to be the first of 19 homes we would purchase over the years. As Don has always said, "It’s about the journey, not the destination." And what a spectacular journey it has been. With very few exceptions, we have never regretted or looked back on the decisions we made. Some moves were certainly harder than others, especially when it meant leaving special friends behind, but we built a beautiful life through it all.

Appendix B

Story 1 --  Reclaiming North Field: A Mission of History, Duty, and Honor on Tinian

During our 1977–1978 Western Pacific deployment, I served as Executive Officer of the tank landing ship USS Bristol County (LST-1198). Ordered to the island of Tinian for Exercise Quickjab XII, our mission was a massive civic action and engineering undertaking: uncovering and clearing decades of dense tropical growth from the historic runways of North Field.

North Field holds an unforgettable place in global history as the airfield complex from which B-29 Superfortress bombers, including the Enola Gay, launched their missions in August 1945 to bring an end to World War II. Carrying a Seabee detachment equipped with heavy machinery, we used our ship’s unique 112-foot aluminum bow ramp to offload earthmovers and trucks directly onto the beach without a deep-water port.

While the Seabees cleared the crushed-coral runways, a few shipmates and I explored the limestone caves scattered across Tinian's southern end. What began as casual spelunking turned into a solemn encounter with history. Deep inside one untouched cave, we discovered the skeletal remains of a Japanese soldier who had fallen during the brutal fighting over thirty years earlier.

Recognizing our duty to a fellow service member, we carefully gathered his remains into a canvas bag, brought him aboard the Bristol County, and turned him over to the U.S. State Department for repatriation. Months later, our crew received a beautifully crafted wall plaque sent directly from the soldier's family in Japan—a deeply moving gesture of gratitude that spanned oceans and generations.

Our work in the late 1970s was intended to preserve a historic landmark and establish a contingency divert airfield. However, decades later, the U.S. military recognized its enduring strategic value. In May 2026, after a major restoration effort, those very same runways officially reopened for live military flight operations as a critical Pacific fallback base. It remains immensely rewarding to know that our crew laid the first physical stones for a runway that serves our country to this day.

Story 2: The Chief Pollywog in Command: A Lesson in Leadership on the USS Belleau Wood

Balancing naval tradition with the safety of thousands of sailors and Marines is one of the trickiest tightropes an Executive Officer must walk—especially during a Crossing the Line ceremony. During our 1984 deployment aboard the amphibious assault ship USS Belleau Wood (LHA-3), structuring this organized chaos fell squarely on my shoulders.

Crossing the equator meant managing two distinct cultures: the ship's crew viewed the ceremony as rowdy fun, while the embarked Marines approached it far more intensely. To keep the event safe and disciplined, I briefed the Marine commander directly, establishing strict safety guidelines, medical staging, and clear accountability. True to form, the Marines executed the plan flawlessly without a single incident.

However, the most memorable moment occurred behind closed doors the night before we crossed. I went to the Captain’s quarters to brief our commanding officer, Captain Francis R. Donovan—a brilliant, fast-tracked four-stripe officer who would later earn his stars as a Vice Admiral. As I outlined the safety measures, I noticed he seemed unusually tense. Leaning in, he shared a closely guarded secret: in his entire illustrious career, he had somehow dodged King Neptune. The master of the ship was still a Pollywog.

"What should I do, XO?" he asked, looking to me for counsel.

I weighed the optics of a senior captain undergoing initiation alongside his junior sailors. But true naval leadership demands humility. "Sir," I told him, "as the Chief Pollywog aboard, you should be at the absolute head of the line."

Captain Donovan didn't hesitate or pull rank. The next morning, he led from the front, taking his licks alongside his crew and earning the fierce, lifelong respect of every sailor and Marine on board. He was a consummate gentleman and a devout patriot who lived his values. Admiral Donovan passed away in 2014 after a heroic battle with ALS, but his lesson in humility and leadership on the Belleau Wood remains one of my most cherished memories.

Story 3: Coming of age

My teenage world was deceptively small—bounded by high school walls and a hyper-awareness of where I stood in the social hierarchy. When my best friend invited me on a church-sponsored wilderness canoe trip out of Ely, Minnesota into the Canadian backcountry, I treated it like summer camp with extra steps. I expected a mild physical challenge, not realizing the border lakes were about to dismantle everything I knew about self-reliance, community, and my own limits.

The first shift happened in the outfitter’s warehouse, amidst the scents of canvas, dried rations, and heavy canoes. Watching our trip leaders map contour lines to navigate 30 teenagers across an intricate lake system, I realized freedom in the wild was bought with rigorous preparation. Survival required forethought—an analytical eye I had never used in comfortable daily life.

Our leaders were newlyweds, wonderful guides whose profound love of nature was matched by their devotion to each other. Every evening, the moment our canoes touched shoreline, they became absolute speed-demons, pitching their private tent before anyone else had unpacked. It became an affectionate running joke around the campfire and the absolute talk of our group.

That lighthearted romance offered welcome relief against the brutal physical reality of the trip. Crossing into untamed Canadian waters, portaging heavy wooden canoes and gear quickly tested my limits. Within ten paces, my shoulders screamed and my legs shook. Yet, as the miles wore on, I discovered a crucial truth: when the body insists it is finished, the mind can still find another gear.

The trip also rewired my understanding of teamwork. Stripped of teenage awkwardness, our group evolved into a single functional organism. Without being asked, everyone pitched tents, gathered firewood, and cooked. True teamwork wasn't about social status; it was holding up your end of the load because someone else was carrying the other.

At twilight, sitting beside glass-still waters reflecting a deep purple sky as a loon’s haunting call echoed across the lake, I felt a deep reverence for the natural world. Free from modern distractions, I realized I was part of a magnificent, indifferent ecosystem that demanded respect.

When we paddled back into Ely a week later, the wild had stripped away my superficial armor. It replaced it with values that would shape the rest of my life: the necessity of preparation, the strength of shared burdens, deep personal resilience, and a lasting awe for the earth.

Postscript: A final lingering memory is the sheer size and appetite of the Canadian mosquito population that week—perhaps taking early retribution for the complex U.S.-Canada relations to come decades later in 2026.

Appendix C

These are some of our favorite photos that help keep our memories alive:

Cut flowers from one  of several perennial beds we nurtured over the years.

Photo of an oil painting done by a street artist in Hong Kong who created it from three separate wallet sized photos.  The paint was still wet from he delivered it to Don's ship just prior to leaving port. 

A special photo of our son Mark.

Our log home in Southern Illinois prior to the flood that  resulted in the pond and flood waters becoming one.

Antique oak wall bench from a train station that Don once restored.  We still have it.

Memorability from Don's Navy career.

 

 

Pat’s parents and their 1935 Ford Deluxe Tudor. Cool wheels!

Pat and her proud dad leave the hospital to bring her home.

Pat with her favorite stuffed animal.  

Pat’s kindergarten photo during a pretend wedding dress rehearsal.  Sigh!

Pat and her favorite Aunt Emily.

Pat’s kindergarten report card.

Don, his Mom, Dad and sister Nancy.

Don enjoying life on the farm.

Don and two cattle he raised as a Vocational Agriculture project in high school.

Don's prized 55 Chevy hard top.  He wishes he still owned it.  $$$

The ATO fraternity quartet that Don was part of.  Not a good singer but was a decent pretender.

Don and his father during a “Dad’s Day” celebration at the Alpha Tau Omega fraternity.  

“Mom’s Day” at the fraternity.   She loved all the attention.

Don and his parents at the ceremony.  A kid from the farm makes good! 

Flight training in Meridian, MS.  Lieutenant John McCain was one of our instructors.  He was a tough guy who later became a Vietnam POW and eventually a US Senator.   Dam Trump for once having labeled John a loser!

We were married at Trinity Lutheran Church, Mt. Morris, Illinois on October 7, 1967.  Two weeks later Don left on an eight-month deployment to the western Pacific aboard the USS Colonial, LSD-17 returning eight months later to the ship’s homeport in San Diego, CA.  Pat was waiting on the pier eight months pregnant with our son, Mark. 

Don’s best man, Stan Corbett and Pat’s matron of honor, Jan Stierwalt.

Our moms and dads.

With Don’s sister Nancy at the reception.

Leaving on our honeymoon trip back to San Diego, CA.  Our Ford Mustang’s convertible top leaked during the trip. 

Pat and Mark and our much beloved Nisan 240Z in the driveway of our home in Rancho Bernardo, California.

One of our favorite photos together

Promotion to Lieutenant Commander.

On the flight deck of the assault ship USS Belleau (LHA-3).  As the ship’s executive officer, Don served for three commanding officers including Captain Charles Baker shown in this photo.  He was a real gem!

Captain Frank Donovan promoted Don to Captain.  He played a key role in Don’s Navy career.

Photo of Pat, Mark and our Springer Spaniel “Cleve” at our Escondido, California home.

Mark was a highly gifted artist who got started at an early age with drawings such as this one of his grandpa Molnar, a one-time amateur boxer.

The USS Peoria (LST 1183) was the first of two ships Don commanded. She was a Newport-class tank landing ship that served in the Navy from 1970 to 1994.  Homeported in San Diego, the ship was 522 feet long, 70 feet wide, and displaced 5,190 tons and carried a complement of 14 officers, 15 chief petty officers, and 226 enlisted Marines.

Ready to board a Helo for transport to a landing zone ashore.

Don served on nine ships during his Navy career including the USS Hamner, DD-718.    Don was aboard when the ship rescued a Navy pilot who had ejected during a bombing mission. 

Congratulatory telegram regarding the rescue of the downed pilot.

Don’s amateur radio station.  He used it aboard several ships to make telephone patches to Pat as well as to family and friends of the crews.

Our first home was in Grand Detour, Illinois following Don’s Navy retirement.  We loved being back home and living in this quaint village.

Pat in front of our Grand Detour home.

Pat and Don have enjoyed living in eighteen homes over the years.  This one was located in Murray, KY.

Jerry Scheffler's artist's pencil drawing rendition of the farmhouse where Don and his sister Nancy grew up.  That's our first dog "Shep" in the right foreground. 

Jerry Scheffler's artist's pencil drawing rendition of the barn where Don and his sister Nancy worked and played in while growing up.  Those chickens in the foreground were always underfoot.

The above photo montage shows Don, Pat and other members of our family.  Not shown is our newest grandson, Trevor.  Pat's mom and dad are now deceased.

Don, Pat and grandson Trevor

Don's sister Nancy and her now-deceased husband Don.   Nancy continues to tend to her massive model horse collection.

Don's mom (left), his sister Nancy (red coat), and husband Don (blue and white jacket) came for a weekend visit in the spring of 2008.  Don's mom and Sister's husband are deceased.

Don's nephew Joe and his wife Debbie visited us in February 2011.

Our Golden Retriever "Pfeil".  She was the fifth senior dog that we have adopted.  She was simply the best and is now deceased.

"Michael" was our exotic breed Bengal Snow Leopard cat.  In our family, Michael was the one who was truly in charge!  He is now deceased. 

Note:  Regrettably, Michael and Pfeil died in 2013 and 2014.  We miss them both so very much.

Our companion Springer Spaniel "Leah." She was a retired nine years old show dog and daughter of the 2007 Westminster "Best in Show".  She was the 7th older dog that we have adopted over the years.  We are so very thankful to Karen Carrico for trusting us into the care of Leah for the rest of her days.   She is now deceased. 

A  PET'S
TEN
COMMANDMENTS.........

1. My life is likely to
last 10-15 years. Any separation from you is
likely to be painful.

2.. Give
me time to  understand what you want of me

3. Place your trust in
me. It is crucial for my well-being.

4. Don't be angry with me for
long and don't lock me up as punishment.
You have your work, your friends, your
entertainment, but I have only you.

5. Talk to me. Even if  I don't
understand your words, I do understand
your voice when speaking to me.

6. Be aware that however
you treat me, I will never forget it.

7. Before you hit me,  before
you strike me, remember that I could hurt
you, and yet, I choose not to bite
you..

8. Before you scold me
for being lazy or uncooperative, ask
yourself if something might be bothering
me. Perhaps I'm not getting the right
food, I have been in the sun too long, or
my heart might be getting old or weak.

9. Please take care of  me when
I grow old. You too, will grow old.

10. On the ultimate difficult
journey, go with me please. Never say  you
can't bear to watch. Don't make me face this
alone. Everything is easier for me if you
are there, because I love you so.

~Take a moment today to
thank God for your pets.. Enjoy and take good
care of them.

Life would be a
much  duller, less joyful experience
without God's critters.

Mark, son Trevor, wife Stephanie and the newest addition to our family, Evan  (March 2009).  Mark is now deceased.

"Chicks dig me"  Our newest grandson

Fall, 2010 photo of Don and Pat

Thanksgiving 2011 at Joe and Debbie's home in Rockford, IL..