I have to keep reminding myself that I'm not so young now and cannot do some of the things I used to do. I usually remind myself of this only after doing something that almost kills me.

We are in the middle of a two-day, almost record-setting, warm spell, so I enjoyed jogging yesterday to our local park, where I left the twisty park road to switch into cross-country mode. The ground had been wet from rain and snow and then had been frozen and now is thawed and somewhat mushy. I had to watch out for the really muddy spots.

Pretty soon, some runners from the local college – that's McKendree University – showed up. All six or seven of them were tall, slender and as fast as cheetahs. I am rather short, a little overweight and about as quick as an old, fat housecat. I'm also a retired Marine, and many of us aging jarheads just can't take it when swift, young jocks blast past us, making us eat their dust. Aw, maybe it's just me who thinks like that. "I used to run like that – faster than that," I mumbled to myself yesterday. "Young whippersnappers!" Yeah, it's probably just me.

On my park run, I wore shorts and a cut-off, Marine Corps sweatshirt with Marines across the front, and I carried a pack on my back, with a weighty camera and extra lens inside it, in case I saw a Pulitzer Prize-winning photograph along my route. So, I'm thinking – as I'm jogging along there at an eeeeasy jogging pace – that those college speedsters are probably going to see me and think I'm a crazy, ol', former gyrene who just escaped from a mental hospital. Or that I'm a very slow jogger who once served in the Marine Corps and now shuffles along our small-town roads strapped with a dorky backpack that's most likely filled with chocolate bars or cans of beer or both.

I didn't want them to think that, not that, so instead of merging back onto the park road, as I had planned, I headed off in another direction, blazing a new cross-country route, bounding down a hill, jumping across a tiny draw, and sprinting up another hill. Outstanding! I was in the Corps again, except I didn't have a rifle, 20 magazines, six fragmentation grenades, four canteens, flak gear and all that Marine stuff. Maybe that's why I was able to bound, jump and sprint.

I looked back at the road, and saw that the young runners had already reached the other side of the park. I downshifted from Marine Corps high gear to old-fart low gear and jogged leisurely back onto the park road along the lake. As I rounded the bend at the lake's dam, I caught sight of the runners, headed my way already. Holy track shoes, they're fast! 

I shifted back into high gear, made it across the dam, veered off the road and headed toward the park's nearby nature trail before the college cheetahs could reach me. Then, I suddenly found myself at a 5-foot sheer drop, followed by a 20-foot slope. Should I stop and look like a sissy? Hell no! Go far it! I leaped off the edge without breaking stride, landed in mud that was camouflaged by leaves, and plowed out a downhill mud trail with my feet, ass and arms. Oh, I was so cool. At the bottom of the slope, I sprang right up in one smooth motion and continued running toward the nature trail, as if I had planned it that way. Still not breaking stride, I looked at my hands and arms, which were covered in cool, wet mud. I reached around and grabbed my butt and felt nothing but more cool, wet mud. 

The runners from the college probably witnessed the silly spectacle and thought I was either a wild man running a commando-type obstacle course or a demented fool who loved running on and sliding in the mud. 

Fortunately, the nature trail goes into the adjoining forest, so I quickly melted into the thick oaks and hickories. I soon stopped to catch my breath and tried to wipe off some of the mud by rubbing my hands and arms on the bark of tree trunks. And can you imagine if someone had seen me when I was rubbing my butt up against that big pin oak?

After muddying up several innocent trees, I inspected myself. Still pretty messy. I wasn't sure whether I should feel gung-ho or stupid. I thought about what my lovely Aunt Velma used to say: Gettin' old ain't for sissies. She borrowed that thoughtful quip from the grand actress, Bette Davis. I smiled, thinking about it, and decided to walk the nature trail and take a break from jogging.

I meandered along the trail slowly, figuring the McKendree harriers would finish their laps through the park and continue their run back to the university by the time I reached the trail's end and emerged from the hardwood forest. I timed it perfectly. As I left the trail and walked onto the bordering grass, the young speedsters were just hitting the asphalt road back to town and the university. I sat on the grass and scooted along on my butt to wipe off the rest of the muck. Now I had a wet ass, instead of a mostly muddy one. No problem. As we used to say in the Corps: Good training! Gotta love it! OooRAH!

And as both my wise aunt and the insightful Bette Davis used to say: Gettin' old ain't for sissies!

Tet, the Vietnamese Lunar New Year celebration, begins on Feb. 9 this year, although the actual Tet holiday falls on Feb. 10. Forty-five years ago, it began on Jan. 31 and coincided with the military action known as the Tet Offensive of 1968 in Vietnam. For me, the holiday started a little early, at sea.

Our helicopter lifted gently from the small flight deck on the aft of the hospital ship USS Sanctuary to deliver us back into the belly of the beast – wartime Vietnam. The U.S. Army UH-1D Huey chopper crew cordially welcomed us, their only two passengers, for the scenic flight. I was a 20-year-old U.S. Marine, and my fellow commuter was a Vietnamese boy, about 8 years old. His eyes bulged, and his mouth gaped opened in awe, as the chopper drifted away from the Navy ship and then swiftly picked up speed, soaring over the South China Sea, headed toward Chu Lai, South Vietnam. It was Jan. 29, 1968.

I’d been on the hospital ship about three weeks, recovering from a shrapnel wound, and was headed back to my unit, Charlie Company, 1st Reconnaissance Battalion, 1st Marine Division. The young lad with me, who’d also been treated aboard the ship for some shrapnel injuries, was to be delivered to his family, and a Navy chief petty officer had designated me as the kid’s escort. I figured it would be easy, because it was time for Tet, the Vietnamese Lunar New Year’s celebration. The Tet truce promised a peaceable trek around the countryside.

The helicopter landed at a U.S. Army medical unit in Chu Lai. It already was getting late, so our Army hosts offered us a place to spend the night and said they would try to contact the boy’s family. Things looked good already.

My young friend and I picked out a couple of cots in one of the wards, where we could rest up for the next day’s mission of returning him home just in time for the Tet holiday and festival. But everyone’s sleep ended abruptly during the night from thunderous explosions, as enemy rockets rained in on the base. We scrambled out of the ward and dove into a sandbagged bunker right outside. So much for the truce.

Welcoming the new year

The 1968 Tet Offensive began at Chu Lai with a lot of fireworks, when those 122 mm rockets slammed into the base, exploding everywhere. At the same time, enemy forces attacked bases and cities throughout the region. The attacks in the wee hours on the eve of Tet, ironically, were a mistake and ruined the enemy's planned Jan. 31, countrywide, surprise start of the offensive. So, when North Vietnamese and Viet Cong forces attacked full force on Lunar New Year's Day, hitting all the other regions, the element of surprise was already lost in those areas.

But in the early darkness of Jan. 30, all of that was unknown and didn't matter anyway. We were under attack, and the situation did not look good. I was in the middle of it with not even a handgun. I desperately wanted my sweet 16 – my trusty M16 rifle.

After daylight, I learned that the Army had accomplished my first mission for me. Despite the hostilities, my little friend’s mother and grandmother had made it to the medical unit. They were happy I had delivered their boy to them, but he seemed a little sorry to leave me and the adventure he thought we were going to have hiking to his home in Quang Ngai province.

Of course, that adventure now would have been hazardous, with the enemy’s offensive underway. Arriving medevac choppers attested to the fighting going on throughout I Corps, the military's northernmost tactical zone in South Vietnam. 

I needed to get back to Charlie Company. Unarmed, I walked out to Highway 1 and stuck out my thumb. With the possibility of incoming rockets and mortar rounds anytime, anywhere, I wished I had at least a helmet and flak jacket. I decided that my lack of equipment would make my trip all the more adventurous. OooRAH!

A truck full of Army grunts stopped for me, and I jumped into the back. I was a Marine headed to Da Nang with a bunch of Army soldiers, who were glad to give a jarhead a ride. The interservice jokes flowed as we rode northward until I jumped out at Camp Reasoner, home of 1st Recon Battalion, nestled on the side of Hill 327, below 1st Marine Division headquarters.

Reconnecting with Charlie  

I was home, but upon reaching my company area, I found no Charlie Company. Some other recon Marines told me Charlie had moved north to Phu Bai. Battalion headquarters confirmed the bad news. Indeed, Chargin' Charlie Company and 1st Force Reconnaissance Company had moved north and were operating out of Phu Bai.    

In 1968 Lunar New Year’s parlance, it was the Year of the Monkey, and I was left hanging, with no company and no gear. Luckily,  a battalion officer told me, a C-130 aircraft was scheduled to fly the next morning from Da Nang to Phu Bai, so I could catch a ride on that rumbling transport plane and be there in no time. In the meantime, the armory loaned me a rifle, and I spent the night on the line, expecting an attack.

No attack developed, daylight came, I turned in my rifle and hitched a ride to the air base, where I made it onto that beautiful C-130 Hercules. Halfway to Phu Bai, the aircraft banked around and returned to Da Nang. The airfield at Phu Bai was under heavy attack.

The following night and day were repeats of the previous. I procured temporary use of an M16, stood the line until morning, made it onto the C-130, got half way to Phu Bai and ended up back at Da Nang. Phu Bai was catching hell.

On the bright side, helping protect the Hill 327 area wasn’t so bad. The division headquarters and surrounding perimeter defenses weren’t being attacked as expected. And my air-travel fortunes had to change eventually.

They did change. My third attempt to reach Phu Bai was successful.

Missing the big battle

As I wandered off of the airfield tarmac at Phu Bai, south of the imperial city of Hue, a Marine lance corporal in a jeep saw the obvious confusion on my face. Where was I going? Recon, I answered. Hop in, he said, because he was going right past Chargin’ Charlie Company.

Sure enough, in no more than 10 minutes, we pulled up in front of the company office, where about six big trucks lined the side of the muddy street. It looked like the entire company was loaded aboard the half-dozen six-wheel-drive vehicles. My recon team, Team Mad Hatter, was in the first truck, and I quickly spotted our corpsman, who carried an M16 rifle and his .45-caliber service pistol. Doc told me they were ready to roll up to Hue and support the Marines who were trying to retake the ancient capital from the enemy.

“Loan me your pistol,” I yelled at Doc, as I began to climb onto the truck. He was trying to unfasten his pistol and holster from his cartridge belt, when I was pulled down from the back of truck by our company gunnery sergeant.

“You think your gonna liberate Hue with a pistol and two magazines?” he barked at me. “You WILL stay in the rear with the gear!”

The gunny quashed my last chance at a fighting role in the famous Tet Offensive of 1968. I would have no accounts of house-to-house combat, no tales of heroics, no sagas of the big battle for Hue, I thought, as my fellow recon Marines rolled off to glory, headed to the Imperial City. 

I reluctantly guarded the gear in the rear. In actuality, that means I just waited – rather anxiously – for the return of my fellow Marines. Fortunately, all came back, maybe not all unscathed, but we lost not a single man.

And while I missed out on all the action in Hue City, and fired not a single shot during all the Tet fighting, my misfortune amounted to little in the larger scope of things. I served in Vietnam for 20 more months. That was time enough for many more adventures.

The Man is gone. Stan Musial died yesterday in St. Louis.

Stan The Man was the greatest St. Louis Cardinal of all time. That's not a biased, unqualified opinion. I'm not editorializing. Cardinal baseball fans in St. Louis and throughout Cardinal Nation and beyond will agree that Stan Musial was the best player ever to put on a St. Louis Cardinal uniform.

I grew up a dyed-in-red Cardinal fan, and I worshipped Mr. Musial, No. 6, who was recruited Saturday afternoon at age 92 to play baseball on the diamonds of Heaven.

Musial got his nickname, rather ironically, from some true-blue Dodger fans. Back when the Dodgers played in Brooklyn, and Stan was not yet as famous, some fans at Ebbets Field called him "that man," as in: "Here comes that man." St. Louis sportswriter Bob Broeg picked up on it and came up with "Stan the Man." It stuck.  

How great was Stan the Man? The year I was a one-year-old rugrat, he led the league in 10 offensive categories. In another year, in a game against the Boston Braves, he was injured and in pain, yet he smashed five hits in five swings. The stories and feats go on and on. Stan retired with a .331 batting average. Think about it; the Man played 22 seasons, all with the Cardinals, and ended up with a lifetime batting average of .331. He ended up with 475 homeruns, and he was not considered a homerun hitter. He captured seven batting titles. He was crowned Most Valuable Player three times. He was a World Series champion three times. He still leads the Redbirds in six categories – they include homeruns, runs batted in, hits and walks – yet he retired a half-century ago.

My first, personal memories of Stan go back to summer nights when I was a young kid, and I would listen to Cardinal baseball games in my room on the blue, plastic, General Electric radio that sat on my night stand. I didn't mind that the summer nights were so hot and humid, and we had no air conditioning, because Harry Caray's voice would come out of the radio and say, "Live, from Sportsman's Park, the St. Louis Cardinals are on the air," or something like that. And then I'd listen, while St. Louis native Caray and
fellow announcer Jack Buck would describe all the baseball drama and excitement as Stan the Man and the boys would thrill us with another great Cardinal game.

I got to see the Man and our other Cardinal heroes play live and in person at Sportsman's Park once a year, thanks to the local Lion's Club. The organization would charter a bus or buses for us young Redbird fans and then chaperone us to a real, live game. Besides being mesmerized by Stan and the team – right down there below us, on that big-league field – I remember the green, green grass of the outfield and the smooth, brown dirt of the infield diamond. Most of all, though, I recall all of us sitting on the edges of our seats when Stan the Man was taking his at-bats, standing at the plate in his uniquely identifiable stance. The finest moments came when he rapped the ball, and we heard that loud crack of the ash-wood bat smacking that hardball, and we watched the baseball drive up against the wall or into the gap or over the wall.

My absolutely greatest Musial-related memory is of my absolutely greatest birthday. I turned 12 years old, and my parents took me to Curt Smith's Sporting Goods on Main Street in Belleville, Ill., to buy me my birthday present. It was a Stan Musial model Rawlings Trapeze baseball glove. It was not a youth model; it was a regular Rawlings Trapeze mitt, with Stan Musial's name emblazoned on it. If you've seen the movie, "A Christmas Story," and you remember how Ralphie said that his Red Ryder air rifle was the greatest present he ever received or ever would receive – well then – you can imagine how I felt about that baseball glove.

But wait; there's more. After leaving the sporting goods store, my folks took me to Musial and Biggie's Restaurant in St. Louis. Stan Musial and Julius "Biggie" Garagnani partnered up in 1949 to open one good restaurant, and it was still going famously for my 12th birthday in 1959. I remember I was disappointed that Stan the Man was not at the restaurant that particular night, but the rainbow trout dinner I ordered remains to this day the most memorable meal of my life. I can still see in my mind – quite clearly, mind you – the maître d' bringing my plate to the table and lighting my trout on fire. The magical flame lasted only briefly, and then he deboned the fish for me. Hey, I was only 12, so I was very impressed. What a show! Then I got to chow down on some delicious fish. What a birthday!

In my bedroom today are two baseball bats. One is a Ken Boyer model, 34-inch Louisville Slugger. The other is a 34-inch Hank Aaron model. No Stan Musial model, you ask? Well, the Aaron bat is not a Louisville Slugger, but rather a northern white ash bat made by Stan-the-Man Inc. of St. Louis, Mo. I look at it every day. Sometimes I carry it around the house or take swings with it for exercise. It's going to mean a little more to me when I glance at it or pick it up now. I'll always be thinking of Stan the Man.

Stan Musial was a truly decent man, an outstanding American citizen, and a genuine    St. Louis public hero. He was an absolutely fantastic baseball player. Stan the Man was the greatest Cardinal of all time.

A narrow stretch of Little Silver Creek flows freely yesterday, despite a couple of days of temperatures in the teens. The cold snap did cause the creek to freeze in its wider, slow-moving sections. The little tributary flows north to south, passing along the eastern boundary of my hometown of Lebanon, Ill., and was a playground for me when I was growing up. I would cast worms to the bottom to tempt catfish and carp, and I fly-fished for fat bluegills and chunky green sunfish. Yesterday, ice formed only on the edges of the running water near Midgley-Neiss Road. Little Silver Creek is named after Silver Creek, which flows north to south just west of our town. I used to think that somebody named it Silver Creek since it looked like a silver ribbon when it would freeze over in the dead of winter. It turns out that around 1712, according to an old story, some Spanish miners set up a silver smelter along the creek southwest of town, and the waterway became known as Silver Creek. To the miners' dismay, however, some American Indians chased them off and seized the silver. Spring is still nine weeks away, but I'm already thinking about
springtime – the best time to seize some Little Silver Creek catfish for my frying pan.

If I revealed to you the special ingredients in my special barbecue sauce, I'd have to kill you.

I'm just kidding, of course, but anyone who's watched enough food and travel television shows has heard that line plenty of times – probably too many times – from cooks, chefs and restaurant owners. 
 
Get back, Mr. flapjack. Come on, Ms. Wonton. Your pancake and dumpling recipes are classified? You know, only so many types of super spices and killer ingredients exist in our culinary world. How many combinations of them can there be?

And you're going to tell me that your crypto recipe, with all those top-secret spices, is so secret and valuable that you lock it in a safe? You keep it in your safety-deposit box at your bank? It's in a vault? You would need to eliminate me if I discovered those secret, super-sensitive spices? Get over your spicy self, you master of clandestine cookery.

A lot of us who spend a little time in the kitchen use spices and other ingredients to concoct some pretty decent spare ribs or fried chicken or Cajun fish or sausage Creole or other signature dishes. And we appreciate it when the guests at our dining table or backyard picnic table say: "This is great! How'd you make it?"

No problem. No secret. Want to know my chili recipe? I'll spill the beans – and the spices, too. How about my sweet and sour sauce that looks and tastes like that stuff you get at your favorite Chinese restaurant? I'll gladly tell you how to make it, and you'll be surprised at its simplicity. I'll even disclose the ingredients of my famous baked beans, which became my so-called Daddy Beans, because that's what my kids used to call them.

My favorite secret-spice concoction, which is not secret, is Zatarain's Creole Seasoning. You don't need a top-secret-crypto security clearance to get it. Simply go to your supermarket's spice section, and you'll find it somewhere around the black pepper or the Lawry's Garlic Salt. Oh, yes, that's one of my favorite ingredients, too. Lawry's make a garlic salt that's not too salty, because it's coarsely ground garlic and salt, with parsley; yep, you can really douse your chow with all that great Lawry's flavor and not gag from too much saltiness.

Hey, that's a secret recipe for you, right there – Zatarain's and Lawry's rubbed in or sprinkled on your chow before or during its cooking process. I'm talking about fish, pork, eggs, mac 'n' cheese, you name it. And don't forget the salad. I always zest up the salad with plenty of Zatarain's and a little Lawry's before the salad dressing goes on. Salads need some fireworks. I do not want a tame, mild, boring salad.

No one ever has threatened me over their secret recipe. Who needs somebody else's guarded recipe, anyway? Any kitchen commando can come up with her or his own killer recipe. It might take a little trial and error, but eventually you can create an award-winning dish to serve to family and friends. You can create several. You can become the master of your kitchen, throwing together some downright fine cuisine. There's no secret to it.

I have been fortunate enough to have received personal, simple instructions from several good cooks, who showed me that a few plain ingredients can taste delicious together. For example, I learned how to make sweet and sour sauce from a Chinese cook in Vietnam. I was expecting him to whip together such ingredients as secret Asian sauce, pineapple juice, Kiwi extract, whatever. And where was the honey and rice vinegar?

"Keep it simple, stupid," he said.

"Keep it simple, stupid? That's an American saying," I said.

"For you, today, it is a Chinese cooking proverb," he explained.

He then went on to show me his sweet and sour sauce, measuring one part water, one part sugar, one part white vinegar and one part ketchup. He combined them in a sauce pan over heat until dissolved and thicken into a translucent red sauce.

"That's it? Can't be!"

"Ahh, it be, Ông Griggs. It be simple and good."

In the city of Paris, I learned how to prepare a French chef's country roast chicken. There were no secrets, and it was simply delicious, rivaling the goodness of the roasted chicken at Le Poulet, a little restaurant near the Arc de Triomphe.  In New Orleans, I learned the classic shrimp Creole and tweaked the recipe to come up with my own sausage Creole, which is so damn good that one of our New Orleans guests asked if he could take home the leftovers. And it's no secret that my mom's chicken Tetrazzini recipe is so simple that even I can make it, serve it to ravenous guests, and then devour any leftovers the next day.

So, all of you culinary experts out there with your classified lists of ingredients and locked-away secret spice documents, we don't care. We don't need to know how you make your killer dishes. We can make our own and be fat and happy about it.

Now, it's time to head for the kitchen and rattle some pans and shake some seasonings. My stomach is growling.