Those of you who read this column in the paper may not be aware that there is a space for comments following the on-line version. My recent article about the combat death of Robert Weskamp, grandson of McCook's "Trash Lady," generated quite a few. And for once all were positive and uplifting.

The two online comments that most warmed my heart were from the children of my hero, Bob Weskamp. I quote: "Enjoyable article. Robert Weskamp was my father. Contrary to the mention I am a daughter! I was born on my Father's 23rd birthday, the fourth of July. I knew my father worked many jobs to attend Regis College and qualify for a commission. I was honored to walk commencement exercises for my BS in mathematics at Regis College 40 years after he received his diploma. I was honored by the attendance of my Uncle Dick and brother Tim for this family event." Signed Cecily (Weskarnp) Wilson.

Her brother also commented: "I enjoyed the article. My father is Robert Weskamp. I have missed a lot of stuff on my father's life. I was born on July 22 1966. 1 never really got to know as much of his side of the family as I would have liked. I love hearing about any of his life and knowing where he came from. Your article is a great help in filling in little details about my family. Thank you." Signed Timothy Bowers (fmr) SSgt USAF.

That column also generated quite a little interest in the F- 105 community. A fellow in Hickory, N.C., who seems to be a coordinator between quite a few of the pilots who had flown their 100 missions into North Vietnam wrote thanking me for filling in a little of Lt. Weskamp's life. Another wrote that he also had been on the mission that morning when Robert (they called him Bob) went missing. It is well to remember that, for the time frame of which I wrote, the odds of a pilot completing 100 missions north was only about 70 percent, yet they went anyway. I hold in awe the bravery of those young men; I did then and I do to this day.

Totally unexpected was a letter that I received from an inmate currently in the Nebraska Penitentiary. David Quinn wrote of when he lived in McCook at a young age. He remembered buying ice cream cones at Hested's lunch counter, walking downtown alone, standing on the pedestrian foot bridge over the rail yard and watching trains. All good memories of young freedom, things that changed when he moved with his parents to Lincoln.

Later in life he had been a truck driver and laying over in Washington D.C. had gone to visit the Vietnam Memorial. He told of how he just stood in the presence of the names of the fallen engraved there on the wall and how he "could not stop the tears my eyes began to shed."

I know the feeling, me too. He closed telling of reading the Weskamp column, an article that took him back to a "simple time. It was the happiest time I ever cried."

Not all my columns generate positive praise and I remember in particular the response from the good patrons of Old Sarge's Bar. Disparaging remarks about tattoos didn't fare well either. The good comments make me happy, the disapproving I consider lessons learned.

My life partner has submitted her letter and will retire the end of this month. I was visiting with an "older" lady friend in Schmick's Market about how this will be the first time that Ann has ever retired and the experience will be new for her.

I told her how I have already retired three times and it hasn't taken yet. Her comment, "I never knew you ever worked."

Yep, I represent that remark. When you love what you are doing it really isn't "work" is it?

That is the way I see it.