Yeah? And what else?

 
 Some women on one of these social media sites called me hyper-masculine because I was in the Navy or because I fly airplanes or whatever. I give that an eye roll and a tongue click. Please.  That's funny to me because when I was first in the Navy I was chastised for being too feminine, too empathetic, not hardened enough.  And you know what?  In my first NEC trajectory that was true.  No doubt. But I honestly think that a lot of the guys sincerely appreciated that I wasn't.  In that rough, gotta be tough world, there were times when a guy swimming up out of his haze of shock and pain saw a female face bending over him, whispering to him, it meant something. It helped him. It did. Ultimately, it hurt me too much to continue. I took too much of their pain inside me and couldn't do it any more.  I was too soft.  That is why I radically changed career paths. It was not easy.  But I did it.  I've written about all of that before.  No need to rehash it.

Anyway, believe me, flying airplanes is not masculine coded. And lots of women fly planes.  Have done so right from the beginning. So phooey on that. I mean, really.  Is driving a car masculine coded? A tractor? How about handling a team of horse and wagon? Plowing behind a mule? Women do and have done those things routinely.

But it did annoy me to be called hyper-masculine by other women.  If you are a guy reading this, how would you like it if other men called you hyper-feminine? Ew, no!  Right? Especially if you weren't in any way, but maybe liked to do something some see as female coded like... I don't know... sewing your own clothes, even though there have always been tailors.  You'd be a bit peeved.

This reminds me of what Nora Vincent wrote in her book,  Self-Made Man: My Year Disguised as a Man. When she was herself as a woman, other women considered her "butch."  But men, believing her to be a man, thought "he" was very effeminate. So maybe the wannabe mean girls gossiping about the crab who escaped the bucket think I'm masculine, but all the guys know I'm a feminine female from topknot to toenail.

 I was tempted to say to one harridan, hey, lady, give me five minutes alone with your husband and he'll forget your name.  Ten minutes alone with me and he'll forget his own name!  Haha.  But I didn't.  Rule No.1 when dealing with internet nuts is don't engage!  Walk on by. Anyway, why would I want to have anything to do with that gleeb's husband? Probably has breath so bad that it would scorch the paint off a Buick.  

I don't know if men police other men's behavior the way women do other women, but there is a certain type of woman who allies with others of her ilk to drag down women who attempt to excel...at anything really, but especially at things...beyond.  Not all women, but there is that type.  I think they are full of themselves.  They think they are the cat's meow and the bee's knees and they absolutely do not like it if some other woman outdoes them. If it's making a better rhubarb pie, it's bad enough, but if you become a heart surgeon or an astronaut, Katie bar the door because they are coming after you, going to do whatever they can to drag you down, belittle you, humiliate you...whatever they can think of.  Well, that doesn't work with me, nor with women like me, of which there are plenty in various fields, various accomplishments, achievements and successes, but we are all sisters in character.

Books my newsman relative left to me.

A job I took as an undergrad was freelancing articles for a national magazine. I didn't know how to go about reporting and writing articles so I asked my newsman relative, of whom I've written, who retired after 40 years on a major metropolitan newspaper.  He counseled me, helped me revise and edit. I learned a lot from him and when I got a piece to the stage where he said, "It'll do," I submitted it.  My articles were well-received by the editor, often becoming cover stories. I even got quoted in Time magazine, was a guest (via phone) on WOR-AM, appeared on some CNBC show, had agents call me wanting to shill me to other outlets. And what did the women staffers on the magazine say to me?  Well, one, in a very bitter tone, told me that everything had been just fine until I showed up and started writing these blockbusters.  Blockbusters.  Her word.  I didn't consider them "blockbusters" just stories my relative said were adequate.  I considered them half his, anyway.  Other women gossiped that I was an alcoholic (oh, please!), a drug addict, and, of course, that I was a lesbian.  When somebody's car was hit and damaged in the parking lot they accused me of doing it even though my car didn't have a scratch on it.  I'd rushed and had it repaired, you see.

Sigh.  Well, that whole experience soured me on wanting to have anything to do with journalism.  And also wised me up to a certain type of woman.  Not all.  There was another girl there, a full-time staffer, who was very good, certainly far better than me because she was doing it all on her own, not having a pro to coach her, and whom the other women and even the men, attacked viciously, so viciously that she quit, which was the goal of the harassment. Never underestimate the nastiness of underachievers, second-raters and the lazy. She and I were friends, allies against the malevolent midgets. When I dropped by the office to hand in my copy, we would have lunch.  The other staffers had done such a number on her self-confidence that she would start crying telling me of the abuse -- and it really was abuse -- she was subjected to and wondered if she was any good. I told her, truthfully, that I thought she was the only good writer they had and I read her stuff with interest and to help me to learn how to organize and present complicated facts in a readable style. Oh, yeah, she was accused of being mannish, too aggressive, by the other women.  Hyper-masculine, if you will. Same old same old.

As an aside, one of the "no fairs" of life:  I had a journalism pro, bound to me by family ties, to help me do well in a job I was only doing as a temporary side gig.  I had no intent or desire to become a journalist. Yet the person who wanted that as a career, had the J-school degree, had no such connection, no one to coach her.  She was on her own with no helping hand. And probably a mountain of student loan debt. She got a good job and thought if she worked hard, did good work, she would establish her career and advance.  But instead, her stellar ability only earned her animus. Had she been a mediocre smoozer ... well, you know how that goes. 

I never heard from her again after she quit and, thinking about her now, for the life of me I can't remember her name. I hope that she has had a successful career, the one she deserved.

Musing on all this, I got thinking about my boy-crazy era.  I've mentioned before that I posed as an artist's and photographer's model and I really got a kick out of doing that, especially being a photographer's model, both professional and amateur. As I've written, I started  posing when I was still in high school and kept at it through college.  I think I liked posing for the amateurs more than the pros because those guys got so excited. I could tell. What a vanity high that was.  If my mom knew what I was up to she would have killed me. My dad would have killed the guys. And that there, bub, is a big difference between the female and the male. Mom would have yelled at me, informed me that she had brought me into this world and I shouldn't make her regret doing it and then grounded me.  Dad would have had a come-to-Jesus meeting with the boys and explained the lay of the land and their precarious position in it. But first he would have winked at me. 

Anyway, I don't think any of those guys would have considered me hyper-masculine. 

Not even, I'm sure. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Out of the past

 I was listening to the radio and heard Humoresque No. 7 by Antonín Dvořák. I hadn't heard that in ages and my immediate thought was kindergarten and kiddie music classes and enforced nap time.  Man, I hated that stupid piece of music. Aaaah! It began rattling around in my head till I had to go "Lalalalalalalala!" until I could chase it out. Ugh.

Then I thought about how something can become enormously popular for a while, heard or seen or read everywhere, and then people get tired of it. Then it is mocked and ridiculed.  Then it is forgotten. But sometimes -- not always -- after a while it kind of drifts back, not particularly popular, but around.  I think that's happened to Humoresque.  It was wildly popular in  Dvořák's day, then I guess people got tired of it. It was a regular punchline, I guess you could call it, of the Jack Benny radio show, with Benny torturing it on the violin to audience laughter.  Nephew LeRoy destroying it on the Great Guildersleeve radio series also brought gales of laughter from the live studio audience.  Then it just disappeared from popular culture.  Forgotten. Now it's around and you can listen to it or play it if you want to, but I'd wager most people have never heard of it, let alone heard it.

Something similar happened with the once legendary poem  "Casabianca" by Felicia Hemans.  At one time just a reference to the opening line, "The boy stood on the burning deck," brought to the minds of millions the whole poem and its powerful demonstration of courage, duty and sacrifice, to stand fast in the face of death. It taught generations of youth the ideals of manhood. It was a symbol of all that 19th century civilization stood for.

But then people got tired of it. The glory days of conquest and empire, the times of striving, seeking and refusing to yield (to reference another poem of the era) drifted into the past.  It began to be the butt of jokes, the lines rewritten into parodies. By the fifties of the twentieth century, the opening line was something to roll your eyes at.  The Stan Freberg radio show mocked it along with once revered poems like "Barbara Frietchie" by John Greenleaf Whittier about the Civil War Union heroine and its first line, "Up from the meadows rich with corn" or, especially, the most famous "Shoot, if you must, this old gray head, but spare your country’s flag." Every [Yankee] school child once memorized that poem, but by the 1930s it was a joke, ridiculed by popular radio comedians; Jack Benny wondering if he can get a date with Barbara Stanwyck is told he couldn't even get a date with Barbara Frietchie. Actually, it seems like all of the old sacred beliefs were being made objects of laughter by then. By whom? you ask. Cough. No statement for the press.

And now?  Have you, has anyone, even heard of Barbara Frietchie? Or John Greenleaf Whittier, for that matter, never mind "Casabianca" and Felicia Hemans. They're just gone, vanished from what remains of our so-called civilization.

I'm teaching my children these poems and many others from the great days of the past.  But it's probably pointless.  Who else of their generation, let alone mine, will understand even a reference to these poems they might make at some time in the future.  It will be as futile as making a reference to Macauley's "Horatius."  Huh? My boys love that poem and even re-enact it in their play, but in days to come only they alone will know it or it's most famous lines:

 ''Then out spake brave Horatius,
    The Captain of the gate:
‘To every man upon this earth
    Death cometh soon or late.
And how can man die better
    Than facing fearful odds,
For the ashes of his fathers,
    And the temples of his Gods'' 

How unwoke can you get, whitey? Lord preserve them should they dare speak those lines in a college classroom. But they will know them in their hearts. Maybe, should fate place them in such circumstances, the lines will come to them and give them the courage to face what they must.

Oh, well.

What's all this got to do with Humoresque? I don't know.  It's just the direction my mind wandered. Humoresque is a fun bit of fluff from an era when even popular music was sophisticated in its fun. But today I'll bet you dollars to donuts that not that many people know it, could hum it if you mentioned it, or even, for that matter, have heard of Antonín Dvořák unless they are music students. Man....

Oh, well, again. 

 

  Listening to this version of Humoresque, I gotta admit it ain't bad. But still....

 

A bit of "Barbara Friechie" 

She took up the flag the men hauled down;

In her attic window the staff she set,

To show that one heart was loyal yet.

Up the street came the rebel tread,

Stonewall Jackson riding ahead.

Under his slouched hat left and right

He glanced: the old flag met his sight.

“Halt!”— the dust-brown ranks stood fast.

“Fire!”— out blazed the rifle-blast.

It shivered the window, pane and sash;

It rent the banner with seam and gash.

Quick, as it fell, from the broken staff

Dame Barbara snatched the silken scarf;

She leaned far out on the window-sill,

And shook it forth with a royal will.

“Shoot, if you must, this old gray head,

But spare your country’s flag,” she said.

A shade of sadness, a blush of shame,

Over the face of the leader came;

The nobler nature within him stirred

To life at that woman’s deed and word:

“Who touches a hair of yon gray head

Dies like a dog! March on!” he said.

 

And here's "Casabianca."  Go ahead, laugh. 

 The boy stood on the burning deck,
Whence all but he had fled;
The flame that lit the battle's wreck,
Shone round him o'er the dead.

Yet beautiful and bright he stood,
As born to rule the storm;
A creature of heroic blood,
A proud, though childlike form.

The flames rolled on -- he would not go,
Without his father's word;
That father, faint in death below,
His voice no longer heard.

He called aloud -- 'Say, father, say
If yet my task is done?'
He knew not that the chieftain lay
Unconscious of his son.

'Speak, father!' once again he cried,
'If I may yet be gone!'
-- And but the booming shots replied,
And fast the flames rolled on.

Upon his brow he felt their breath
And in his waving hair;
And look’d from that lone post of death,
In still yet brave despair.

And shouted but once more aloud,
'My father! must I stay?'
While o'er him fast, through sail and shroud,
The wreathing fires made way.

They wrapped the ship in splendour wild,
They caught the flag on high,
And streamed above the gallant child,
Like banners in the sky.

There came a burst of thunder sound --
The boy -- oh! where was he?
Ask of the winds that far around
With fragments strewed the sea!

With mast, and helm, and pennon fair,
That well had borne their part,
But the noblest thing which perished there,
Was that young faithful heart.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Planes and things

It will look like this once it's back in flying shape.

I decided to put the Waco back in flying condition.  I found a guy who could do it,  has worked on Wacos before and knows what needs to be done.  I swallowed hard at the cost and in an earlier day I would have said never mind.  But in light of recent events, freshly aware of our limited and uncertain time in this mortal coil, I said do it. Do it!  Tarry not! And you know what? Once I made that decision and got the ball rolling, I felt good.  Almost elated.  I don't know why, but I did.  Maybe it was just indulging in something frivolous.  But I think it was more than that. Wacos are beautiful creations and by my decision I am adding an atom of beauty to the world. I could feel that and it was a good feeling.

On top of that, it's going to give my boys something to get involved in and learn skills from. I told them when they were older they could fly it.  I would teach them how to fly in the Husky -- it's docile and simple.  Of course, I will get a CFI to complete their training, but I didn't go into all such details.  No need now.  But they are excited and have something to look forward to.

My daughter, my mini-me, has been a great help with my toddler and clearly loves children.  Ya know, it's funny I call her my mini-me but she is not blonde and blue-eyed like me or my mother. She looks very much like her great-grandmother.   She has chestnut hair and green eyes like she did, and my mother says she has similar mannerisms and facial expressions. Maybe there is such a thing as immortality. She is becoming a very beautiful young woman, like a butterfly emerging from its cocoon. 

Oh, my second cousin, the guy I went dancing to a jump blues band with a while back, has offered to marry me if I need a man around the house.  I know he's joking -- at least, I hope he is.  I told him I'd keep his offer in mind.  He's doing well at the Maritime Academy and has, I thought, a steady girlfriend.  I asked him about that and he said he had enough manhood for two women, at least.  What a change from the diffident, shy guy he used to be! He's become his own man, gained self-confidence through accomplishment.  That'll do it.  I'm proud of him. But I ain't gonna marry him.  Get out of here. Haha.

I found this photo of my grandfather with the Fleet Model 2, so now I know why we have it. But I'd like to find out how it ended up in our hanger.  I asked my mother but she said she didn't know. This photo must have been taken before World War II, when gramps was a young man. I found another photo of him with a biplane, I think a PT-19, but I'm not sure.  He is second from the left.

And I found this photo of him in Korea during the Korean War.  As I've written, at one point he was a Forward Air Controller (FAC) with the ground forces directing close air support, what today we would call a Joint Tactical Air Controller (JTAC).  This must have been taken during this period, but I don't really know for sure and have no one to ask. When he wasn't a FAC, he was flying Douglas B-26s (nee A-26). He's definitely matured from the time this photo was taken and the one with the Fleet was taken.  I'd guess a decade at least had passed. As you can tell, he was a tough guy. All my men are tough guys. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Say Goodnight, Gracie

 

The late Gracie Allen was a very lucid comedienne,

Especially in the way that lucid means shining and bright.

What her husband George Burns called her illogical logic

Made a halo around our syntax and ourselves as we laughed.

George Burns most often was her artful inconspicuous straight man.

He could move people about stage, construct skits and scenes, write

And gather jokes. They were married as long as ordinary magic

Would allow, thirty-eight years, until Gracie Allen's death.

In her fifties Gracie Allen developed a heart condition.

She would call George Burns when her heart felt funny and fluttered

He'd give her a pill and they'd hold each other till the palpitation

Stopped—just a few minutes, many times and pills. As magic fills

Then fulfilled must leave a space, one day Gracie Allen's

               heart fluttered

And hurt and stopped. George Burns said unbelievingly to the doctor,

               "But I still have some of the pills."

--Alice Notley

 

 

 

 

 

 

Fire in the hole!

 A couple of people have spoken to me in oblique terms of "widow's fire," telling me it's normal and not to be ashamed of. Never having heard the term, I smiled and nodded, thanking them for their concern.

Then I looked the phrase up.  Oh. Hmm.  Well, I have not experienced that. Mostly, the emotions I've had have been the ones I've written about.  No need to go back over it.

I do wonder if this widow's fire is something made up like the claim that divorcees are all sexually voracious. Those I have known were not randy but angry, depressed, anxious, sad.  I can't say that I can generalize from them, but a lot of so-called common knowledge has never jibed with what I know of the world.

I think the use of "goku" here is ごく一部, a small amount.

Well, I always thought that I was on the high end of the hot-to-trot scale but I took a test that ranks how sexually "kinky" you are and I hardly moved the needle. You people are real sickos. Or else I need to get out more. But I don't wanna get out more! I am happy whereat I am...more or less happy, as such things go.

But still.... Maybe when this widow's fire kicks in I can up my score and become a contender in the regional round-heeled woman contest, televised before a live audience! Hey, if that ain't a thing, it probably will be by and by.

Now wait a minute.  When I was 16, I was friendly with a 31-year old man.  Isn't that like illegal or something today? He used to [censored] me and [censored] my cat as well. We both liked it, too. Hubba, hubba! Doesn't that count? Alas, when my dad found out he invited him to join us at Sunday meeting and that was the end of that.  Darn it.

When I was an undergrad, a black English prof who liked Joy Division invited me to his home to view his collection of Henry Miller first editions, read Charles Bukowski poems and discuss, you know, art and stuff, then take a walk down to the clothing-optional beach. I thought about doing it, too.

Also, when I was -- well, never mind.  

But I guess all that and more is just piffle compared to what you guys are up to.  Can't compete with that. I bet my widow's fire, if I ever get it, will prove to just be a few sparks.  Sigh.  I'm going to miss my chance to catch cooties. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Solutions

When I get down in the dumps the best cure is to get outside, far from the madding crowd and just be, be one with the deer and the moose and the elk, the hawk and the vulture, the dove and the sparrow, the fish in the creeks and ponds. Think nothing at all, just be aware of the sun on my face, the wind in my hair, the earth underfoot, the sky up above.

******** 

 

The little cares that fretted me,

I lost them yesterday

Among the fields above the sea,

Among the winds at play.
~  Elizabeth Barrett Browning

Moon bathing, sky clad under a rising full moon, is another way to lose your cares, lose yourself in the eternal now, get lost in the spell of the sensuous, forget your individuality and become one with Gaia.  Does that sound all touchy-feely?  Well, it is!  Don't knock it if you haven't tried it, kimo sabe.

 

I was about to go out somewhere when my mother spotted a tear in my skirt. She had me take it off while she mended it. I felt like a little girl again as I hung around while mom took care of me.  My aunt was with us and we all got to gabbing away and I felt good, light-hearted, carefree. I began dancing around a bit as I waited and chatted.  Then came a knock at the door and without thinking I waltzed over and answered it. The assistant ranch manager, Mr. Shoe, as I call him for reasons previously stated, and a ranch hand.  They had some business to discuss and I stood there forgetting I was skirtless talking with them.

Business concluded they departed with a tip of the hat. My mother asked dryly if I hadn't felt a draft and only then did I remember I wasn't wearing my nethers. The look on my face caused my aunt to laugh and my mother to shake her head. Then I though, oh, well, whatever, at least I was wearing panties.  I often don't when I wear a skirt or dress.  They chafe.  Anyway, I gotta travel.

 

 

 

 

 

I heard...

 

One feather is a bird
I claim; one tree a wood;
In her low voice I heard
more than a mortal should;
And so I stood apart,
Hidden in my own heart.
~ Theodore Roethke

 

 

 

 

 

  

Moving on...?

Happiness is the uncle you never
knew about, 
who flies a single-engine plane
onto the grassy landing strip, 
hitchhikes into town, 
and inquires at every door
until he finds you asleep mid-afternoon,
as you so often are during the unmerciful
hours of your despair.

-- Jane Kenyon

I flew my uncle to Gotham City, Jr. for his annual visit to his dermatologist.  He was fairly subdued for a change. We chatted about the times we went dancing there, one great and the other time a fiasco of sorts. But this time neither of us was in the mood for dancing, especially me, with my rib still healing.

I mentioned to him that the only real severe pain I had after I left the hospital was when I lay down so I just slept in a chair with a foot stool and he said that was too bad because he bet a lot of guys would like to lay me and I said oh, don't start that again and he said sorry I should just shut up and I said oh, no, it's okay, just I'm not in the mood for banter.  

He was silent for a bit and then he said, you know maybe what you need is some banter, you need to snap out of it.  What good does it do you to mope around?  Nothing gets better by doing that. 

I guess you are right, I said, but, honestly, I feel guilty if I feel good, or am happy about something.  It's like I am indulging in betrayal or something.  

I can understand how you feel, he said.  I was that way when I was first a widower and it's why I never remarried -- I could have, you know.  I had my chances.  But I couldn't do it.  I felt that sense of betrayal, too.  But now, looking back at the years, I think I was wrong. What did I accomplish by not remarrying and even having another, a new, family?  Moving on.  Continuing my life.  Think about that. You think about that, Wanda.

I didn't reply. It was too soon for me to think about that and I didn't agree with him about remarrying and moving on with my life.  I didn't want to move on.  I had one family and had had my one and only husband and that was that.

He reached over and patted my thigh. I gave him a sour glance and shook my head.  He didn't take his hand away.  You shouldn't let this go to waste, he said. You still have time.  I picked his hand up and moved it away.  I'm more than that, I said.  Yes, you are, he said, but you are also that. There is no fault in admitting it. You can open a new chapter in your life.  It can be as good as any chapter you've had, even better.  You won't know if you don't --

Oh, shut up, damn it, I said.  I don't want to talk about this. Not now. Not ever. Okay? He started to say something, then stopped, nodded his head and fell silent. After a minute I said, look, I'm sorry I was harsh.  That was rude.  I know you mean well.  Just give me some time.  And I patted his thigh.  He took my hand and held it, gave me a grin.  

Then for the rest of the flight he regaled me with jokes and stories and songs.  He even got me to sing along with one or two of them. And he got me thinking that it really was too bad that he never remarried.  He could have made some woman a wonderful husband.  He could have made himself very happy. I know his now-grown children and grandchildren adore him. He could have had a second set of both. But he chose not to, just as I was choosing not to.  I was thinking what was the right thing to do as I laughed at his lame nonsense. But I knew.

In the times that used to be:

 

 

 

 

 

 

Still true

 

 

My life these days

Everyone has pain to deal with but talking about it makes it worse; a cheerful heart is a good strategy.
~ Garrison Keillor

 I wandered in to our oldest hanger the other day, one that we no longer use and haven't for quite some time. Inside I found a Waco UPF-7 or maybe it's a PT-14. It was converted to be an agricultural sprayer, with the front cockpit replaced by a dispersal tank leading to spray nozzles along the lower wings.  

There was also a Piper J-3, the legendary Cub.  I think it's the one I've seen photos of in old family albums. It looked original to me with nothing visibly wrong with it and I wondered why it was parked one day and forgotten about. It would make a great plane to teach my kids to fly in.  I wish Randy, our erstwhile A&P guy was still around.  I'd ask him to check it out and give me an estimate on the cost of putting it in flying condition.  I'd like to put the Waco in flying condition, too.  I'd like to fly it.  But I am leery of it being contaminated with nasty pesticides from back in the day, DDT or something.  I should have it checked for that.  But I don't know who could do that.  I'll have to ask around.  If it's safe I think my boys would love helping restore it.

Looking beyond the Cub I spotted another biplane.  It proved to be a Fleet Model 2, can you believe it.  It looked okay structurally and again I wondered why it was parked and forgotten about, then I remembered I was going to park the Twin Beech and not fly it anymore, even though it is in perfect flying condition.  So I suppose the Fleet maybe was replaced by the Cub and the Cub was replaced by the Husky we still use. The Waco?  Maybe we got out of the ag spraying bidness and hired contractors to do that work. Who knows?  But it would be cool to restore all these old birds, just to do it.  The Waco is a beautiful airplane. I'd love to fly it, so maybe that will be the first one, if I actually do decide to restore them.

 ********

I was thinking about what work I could do to bring in income in case of...well, in case of. Ya know?  So I was checking out various things, increasing the amount of consultancy work I do, and so forth, and one of my friends from Navy days who now flies for UPS said he thought he could get me on there.  Pay, he said, would be $350,000 a year for flying 20 hours a month, plus I could make extra, something like another $50,000 a year for volunteering for stand-by, meaning I make myself available to fly on my days off in case some other pilot can't fly for some reason.

I think that's for flying a 767-300F but I could make more flying the international routes in a 747-8F, the mighty original jumbo jet, as they used to call those big boys.

It shouldn't be a problem to transition from flying an Aviat Husky to a 747.  Piece of cake.  Haha. 

Kidding.  But it's nice to know I have options. At least theoretically. Of course, when you get down to the nitty-gritty of applying and being accepted, who knows what the conditions will be?  Be promised the moon and get a ping-pong ball.

********

The ranch manager has been very professional through all of this and I have learned a lot from him.  Running a business, which is what a ranch is, means relying on your "people" to be capable, reliable and professional. So despite my worries, things are continuing as they were, the ship is sailing on an even keel. 

Fortunately, my time as a naval officer trained me to make decisions and be responsible for the results.  So I don't dither.  Well, not too much.  One thing I'm pondering now is outright acquiring an estancia in Patagonia.  It's something like 72,000 acres of mostly good grazing land, with plenty of water, established facilities, pretty much turn-key. All for a sum you couldn't buy a house for in a super ZIP.  Can you believe it?  I ain't sure I can, so I am looking at why it's for sale and what would be a normal sale price for that kind of operation in Argentina.  But, man, I would so love to have it. 

One of my favorite authors of my childhood was W.H. Hudson.  Of course, Green Mansions was my favorite of his. I still love it.  But I was also enamored of Far Away and Long Ago, his memoir of his childhood in the Argentine pampas. To now, in my adulthood, actually own an Argentine estancia, far, far away, closer to Antarctica than...than...well, everyplace -- wow. Just wow. I do so want to make that happen.  But as a responsible businesswoman, I have to be methodical, rational, cautious, and verify but certainly not trust anything at all. In other words, I gotta pencil it out. Plus I know Jeff would have wanted it.  He loved Argentina.

One of my contacts there told me this: "Argentina avoided hyperinflation with the new government, which has taken very rough economic decisions to control inflation. Right now the country's climbing out of a recession, and is transitioning from a populist irresponsible unsustainable model to a libertarian budget-friendly model with a reduced welfare state. Poverty has been growing for years, but crime has remained stable. Argentina is still a very safe country by Latin American standards: no cartels controlling entire regions and murdering candidates during election time, no guerrillas in the jungle, no active terrorist threats, no civil war, no risk of a coup d'etat, etc. In Buenos Aires, use common sense and stick to the good neighborhoods. Crime wise, it's better than most large American cities." That sounds promising. 

******** 

I'm remembering my mother's Japanese friend, of whom I've written, who, once having made her pile, invested a big chunk of it in Brazil and got royally cheated, losing millions. On top of that, while she was dealing with the mess she got herself into, she was the victim of street robberies seven times.  She ended up  having to be driven around in an armored limousine with body guards to avoid being kidnapped.  I guess Rio is a tough town.

I have a Mexican friend -- I mean a real Mexican who lives in Mexico -- tell me that he prefers the corruption of Mexico to the honesty (har, har) of the United States. That's because if you want something done in Mexico, you just slip some loot to the right functionary and it gets done.  Traffic violation, building permit, driver's license renewal, passport application: just pay the person and it's taken care of.  But in the US of A you have to fill out the forms, wait on the bureaucracy, still pay a fee or fine, go to traffic school or attend some bogus class to get a certificate...phooey on that says he.

I read a blog post by an American in Ukraine trying to get a driver's license.  He studied all the rules of the road in Ukrainian, went to driving school, got all set, then took the driver's test. And failed.  And failed.  And failed.  Finally, someone told him he had to pay baksheesh to the tester.  Two-thousand dollars.  The American guy refused to pay.  I think he decided to drive without a license, figuring he probably wouldn't get stopped by a cop, and if he did, he'd just slip him a C-note.  Much cheaper. 

******** 

Speaking of my mother's Japanese friend, she used to praise America to the skies, but recently when I have talked to her she says things like that if she could have had the same opportunities in Japan as she did in America she would have never left.  Okay....  But you left because Japanese society, your society, the society your race and civilization created, was not as good for you personally as the one my race and civilization created.  My people made a better world than your people did.  I know, I know, I'm not supposed to say things like that, even think things like that. But it's true. So what she says kind of pisses me off.  How am I supposed to react to that without being rude?  So she is just an economic migrant. Living here for almost half a century, she's never applied for citizenship and has no interest in the country outside of her business interests.

My mother says she is just homesick and misses her youth.  I guess. Actually, my mother said "lifesick." I thought she had misspoken and meant homesick, as I wrote, but I just asked her and she said no, she meant that, that she was sick of life, her life, all that it was, and in her last years wishes that it would have been different.  In her case that means having had the success she's had in a foreign country but having it in her own country, something that was not possible when she was young, and maybe still not.  So she actually resents America for being better for her than her own country.

******** 

At present, my situation ain't the greatest but I will manage and get on with life.  One reason is that, whatever might happen financially, I have options that will allow me to recover.  With my education and experience, I could go in several directions.  I've already mentioned flying for an air cargo outfit.  That's because I have thousands of hours of flight time in a variety of aircraft, puddle jumpers to supersonic jets.  I have that because I applied myself, studied, practiced, learned. Now that I think about it, I could operate my King Air under Part 135 and make a living that way.

I have been offered an associate professorship with guaranteed tenure at a state university.  I have been offered an executive position with the Veteran's administration. I've been offered a civilian contract job with the Army. I have been offered a job with a private research firm, and with a major medical consultancy. I have...well, options.  And why?  Because, aside from having developed a network of friends and contacts over the years (more valuable than you can imagine; the best jobs are never advertised), from the beginning I pushed myself to master multiple skills.  I was taught to do that. I was also taught to be conscientious, reliable, capable. I don't drink, I don't smoke.  I don't take drugs and never have.  I eat right and keep in shape. I don't and never have associated with bums and riff-raff. I was taught to choose my friends carefully and wisely, not to associate with complainers, layabouts and other sorts of losers, and I was taught and learned through experience how to spot and avoid them.  

You think you can't do it, can't win.  But you can!

I am one of the reviled "normies" that the losers rail against.  Shrug. I used to have empathy for such persons, the ne'er do wells.  I've hired them, given them jobs in the mistaken belief that all they needed was a helping hand and they would prosper.  No.  They don't.  They continue in their ways and either throw a fit over something and quit or I have to fire them or, in the Navy, adsep them.  At first I used to hate doing that but later I learned to spot these bums quickly and get rid of them before they could do much damage.  And believe me, if you didn't do that they were good at destroying morale and wrecking whatever the mission was.  They were the proverbial bad apples that spoil the barrel.  And the world is full of bad apples. Dig through them to find the few good apples and help them prosper and they will help you prosper, too.

  

 

 

 

 

 

 

Dreaming of the future

 
The future that never happens
is the one that makes us do
what we do while we are waiting
for what is never going to come
to take us away from the past,
which is a country that we do not
know anymore, where the language
is strange, only almost familiar.
Years not only go by, they carry us
into places where we meet the dragons,
the gorgons, the pack of wolves
circling with their sharp teeth, and
sometimes we lift a candle, sometimes curse.
Like scarecrows, we scare a bird or two.
We know what we are and are not.
But still we keep on dreaming, warming
our hands over the fire in that cottage
at the end of the road—where everything
is prepared for us, and someone we
never met has departed only minutes ago.

“A Dream of the Future” by Joyce Sutphen from The Green House.

 

  

 

 

 

 

 

 

What comes next?

 Il faut que je sache enfin la suite
Même si je ne comprends rien à mon rôle.

 I have to keep busy.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Singing no more

 My husband had a great singing voice, as I've written before, and he loved to sing, especially to me.  His baritone was very much like that of Robert Goulet's, but with a seasoning of Nelson Eddy's robustness. It was a lyric baritone with a sweet, mellow, flexible tone, lighter and higher in tessitura than a dramatic baritone.

I have a weak singing voice, though I do enjoy singing, so I could not really accompany him in duets, but I did enjoy playing piano accompaniment while he sang. I would forget everything listening to him and live inside his voice.  

This video from the musical Carousel might give you a sense of what it was like.

 I am still grappling with the reality of what has happened, the irretrievable past that should be..., the dark, yawning abyss of the future, a future without...without.... I can't say it.  My mind shies away. It's been more than a quarter of a year but it seems like it just happened.  The days rush by, the sun spinning across the cold sky, abandoning me to the long, long nights.  

I push myself during the day, working relentlessly at physical tasks to tire myself out so I can sleep and abandon myself to dreams. I dread waking up.  You can say I have my children to live for but somehow they are not enough.  Oh, I love them dearly but they are my children,  not my dear love, he from whom each day I gained purpose.  Each day I lived was for him.

C.S. Lewis wrote that he was surprised at how much grief felt like fear.  It's true.

Sometimes I sit with my mother, widowed herself not very long ago.  I did not think I would be....  Well....  Sometimes she takes my hand as we sit together, calls me her sweet child. We don't say much to each other.  No need.

My daughter has matured rapidly over the past months, taking over many household chores, managing my twin boys, taking care of the toddler when I....  

Why all the ellipses?  My thoughts fail me. I can't continue them.

You may say this will pass, as all things do.  But I look at my mother and her grief has not lessened.  She's old you may say. Her future is passed.  But you have decades of life left to live.  Life is for the living, so live it.  Yes, I know.  I know.  

But at this moment, on this dark night, maybe I don't want to.  Maybe I am afraid to.

And do you know how angry I am?  Angry at what?  Angry at who?  Everything. Everything.

 ******************************************************************************************************

 

How do you survive a complete and utter loss of hope?

 Where do you live? Park Place, Main Street, Lake Shore Drive, Mulberry Lane, Lennox Ave., corner of 4th and Walnut, three miles out on Route 7? Come now, you know better than that. You may hang your hat anywhere at all, but you live in the black room of your own mind.

"The Black Room," first broadcast by CBS Radio Mystery Theater on October 29, 1974.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Final flight

 My mother and I both had doctor's appointments on the same day and I decided to fly us to the big city in the Twin Beech as a sort of sentimental gesture.  I'm probably not going to bother with renewing the annual, too inconvenient to have it done and not worth the expense now that I have the King Air, so this would be one of the last times I'd fly it, maybe the last.

The old plane has a lot of memories for me.  My grandfather, that stern old naval aviator who began his career flying F3F biplane fighters and ended it flying F8E supersonic jet fighters, taught me multi-engine and instrument flying in it when I was in high school.  In college during summer, I flew it to Alaska to fly Part 135. I flew with my dad across the Atlantic Ocean in it.  I flew it...well, a lot.  My dad bequeathed it to me in his will. I'll never sell it.  But I can't justify keeping it in flying condition. 

My mother didn't say much as we flew along, just looked at the passing view.  I thought about all the people who had flown in this airplane over the years, my grandparents, now long gone, as well as uncles and aunts, great uncles and aunts, assorted cousins, nephews and nieces, my own children, my mother, of course, my father, my husband, friends, lots of ranch hands and assorted paying and non-paying passengers and who knows who else in decades before I was born.  My grandfather bought the plane in 1966, so it's been in the family for 60 years.  Before he bought it, it had been, as I recall, an executive transport and then an air ambulance. 

My mom dozed off after a while, and glancing over at where she sat in the co-pilot's seat, if I let my eyes drift out of focus, I could see my dad sitting there giving me refresher training or filling out a dead reckoning plot, just in case all the electronic gadgets went kerflooie. I thought about all the ghosts that must be riding with me each time I fly the old plane. That's why I'll never sell it.  There are scuffs and scratches made by people I knew and talked to and were an accepted and, I thought, eternal part of my life who are no longer alive, have not been for years, even decades.  But there that scratch is, that worn spot, just as if they had made it yesterday and I can conjure them in my mind as clearly as ever, hear them talking, remember that time when we....

So as long as I keep this airplane, even if I never fly it again, I can climb aboard and sit where they sat, touch that worn spot on the cockpit dash by the radio their hand made over the years. There are probably stray cookie crumbs they dropped while eating a snack on a long flight still hidden in crevices and crannies. My dad said I talked to the airplane, thought of it as alive.  Well, not quite.  I think I was talking to all the memories left by all the people who have flown in it.  Hello, airplane, hello dad, hello gramps, hello, hello all you all, hello.  You're still here for me. You always will be as long as I am.  And once I am not, I will join you as a memory in someone else's mind. The fading fate of us all.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

    

Bitter happiness

 

Another spring has come.  The plums are blooming and some early apple and cherry blossoms are appearing. The daffodils are out, as are some early tulips.  In a few weeks everywhere will be a riot of color and bird song. Before long the roses will bloom and their aroma will fill the air.  Hummingbirds will dart among them.  Overhead the barn swallows will swoop and zoom. Then it will be fawn season. The year proceeds, as do all the years.

Nature, just as humanity, one of its subsets, does not care about the individual life, only the mass, the group, the species, the genus, the ....

The other day, I went outside about an hour after sunset to take a walk down to the pond.  I needed a bit of time alone. It was cold outside with a northwesterly wind blowing and I had to put on my boiled-wool coat and I was glad that I did.  It doesn't have a hood, so I wore a scarf.  A crescent moon hung low in the west, sliding toward the tree tops. There were bands of purple touching the horizon, fading to black as I walked. Last year's leaves were soggy under my shoes, silencing my steps, but they marked the path clearly in the gloom.

Once at the pond, I paused, listening.  A coyote yipped.  Then another.  And another.  Soon a chorus of yipping and yowling surrounded me. It was as if I were at the bottom of a bowl with coyotes all around the rim howling down at me. Some were far off, others sounded very close. The wind distorted their distance from me, depending on how it shifted through the trees. But it seemed they were coming closer. I wasn't afraid of them, but as a matter of prudence I searched the ground for a good-sized branch to wield.  I didn't find one. I kept walking and after a while forgot about the coyotes.  I knew they were hunting, but night creatures like possums, feral cats and raccoons were their preferred prey.  Or an old or sick deer. But still....

I came to the little jetty and boathouse where we store a Westwight Potter sailboat, a 15-footer, a rowboat and a canoe for summer enjoyment.  The pond was formed by the creek being damned sometime towards the end of the 19th century.  I guess actually it's more of a lake than a pond.  I think it's like 200 acres or something.  There used to be some cabins along its shore but there's nothing left of them now but foundations.  Anyway, at the boathouse I found a walking stick that my father had made out of an old oak branch, heavy and solid, and carried that along for the rest of my walk.  

I thought a lot of grave thoughts as I plodded through the increasing darkness, the moon down, the stars blotted out by racing clouds, but then I thought, as much as everything dies, other things are born to take their place, forever and ever, so from a distance, maybe from God's distance, it all looks the same and unchanging.  Maybe to God a life is like a raindrop in a rainstorm.  Each drop is created, falls down and down and down until it hits ground and dissolves into the general dampness of the soil, no longer a unique individual thing, but somehow, some way, still there. And despite the obliteration of that one raindrop the rain still falls, is still rain, something made up of perishing raindrops but that itself does not perish.

I didn't really know where to follow that thought.  On the one hand it was gloomy: doesn't the individual want to always be itself, an individual with an individual life, individual thoughts?  How is losing that into something else, something larger, something amorphous, something to be desired, looked forward to? But on the other hand, in the case of a raindrop, in some manner it continues on, becoming part of a pond or river, or a flower or a tree or a chipmunk or mountain lion and eventually another raindrop again.  Is that good or bad, something to  anticipate -- or to fear?  And whatever it is, what can you do about it?  It's going to  happen no matter what, no matter if you are a raindrop or a human being.  And am I not just part of the life cycle of a raindrop?  Am I really, is my identity, that of a human being?  Or is my true identity a raindrop? 

Tired and feeling I had walked far enough, I stopped and leaned against my walking stick. I  had wanted to tire myself out so I could sleep, not lie in bed staring into the darkness, my mind racing, going over the same things again and again. Now I was anxious to get back.  The wind had mostly been behind me as I walked but on the return it was in my face.  I bent my head down against it and sought out the slight lightness of the trail to keep me on the path.

By not looking ahead, I missed something coming toward me on the trail.  We surprised each other.  It huffed and thudded off the trail into the brush and trees.  A deer.  Maybe two. The wind brought their scent to me. But it had kept mine away from them, thus their surprise.  They were lucky I wasn't a mountain lion or a pack of coyotes. After that, I looked where I was going despite the wind. 

The coyotes had fallen silent and there was no sound but the creaking of tree branches in the wind.  I wished I had worn boots instead of tennies. They had gotten soaked and my feet were cold. It began to snow.