Illness, responsibility, change, happiness and home

 

Not long after we completed our air trek from Scotland, my father fell seriously ill and had to go to the hospital. The local hospital, it turned out, didn't have the ability to perform certain tests to determine what was wrong with him so we had to take him to another hospital in another state.

Our Beech 18, before my grandfather acquired it, after originally belonging to a feeder airline, then becoming an executive transport, had belonged to an air ambulance company and we still had all the original equipment stored away.  So we pulled out the personal transport interior -- couch and seats, mini kitchenette, etc. -- and reinstalled the ambulance facilities, including two emergency stretcher beds, jump seat, medical storage units, over head bars to hang IVs from, and so forth.  The plane thus transformed, I flew my father and mother, who was looking after him, first to our local hospital and then to one much farther east and much better staffed and equipped.

There it was determined that dad had an intestinal bleed and had lost so much blood he needed a transfusion.  He also had a serious infection. He needed surgery immediately.  I left my mother with dad and flew back home to see to my children, who were being watched by my aunt, whom I had flown up from her college town.  I flew her home, then some time later, when my dad was ready to be discharged, flew down and brought her back to take care of my kids again while I flew a couple of states east to pick up my parents and bring them home.

Unfortunately, while at the hospital my father had acquired a very bad flu-like bug.  My mother got it, too, and shortly after they were home, both fell very, very ill.  My mother, who was not quite as sick as my dad, refused my insistence that they go to the hospital.  She said she knew what the treatment would be there and that she could prescribe (she's an MD, although retired) whatever a hospital would and she knew that I, with my training and experience, could provide better care for them than they would receive from strangers in the hospital. I had to agree with that logic, although reluctantly, because I worried that there might be a medical emergency, heart attack, stroke, some complication from dad's surgery, their illnesses getting worse, that I could not handle.  I argued this with my mother but she was adamant.

So, keeping them in quarantine in their bedroom in separate beds, I took care of them.  My mother recovered first, after a few very bad days and a week or so of general weakness and malaise.  But my father,  weak from his previous medical emergency and surgery, was so ill that I was afraid we might lose him. He was unable to eat anything for days and ultimately lost more than 10 percent of his body weight, despite supplying him with IV peripheral parenteral nutrition, which he had had at the hospital so we had the blood tests and necessary information for our pharmacist to prepare the correct formula for him. I flew into the city to pick this up.  Eventually, my dad did recover, but he had a bad cough for several weeks and really didn't get back to his old self for about two months.  And his diet is now restricted -- no alcohol, no fried foods and no spicy foods being the changes he is most unhappy with.  On his menu now is a lot of yogurt, apple sauce and assorted non-acidic foods. Pablum, he calls it.

This episode was difficult in so many ways, especially because I not only had to take care of my mom and dad, but also my children, while keeping them away from from my parents so they wouldn't catch whatever they had, something they didn't understand. (And, yes, I wore a surgical mask when interacting with my parents and children.)  I also had to deal with ranch issues, which my father always did and is something I'm not remotely qualified to do, but that I had to do.  Someone had to make the final decision on so many things.  Of course, I relied on the ranch foreman, but he could not take ultimate responsibility for a plethora of things.  I hope I made the right decisions.

But these issues were not what affected me most -- I had to deal with high-demand, high-stress situations before any number of times in the Navy.  What really got to me was the realization that my parents are old.  That may seem something that should have always been obvious to me, but, although I suppose intellectually I knew they were old, emotionally, mom and dad were just mom and dad, always there, always the way they were when I was a kid, a teen, a young adult, solid anchors in my life that would always be there, unchanging.  But now I saw them as frail, helpless old people struggling simply to breath, to eat, unable to even sit up in bed without help.  It scared me.  It forced me to acknowledge that they are in the end stage of their lives and I won't have them forever, that one day they will be gone and I will be, in a very central part of my existence, alone.  Everything I've achieved, whatever I've accomplished, has been due to the upbringing and encouragement provided me by my parents.  When I went astray -- and I've done some really stupid things -- they steered me back on course without judgement or criticism. 

I have processed all these emotions now, and realize that my role going forward is to take care of them, be the one in charge.  My mother's refusal to be hospitalized will probably be the last time she will over-rule my judgement in an important decision.  It is now my obligation to see to their health and happiness.  I will shield my eyes from the inevitable future and just live with them day by day, appreciating each hour that I have them with me.

I mention all the flying I did because had I not flown the Beech back from Scotland with an experienced co-pilot and thus got a lot of time and refresher instruction in it, becoming quite comfortable at the controls, I couldn't have done it.  I hadn't flow the Beech in years and and had no thought of ever doing so again. If I had suddenly to absolutely have to fly it all on my own, it would have been a problem, to say the least.

But as it was, I scarcely thought about flying it solo with no co-pilot.  Even flying to Rochester, Minnesota, a mighty long haul at some 850-plus nautical miles, to get dad to the hospital was no problem, from filing flight plans to navigating around or over storm fronts, taking off and landing smoothly. The most challenging episode was when, due to various circumstances, I had to try landing at our airstrip after dark.  It is not lighted. It's just a landing strip and nothing more.  I figured that I would try it and if I didn't like the situation I had sufficient fuel to fly to an open airport (the local airport closed at sunset). But there was enough starlight and light from a quarter moon to pick out the field and provide depth perception, so that, as experienced as I had become at landing there,  I was able to set the Beech down as easily as if it had been broad daylight.

I didn't think twice about flying my mom, aunt, my friend the vet tech (about whom I written) and the ranch foreman's wife and her friend down to Denver to do Christmas shopping. We stayed at the Art Hotel, which was a rather bizarre experience, but fun.  The most enjoyable diversion was visiting the open-air Christkindlmarket, a German-style Christmas bazaar.  A funny aside: when I parked the Beech and we all deplaned, I heard one of the ramp workers ask another, "Where's the pilot?"  Ah, good old spontaneous sexism.  Gotta love it. 

What ice accumulation does to an airplane.

On the flight back, we encountered heavy icing and I was again glad that dad had kept the plane's de-icing equipment intact, and I was able to handle it.  My passengers had no idea that I was dealing with an "issue."  Even my mom was not particularly concerned, but, occupying the co-pilot's seat as she was, she could see the concentration on my face and had sense enough to keep silent and not distract me. The other ladies chatted away in the cabin, completely unaware, which was as it should be.  With the help of ATC, I was eventually able to get to an altitude free of ice and we completed the flight uneventfully.

I flew in and out of various local city airports to get prescriptions filled and buy necessary items for dad's recovery.  On some of these trips I took my mini-me with me since she had missed out, being too young and -- horrors! -- a girl, on the grand adventure her brothers had enjoyed.  So I made it a project for just the two of us to have our own special times together. We even flew to Spokane to watch the State Street Ballet's presentation of The Nutcracker at the Martin Woldson Theater at the Fox, which she watched with fascination, behaving like a perfect lady (and, of course, now she wants to be a ballerina).  We stayed at the Davenport Tower and ordered room service, which awed my little girl: you just make a phone call and they bring you dinner! Who could imagine such a thing? She loves waffles, so for breakfast we dined at People's Waffles, which also delighted her, and the wait  staff was very kind and attentive to her.

When el jefe arrived at the nearest major airport, instead of him making a connecting flight to the closest feeder airport, and me driving down to pick him up, I flew the Beech to it and was waiting for him when he deplaned.  He was surprised to see me waiting at the gate, I can tell you.  He picked me up and raised me over his head and spun around as other passengers eddied past us.  He was even more surprised when I said I had flown down in the Beech, but pleased.  We collected his baggage and were in the air heading home in something more than an hour after he deplaned.  I asked if he wanted to drive, but he said he would just right seat it.  We talked practically non-stop as I filled him in on events and he updated me on his situation.  

I landed at our local airport to refuel.  We had been flying between an overcast at 8,000 feet and an undercast at 3,000 feet.  We descended through the undercast, getting some ice and turbulence, finally breaking out at 800 feet in snow flurries.  We landed into an eight knot wind 20 degrees to the left. El jefe called out the numbers for me as I made the approach, something I hadn't enjoyed the luxury of for quite some time.  I crossed the fence at 75 knots with 2000 rpm and 20 inches, 45 degrees of flaps, cutting power just before the wheels touched. We rolled out in about 900 feet.  El jefe said, "Not bad -- for a girl!" and I stuck my tongue out at him.  He said, "Lean over here a little closer and do that again!"

I taxied up to the pumps and Randy came out to do the servicing.  I introduced him to el jefe.  It was in the twenties and jef was not dressed for winter weather so we did not linger.  I told Randy to come in to the burger shack when he was done and I'd buy him a cup of coffee.  I steered el jefe into the shack and, introducing him to the fry cook, whose name I had learned was Alexander, but everyone called Butch, and ordered us a late lunch.  El jefe was wowed by his bacon cheeseburger, and the fries he said were the best he'd ever eaten.  

The FBO had seen us come in and he stopped into the shack to say hello, so I was able to introduced him to the hubster, who, he said, he'd already met.  I'd forgotten about that.  I had dressed to please el jefe, but the FBO, who, I had come to realize,  was a bit of a roué, but in an amiable way, eyed me as I sat on a counter stool, unabashedly ogling my somewhat thigh-revealing get-up with appreciation. 

He draped his arm around my shoulder, squeezed me against him as he stood beside me and said, "Oh, honey, what you do to an old man." Then turning to el jefe he said, "Mind if I borrow Wanda for about 15 minutes?"

Jef, ever up to verbal banter, said, "Borrow?  Borrow?  Let me see your money on the counter top!"  

Butch was wiping dry some glassware but stopped, looking from one to the other of us, half smiling but clearly not sure if the men were serious. I shook my head slightly at him and he went back to drying.

The FBO said, pulling out his wallet, "Let's see now, I think I've got a five in here.  Can you make change for that?"

"Sir, you insult me and my fine merchandise!" said el jefe, and was about to say more when I interrupted, saying, with brilliant wit, "Oh, you guys!"

Just then, Randy came in after stomping his feet on the porch to shake off the snow from his boots, a swirl of cold air tumbling into the room with him.  He said he'd put 220 gallons (at $6.45 a gallon) into the Beech and topped off the oil, checked everything and all was okay. I bought him his coffee and the conversation turned to other things.  I asked after Jim, the crop duster, and learned that he was down on the Redneck Riviera, flying banners and doing fish spotting and whatever else turned up.  He used to spend winters in Mexico, Butch said, but now that was too dangerous.  The cartels would kidnap him and force him to run drugs, or else just kill him and take his plane.  El jefe asked who Jim was and I explained.  

"Hard way to make a living," he said.

"And dangerous," said Butch, recounting some close calls and near things Jim had experienced, and also telling about one of the AgCats that flew out of this field crashing after tangling with some telephone lines.  I hadn't heard about that. The pilot was badly injured and no longer able to fly.  That news put a damper on the conversation and after a pause the FBO said he needed to get back to work, and gave the eye to Randy, who said he did, too.  And I said it was time we got going as well.

When we stepped out on the porch from the heated shack, the air felt icy cold.  It was snowing steadily now, big heavy wet flakes, but as we walked over to the Beech I looked down the runway and could, I believed, make out the end. The ceiling looked to be lower than it had been.  Jef started to do the walk-around with me but I told him I didn't want him to catch cold, since he wasn't even wearing a jacket and to get on board.  He saluted and said, "Aye, aye, ma'am!"'

When I finished the walk around, brushing off the little bit of snow that had accumulated -- mostly it melted as soon as it touched -- and climbed into the plane, shivering from the cold and regretting my choice of attire, el jefe was waiting in the cabin with a lap blanket for me that he'd found tucked under a seat.  He pulled the cabin door closed and secured it as I made my way forward to the cockpit and slid into my seat, my mind already on the task of getting airborne and navigating the flight ahead. We went through the checklist together, then I started the engines, and turned the cockpit heater and windshield defroster on full. I could see our breath in the icy air and there was frost at the top of the windscreen. Jef got on the radio and picked up the latest weather. It was worsening.  When I taxied to the end of the runway, I could only see about halfway along it through the falling snow.  I knew that as we headed down it our view would keep opening up, so I was not concerned.  I reset the directional gyro to the runway heading, set the flaps at 15 degrees, applied the brakes and advanced the throttles to 25 inches, then released the brakes and eased the throttles up to 36 inches, props 2300 rpm, while keeping an eye on the directional gyro, using the brakes and as we picked up speed the rudders to keep the plane centered on the runway. When the tail began to rise, I kept the nose slightly high so that the attitude indicator bar rested about a quarter inch above the horizon.  I held that attitude until we gained flying speed and the plane naturally became airborne.  As we passed the end of the runway I raised the gear and flaps and closed the cowl flaps. I maintained full power until we reached 80 knots, then reduced manifold pressure to 28 inches and propellers to 2000 rpm, holding the airspeed steady at 112 knots as we climbed.  We encountered icing through the first layer of clouds. It built up rapidly but the Beech's de-icing defenses handled it, though I did have to push the throttles up to 33 inches, the maximum continuous power setting, and the props to 2200 rpm to keep gaining altitude at a reasonable rate. Once we were through the icing layer, I reduced power to normal climb until we reached 7,000 feet, then reduced power to 27 inches and 1800 rpm and turned for home. 

It was hardly snowing at all at our air strip when we approached it at twilight. The ceiling was a thousand feet, the windsock, barely discernible in the growing gloom, scarcely stirred. There was snow on the runway so I kept power on as we touched down, holding the plane aloft as long as possible, letting it skim lightly into the snow till I felt the wheels on the gravel, not wanting to risk a nose-over if it proved more than a few inches deep, but otherwise the landing was routine and we rolled out in less than 700 feet, the snow acting as a brake.  My mother had heard us come in and drove down from the house to meet us.  I wanted to get the plane into the hanger and out of the weather and was glad el jefe was there to help me manage that.  I told mom to stay in the car, but she got out anyway and did what she could to assist us.  Then she drove us up to the house.  Through the trees, lit up as it was with Christmas lights, it looked like a fairy mansion and I felt content that, finally, everyone was home, everyone was in good health, and we didn't have to go anywhere for any reason.  I began singing the old Christmas carol "Good King Wenceslas" and my mother and my husband both joined in.

Idle musings

After traveling eleventeen bazillion miles across interstellar space, why do all these UFOs, UAPs, flying saucers, foo fighters...whatever...once they finally reach planet Earth crash?  Maybe the LGMs and BEMs need to take a refresher course in how to lower the landing gear before they bid a fond farewell to Planet X-9.

Of all the pilots in my family over the generations, not one has ever seen a flying saucer. Of course, none has ever seen a coelacanth, either.  As far as I know.

Several of them have had experiences with ghosts, though.  My grandmother had a stock of ghost stories involving relatives going back generations.  When I was nine or ten, spending the summer with my grandparents, one night for some reason I woke up, got out of bed and went to the window and looked out.  I don't know why I did this.  But when I did, I saw a ghost.  As God is my witness, I did.  It was not a friendly ghost.  It terrified me. I ran out of my bedroom.  Not sure where to go, I finally went into the living room and turned on the TV, keeping the volume low. 

There was an old war movie on, Run Silent, Run Deep, starring Burt Lancaster and Clark Gable.   I watched it intently, afraid to look away from the screen. One line of dialog stuck in my head.  I remember it to this day: the sonar man saying to the captain, "What is it, sir?  I can't make it out."  "What is it sir? I can't make it out" repeated in my head until I fell asleep.  I never slept in that bedroom again.

I thought last winter was terrible, cold and miserable with storm after storm, but when I mention how bad it was to locals they just shrug.  To them it was just a normal winter.  It gets cold and snows in winter.  Didn't I know that? In my defense, I was incapacitated for most of the season so I couldn't enjoy the normal things I like to do in winter, ice-skating in particular, which at one time was a passion of mine.  I was thinking that this winter I could get back into ice skating but now that I am in a family way that is definitely out. I'm not about to risk a fall.

The old shacks are being replaced by minihomes like this.

 Talking to the ranch foreman about our on-going program to replace the old line shacks with up-to-date pre-fabs with solar power for electricity, TV and internet, he remarked that when that's done even way out here in the last best place there will be no escaping the reach and influence of globalism.  Okay, he didn't say "globalism" but I understood what he meant. Nonetheless, this has to be done if you want to get and keep good men.  They just won't put up with drafty old shacks, smelly kerosene appliances, hand-pump wells and outhouses.  So we are installing pre-fab mini-homes ranging in size from 10x16 feet to 16x52 feet, furnished comfortably and fully equipped with solar power, septic tanks, heat and indoor plumbing.

 

A double-wide mobile home.

 In a few places we are putting up double- and triple-wide full-size mobile homes for foremen, caretakers and other full-time live-in employees and their families. By the way, I often read people sneering at those who live in mobile homes, even double wides. They must never have been in one.  They are really very nice.  I'd certainly rather live in

Double-wide mobile home interior.

a mobile home on my own lot than in an apartment.  I guess people have to express their snob at something. But I wonder how many of these superior types live themselves in cramped, crummy apartments the rent of which is more than the mortgage payment on a mobile home.  And in a mobile home on your own property you don't have to hear the neighbors quarreling or listen to their lousy taste in music or TV shows when you are trying to sleep.

I overheard a couple of ranch hands chatting the other day.  One said to the other, "Do you want to go deer hunting with me Saturday night?" I thought, oh, no, they are talking about spotlighting deer, which is illegal.  But on listening to their further conversation, it became clear that they were talking about going to a local  roadhouse to try to pick up chicks.  I thought about asking them to take along my smart, handsome, hardworking but terminally shy second cousin so they could help him get a girlfriend but I didn't because they are just not the type he hangs out with.  He's more of a dreamer and idealist.  The idea of going to a beer joint with some rowdies to hit on the sort of woman who infests such a place would make him nauseous.  But it's such a waste that this great guy can't bring himself to go up to a girl he likes and say, "Hey, good-lookin', what's cookin'?"  That's how they did it in olden times, and it worked just fine for both parties.  

He was planning to join the Navy right out of high school, but I talked him out of it. At least for now.  I told him there was no hurry, and the way things are these days, he really should just wait.  So he is learning multiple skills on the ranch, working in the machine, vehicle repair and welding shops, operating heavy equipment, handling livestock, learning horsemanship and so forth.  And he is getting paid $26 and hour plus found.  With the hours he works,  he's making around $65,000 on an annualized basis -- with no grocery or restaurant bills or rent to pay out of it.  He can even use a ranch vehicle to drive around on his free time, so no car payments, registration fees or insurance premiums.  He's sitting in the catbird seat and is one lucky 19-year-old. 

I am giving him dancing lessons and he's getting pretty good. I suggested he find a dance studio and learn there -- I was hoping he might meet a nice girl -- but he said if he did that everyone would think he was gay.  I told him the World War II generation of men sure didn't think dancing was gay.  He asked what that had to do with anything. I had to concede the point. I suppose a young guy dancing today would be like him wearing a zoot suit.  So why is he taking dancing lessons from me?  I told him dancing is a useful social skill to have, just in case. It's like being able to dive gracefully into a swimming pool, play tennis and golf, sail or know how to dine properly at a five-star restaurant. If it should occur in your life that you need to do these things, you don't want to embarrass yourself by making a botch of it.

While rummaging around in some old suitcases, I came across this photo.  No one I've asked knows anything about it.  My dad said it looked like something from the 1960s at the oldest, judging by the Huey helicopters.  You can just make out Mt. Fuji in the background to the upper left, so it was probably taken at the Japan Self-Defense Force training grounds near Hakone.  Nobody knows what kind of tanks those are, but then we are not tank people.  The menfolk just consider them targets.

An anticipated future world that didn't happen.

The way we imagine the future is always wrong, usually in ways we can't imagine. So I wonder what is going to happen to the United States, to western Europe, to Western civilization.  Is it really dying before our eyes, going out not with a bang, not with a whimper, but with the twerking of a transsexual 12-year-old? I would like to hope there's enough resiliency remaining that it can shake off this current cultural corruption and recover. I would like to hope that. I'm sure that's what the late Romans thought, too.  But then, the West is nothing like the Roman Empire. So...fingers crossed!

Do you believe in witches? How about infatuation? How about manipulation?

I Warned You Three Times. 

 First broadcast by CBS Radio Mystery Theater on January 12, 1974.

Finally!

 If God wanted man to fly, He would have given him more money.

  We sat out the storm in the airplane.  In less than half an hour the sun was shining brightly through the trailing clouds of the storm front.  It had moved on east leaving sparkling, ozone-rich air behind.  Both dad and I had had enough flying for one day, though I seriously considered just getting out of there and getting home. We could be there by dark.  But dad cautioned that we were in no hurry, and who was to say that another storm front might boil up in our path.  Why not relax here, see to the airplane, make our flight plan, get a good rest and leave early the next morning, getting home by lunch time?

So after taking care of the Beech, including paying for overnight hangering, just in case another storm blew through later, we rented a car, got rooms at the Marriott, then had a picnic at Riverview Park beside the Chippewa River, feasting on the grub I had brought from Portsmouth, then taking a walk along some of the paths and trails in the Park.  The river was pretty and the trees were still glittering from the fresh rainwater dripping from their leaves.  I couldn't help reflecting that the day before I had eaten lunch on islands in the Atlantic Ocean and here I was in the middle of the continent lunching beside a river.

That evening we drove into downtown Eau Claire for supper, stopping at a place called Hooligan's that when we looked in we thought had no tables available, it was so crowded, but the greeter led us to a nice little corner one.  We had only meant to peek in but since we were there we ordered and enjoyed quite good prime rib with mashed potatoes and green beans.  Afterwards, we walked around the downtown area a bit, crossing over a pedestrian bridge above the river.  We were quite surprised at how pleasant the city was, with people walking around enjoying the cool of the evening, plenty of crowded bars and restaurants.  We decided to have a night cap at the Fire Side beer hall before heading back to the hotel.  I abstained since I was driving, but dad enjoyed a couple of microbrews that he said weren't bad.  I forget what he said they were. To be honest, I was about worn out with visiting new towns and wandering around aimlessly, eating and drinking restaurant fare.  I think dad was trying to break the spell of events earlier in the day and cheer me up with some new experiences, but it wasn't taking.  I didn't say anything or act in a way that would reveal that's the way I felt, but I think dad could sense it, and I could sense that he, too, was tired of this trip. Of course, he had been at it much longer than me. He had to be completely worn out.

We got airborne early the next morning heading west-northwest.  We'd clip a  corner of South Dakota, then span North Dakota before entering Montana.  All told, today's flight would cover about 900 nautical miles.  To avoid any possibility of being surprised by fast-developing thunderstorms, we climbed to FL220, 22,000 feet.  I didn't think we could get that high and thought we should have planned for FL200, but dad thought we could do it, and if we couldn't we'd change to FL200.  On dad's advice, we actually climbed to 22,200 feet, our rate of climb at that altitude 100fpm, then dropped down to 22,000 feet to get "on the step."  Our airspeed settled in at 190 knots with a fuel burn of 38gph. I was impressed. I'd always thought that this whole "on the step" business was a myth. But maybe it wasn't. 

We had on our adjustable-flow rebreather masks and we kept an eye on each other to make sure we were getting oxygen.  I'd never been this high in an unpressurized airplane before and it was certainly...interesting.  Also cold.  The cockpit and cabin heaters were on full blast but making little headway against the below-zero -- way below -- temperature.  When we left Eau Claire it was 64 degrees F., but now the outside air temperature was minus 19 degrees F. and the exhaust from our engines was creating a beautiful double contrail of ice crystals marking our progress across the sky.  But because the less dense air at this altitude contains fewer air molecules in a given volume of air, the airflow over the cylinder heads has less ability to cool them, so we had to keep a sharp eye on the head temperatures.  That may seem odd, that we had to worry about engine overheating when it was so cold, but thus it was.

We started out the flight in shirtsleeves but now were bundled in wool sweaters, caps and mufflers, and we wore two pairs of socks.  We couldn't eat or drink without removing our oxygen masks, which was awkward.  After two hours of this, with nothing but clear skies ahead and forecast, we gave it up and began a gradual descent to 8,000 feet. As we passed through 10,000 feet the oxygen masks came off with sighs of relief.  Eventually, we dropped down to 5,000 feet.

Also with a sigh of relief, I handed off the airplane to dad and went back into the cabin to stretch my legs and make us brunch. Dad wanted a roast beef sandwich on a Kaiser roll with mustard and horse radish -- I went easy on both the condiments, but added a dash of black pepper. He wanted a side of chips, too. I also prepared a side in a little plastic bowl of thin-sliced carrot and celery sticks, slices of red pepper and thumb-size or a bit bigger bites of broccoli and cauliflower heads that he could spear with a toothpick and munch on.  I put all these in a box tray with napkins, a handi-wipe, a sparkling water and a fresh, hot cup of black coffee and  handed it up to him.  He put the Beech on autopilot and dug in.

I looked over the remaining stock of grub and decided that I'd have a roast beef sandwich on a Kaiser roll, too, and duplicated the meal I'd made for dad for myself.  Instead of climbing back into the cockpit, though, I sat in the rear seat, pulling out and down the the seat table to place my meal on, dropping my coffee into the cupholder to secure it.  I ate slowly, looking out the window at the passing scenery and letting my mind wander.  When I finished eating, I folded my hands, closed my eyes, and gently drifted off to sleep.

Bright sunshine full in my face woke me.  I had been dreaming of honey bees buzzing around a big rosemary bush, darting among the little blue flowers collecting nectar.  As I gradually switched realities, the buzzing of bees became the drone of our Wasp engines hauling us steadily toward home.  I cleaned things up in the cabin, washed up and refreshed myself, then went forward.  Dad's chin was slumped on his chest and he was sound asleep.  I was alarmed at first, fearing not that he was asleep....  Then I shook my head, thinking it's actually surprising that this was the first time this has happened.  I climbed into the left seat, scanned the instruments, all in order, then checked the GPS.  We were on course and more than two-thirds of the way home. I compared the GPS track with our dead reckoning plot, noting the last time dad had updated it -- just 10 minutes before, so he'd only nodded off a few minutes ago.

I left the autopilot engaged, took the remains of dad's lunch and went aft to make myself and dad coffee. It had been hot in the cockpit and it was warm in the cabin, so I took the opportunity to change from my jeans to cut-offs and also traded my shirt and tee for a half-sleeve blouse, leaving the top two buttons undone. Much more comfortable.  Then I climbed back into the cockpit balancing two cups of lidded coffee. I placed dad's cup in its holder without wakening him, buckled into my own seat and sipped mine while watching the land roll by beneath us, scanning the instruments, checking the GPS, updating the DR plot.  

There were a few fair-weather clouds but no storm fronts building and ATC told me there was nothing developing along our flight path. It would be smooth flying all the way home.  I could hardly believe it.  Would we really make it in with no further excitements?  I studied the engine instruments hard, looking for any tell-tale of trouble.  But there was nothing.  I looked out at the engines, the spinning props.  Just keep keeping on, I told them.  Only a little bit more, then you can rest.  I looked over at dad.  He was deep in sleep. I saw no reason to disturb him.  We were going to land at the local airport to refuel, top-off the oil and stretch our legs, then fly on to the ranch landing strip. We could just by-pass the local field, but thought it a good idea to top off the tanks on a sunny day, and besides, you never know when you might need to fly again unexpectedly and it's always good to have full fuel, just in case.

As I sipped my coffee, I daydreamed of the meals I would prepare for my family, the deserts and dinner entrees and breakfasts, hearty lunches.... My mind  reveled in imagining happy hours in my kitchen -- my kitchen! -- making meals for an army, my mini-me right alongside me, helping and learning.

Time passed, dad slept on, the sun slid westward and soon we were approaching our local field, wind dead ahead at 2 knots.  There was no reason to wake dad, so I set the Beech down on the short strip, 2,000 rpm and 20 inches, 45 degrees of flaps, crossing the fence at 75 knots, pulling back power just before touch down, rolling out in 800 feet, and taxied over to the fuel pumps.  Only when I shut down the engines did dad wake, blinking and rubbing his eyes, then stretching his arms above him and arching his back.

"Have a good sleep?" I asked.

"Best ever!  And I'm hungry!"

The FBO, whom dad and I both knew, had come out of his shack along with his A&P guy, whom we also knew, and who also knew our Beech, having worked on it often.  We clambered out to be greeted like the old friends we were.  The A&P guy said he'd take care of refueling and checking things over when the FBO invited us to chow down at the burger hut next to the long-unmanned tower, a relic of World War Two days when this was a way station for planes being ferried to the Soviet Union. They say there are still scraps of crashed P-39s scattered in the weeds at both ends of the runway.

 The hut had a couple of rooms in back available for stay-overs by working pilots, seldom used anymore.  But the cheeseburgers on grilled buns the cook turned out were legendary and people would drive over to treat themselves.  The french fries were also a local legend. Deep-fried in beef fat, they were outstanding.  If you didn't want fries, the home-made potato salad was an excellent alternative.  Some people ordered both.  On Friday nights and weekends, the menu also included fried chicken dinner, with mashed potatoes and gravy or fries, plain or on a pancake bed, Cole slaw, slow-cooked barbecue baked beans and corn on the cob in season, and people would drive in for a nice meal.  If the cook felt like it, he would also whip up his special chili, with or without beans.

As dad and the FBO were finishing up their burgers (I was about a third through mine), the A&P guy came in and told dad the left engine had an oil leak and did he want him to track it down?  Dad, wiping his mouth with his napkin, said, "Let's go take a look," and, turning to me, said, "We should be right back." They, along with the FBO, who went with them, left me sitting at the counter.  The fry cook went over to the screen door and stood looking out, spatula in one hand.  Turning to me, he said, "That's a nice-looking airplane you guys have there.  Where'd you fly in from?"  I thought about saying Scotland, but just said Chippewa Valley Regional.  "Great little area," he said.  I used to work there at a place called Hooligan's. Ever hear of it?"  

"We ate there last night, the one in Eau Claire.  I didn't know there was one in Chippewa.  Actually, I don't know anything but the airport."

"Oh, I meant the one in Eau Claire.  What did you have?"

"Prime rib."

"Good choice.  That's what I always had on my break."  

"What brought you out here?"

"Oh, I found out my girlfriend was cheating on me and I just said, 'Fuck it!' and walked out of everything.  I got on my motorcycle and headed west.  I ran out of money and gas here, and here I've stayed.  I got no plans to go anywhere else.  What would be the point?  Everyplace you go, there you are, and every fry kitchen looks the same.  Here I get a decent salary, the boss lets me have the upstairs apartment -- it's just a studio but it's got a nice bathroom with a launderette and is furnished, even has a TV, so I'm set."

"You still have your bike?"

"Oh, yeah.  It's out back.  Want to see it?"

"Sure.  Just let me finish my burger.  I'm a slow eater."

A fly buzzed.  Otherwise, it was silent.  As I was finishing up my sandwich, I heard a plane coming in for a landing.  I got up and went over to the screen door and looked out.  It was a Pawnee. Awkward-looking airplane, purpose-built for work.

"That's Jim, coming in to get his fourth load of the day.  He usually does six, has his breakfast, lunch and supper here.  He lives down the road in that old motel.  Sometimes when he's too tired, he sacks out in one of the back rooms."

"Crop duster?"

"And seeder in season.  He'll be wanting two bacon cheeseburgers with fries and onion rings. I'll sell him a beer under the table.  We don't have a liquor license but I always keep some beers in the fridge for the regulars.  They pay me direct. Have to give you a rain check on showing you my bike.  I gotta get to work."

Jim taxied his Pawnee to the fuel pumps, clambered out and began fueling.  The FBO left the Beech and went over to talk to him.  I looked at our plane. The lower cowl was off the left engine and dad and the A&P guy were busying away.  Crap, I thought.  How long is this going to take?   I went back to my counter stool, took the last few bites of my burger and went outside, the undamped screen door slamming behind me.  It was hot, but the porch roof provided shade.  There was an old vending machine, an ancient Pepsi-Cola thermometer reading 96 degrees F., a couple of Adirondack chairs and a bench swing suspended by chains.  I looked out over the flight line. I saw a Tomahawk, doubtless owned by the FBO, who also offered flight lessons among his many services.  Then there was a Cherokee, a Saratoga, a Debonair, several Cessnas.  At the far end were a couple of AgCats and an AGTruck, probably the only three of the line-up that were still doing useful work and much of the reason for the airport to stay open. I doubted if any of the other planes was newer than about 40 years.  Last stop before these old birds wore out and went to the boneyard. 

Jim walked over to the shack, taking the one step up onto the porch, then stood in the shade while his eyes adjusted.  He took off his hat and wiped his brow.  Then he noticed me.

"Ma'am," he nodded, trying to doff his cap that he'd already taken off.

"Hi, there.  Where were you dusting?"  He named the ranch and explained he was putting down calcium for next year's hay crop.  

"Isn't that usually done in March or April?"

"I do what they pay me to do."  

"It's just going to blow away."

"I know."

The aroma of frying burgers wafted through the screen door and Jim looked toward it just as the cooked called out, "She's ready, Master James!"  Raising his hand as if to tip his hat to me again, Jim, smiled and stepped inside, the screen door banging after him. I could hear him asking, "Got my beers?" and "Damn, son, those burgers look too good to eat!"

I got a Coke out of the vending machine and stood leaning against a roof post drinking it and watching the goings-on at the Beech. Dad was in the cockpit and the A&P guy was talking to him.  Dad turned over the engine without energizing the starter, then cut it.  The A&P guy ducked under the wing and checked something, then shouted at dad, who again spun the engine.  The A&P guy went over and stood below the cockpit and talked to dad, then backed off while dad started the engine in a cloud of blue smoke and flaming backfires.  Geez, pop, I muttered.  Don't set the engine on fire.   Then I noticed the A&P guy was holding a fire extinguisher, so what happened was anticipated.  I wondered what was going on, but was too lazy to walk over in the hot sun and ask. Instead, I sat down on the bench swing.

I heard the screen door screech open and bang shut and Jim walked to the edge of the porch, watched the Beech frolics, then came over and stood by me.

"Mind if I sit down?"

"It's a free country. Do as you please."  He sat down heavily beside me, the chains creaking and the bench swaying.  Big man.  But not fat.  Working man big. He smelled of Castrol, 100LL, sunshine and beef grease.

"That's what they claim. Want a beer?"  He offered me one of the cans of Big Sky he held.  

"Got my Coke, here.  But thanks anyway."  

He opened one of the cans and took a long, long drink, downing maybe half the can.  "Ah, God, that's good! Cold as ice.  I needed that.  It's hot in that cockpit."  He let his long legs sprawl out in front of him, one touching mine.  "Oh, sorry," he said, when I shifted away.  "I'm taking up the whole bench here."

"Oh, it's okay.  A man needs some stretching room."

"That he does."  He took another long drink, emptying the can, tossing it into a steel drum down the porch a ways and opened the other can, took a sip.  Then he looked out to the Beach again.  The A&P guy was reinstalling the cowling, I was pleased to see.  He must have found and fixed the leak.  Or, alternatively, there was a major problem he couldn't fix.  I didn't want to think about that.

"Who owns the old freight dog," Jim asked, gesturing at the Beech.

"What?" I was lost in my own worries and grim speculations.

"That freight dog. Who belongs to it?"

"Oh." I told him the name of our ranch.

"Big spread.  I've worked for them a lot.  I do seem to recall it parked on their strip. It's a pretty one, for sure.  You don't see many any more, though."

"You ever fly one?"

"Oh, yeah.  First paying pilot job I had was flying cancelled checks in a Dog 18 like that one. Cancelled checks, auto parts, medical supplies. Whatever had to get someplace overnight.  But I got in on the tail end of that business before FedEx and the internet took it all away.  Lot of little guys went out of business.  Had two or three freight dogs that earned them a living  Then poof! Nothing.  And their planes weren't worth a nickel to anyone. So they just parked them and walked away." 

"How'd you like flying them?"

"Oh, they are the sweetest planes ever made. A little tricky on the landing, being a big tail dragger, but nothing you can figure out."

By now dad had both engines running and the A&P guy was standing in front of the plane listening and looking.  Then he crossed his arms waving at dad, who shut down the engines.  In a minute dad was clambering out of the plane and huddling with the guy.  Then they collected the tools and carried them into the hanger.  Mentally crossing my fingers, I hoped all was okay.

"What did you say was the problem with that one?"

"Oil leak in the left engine.  Looks like they got it fixed."

"Mmm.  Always a problem with those radials.  All that vibration shakes things loose."

"I guess."

"Well, I gotta get back to work. Nice talking to you.  My name's Jim.  Hope to see you around again sometime."  He drained his beer and tossed the empty can into the drum.

"I'm Wanda.  I'll probably see you around.  You fly carefully now!"

I always do, Wanda! That's why I'm still at it. You have yourself a nice day, hear?"  And he stepped off the porch into the sunshine, donning his cap, adjusting the visor against the sun, and heading over to his Pawnee.  He fired it up and taxied up field to a truck where he took on another load of calcium, then staggered into the air, the heavily laden Piper reluctant to get airborne in all this heat at this elevation.  He circled the field and waggled his wings as he flew past the shack.  I waved.  Then he was gone.  

 Dad came up on the porch and stood wiping sweat from his brow with a shop rag.  He didn't notice me at first, his eyes not used to the shade.

"So?" I said.

"Oh.  There you are." He explained the problem was an oil line fitting that had become loose and begun seeping.  Routine.  But it was good we had stopped here and Randy, the A&P guy, had spotted it before it got worse.  I was going to ask what was all the drama with the backfiring but at this point really didn't care. I just wanted to get going.

"I gotta take a leak and wash up.  Buy me a Coke, okay?" and he walked down the porch to the lavatory.  It had a shower but I didn't think he meant to use it.

"When you get back," I called after him.

The FBO came out of his office and walked down the porch toward me.  He opened the screen door to the cook shack.  "Toss me a beer, will you?"  He snagged it and let the door bang shut.  He popped it open and took a slow sip, eyeing me.  "Young woman," he said, "You've got the prettiest pair of legs I've seen walking around here in a month of blue-nosed Sundays.  May I buy you a beer?"

"Got my Coke.  Thanks, anyway."

"You know, your dad and I go back a long ways.  We served together on the Kitty Hawk.  That must have been...let's see...1984, I think.  It was on that cruise that we collided with a Russian sub in the Sea of Japan.  That was a hell of a jolt."

"I didn't know about that."

"Oh, yeah.  Fun times.  The sub was carrying nuclear-armed torpedoes.  If war had started, the whole battle group would have been blown to hell before we ever had a chance to do anything."  He took a sip of his beer.  "We did get the sub's propeller jammed in our hull.  That was a real coup for us."

"Oh?"

"Well, yeah, the screws being a big part of how stealthy a sub is."

"I didn't know that."

"True.  Well, I shouldn't bore you with an old sailor's yarns."

"Oh, no.  It's interesting to me.  Really."

He finished his beer and tossed the can into the trash barrel. "I've got to get back to work.  Tell your dad when he gets back from wherever he is to bring that plane of his back so we can give it a thorough going-over."

"He's in the head."

"Okay, well, I'm off."  And he walked back to his office, his gait a little like that of John Wayne in an old cowboy movie. 

After a while, dad came out looking refreshed and bought himself a Coke. He drank it standing up, not talking.  I'd finished my Coke and was just holding the empty can.  I stood up and dropped it in the trash.  "I'm ready when you are.  The sun's getting pretty far west."

"Yeah. Let's go.  I'll finish this aboard."

It was like an oven in the cockpit even though both windows had been left open.  There  was no noticeable breeze.  The wind sock hung limp. My bra chafed.  I felt like pulling the sweaty thing off, but modesty prevailed. The engines, already warmed up, started easily and we were soon taxiing to the end of the runway. Holding the brakes on and with flaps lowered to 15 degrees, I pushed the throttles to 36.5 inches.  With the windows open, the roar of the engines was deafening even through our headphones.  I released the brakes and we lurched forward, my hand holding the throttles wide open and dad's hand pressing on mine, ensuring I did so.  The end of the runway came fast but at 80 knots, dad calling it out, the Beech told me she was ready to fly. I eased the yoke back and suddenly we were in smooth air, gear and flaps came up, cowl flaps closed, and we picked up speed smartly.  I circled back over the field and wagged our wings as we flew past the burger shack, but nobody was outside to see.  

I pointed the old bird toward home, climbing to 8,000 feet to get some cool air.  It wasn't long before we were flying over our own land and I felt a growing anticipation and assurance that nothing more would prevent me from sleeping in my own bed tonight.  In about an hour, our landing strip came in view, the hanger, and a bit farther on the ranch buildings and, amid shade trees, our house.  God, I was so glad to see it.  So glad.  I flew a wide circle around the house and turned back to the landing strip.  Here, too, there was no wind, the wind sock hanging limp. I came over the fence at 75 knots with a touch of throttle, full flaps.  The Beech slowed quickly on the grass and gravel strip and we were at taxi speed when we paralleled the hanger.  I taxied over to it, swung the plane around, pulled the throttles to idle cut-off. The props slowed and stopped and there was silence.  

We were home. 

Weddings

 I was reading some blog about popular wedding and wedding reception songs, and as usual the commenters were ragging on the selections and listing their own choices and so on.  Mostly, it was a generational breakdown, as usual, with bickering between them.

I thought back to my own wedding, which was a dress-white Navy affair, sabres and all, with the Navy band providing music, most memorably to me Elgar's Salut d'amour.

At the recepion, my husband sang to me in front of everybody, with the most sincere emotion, the balland, My Cup Runneth Over, from the 1966 musical, I Do! I Do! I was reduced to blubbering tears.  Every year since, on our anniversary, he sings it to me, even if he's far away and we only have voice contact.  It always brings me to tears.

 

 

Guess what?

 Two very short videos to make you happy:

Guess who's pregnant and guess who's happy! Guess who's also happy because el jefe has finally resigned his commission -- not only that, without telling me, he put in for expedited, hardship discharge when I told him the news last September (yes, he did his husbandly duty when we met in Europe).  He'll be home for Christmas and he will stay home.  Oh, my God, I can't tell you how relieved and happy I am.  Christ, watch over him and protect his journey home.  My parents are also very happy, as you may imagine.  Number four!

A lot has happened over the past few months, not all good, but we managed.  Maye I'll write about some of it. Probably not.