Burlington to Portsmouth

 Training, Mentors, Practice, Proficiency, Planning, Maintenance and Vigilance.
-- Father's rules for becoming and remaining a good pilot.

 Dad got everything squared away with the scareplane and came back to the hotel in time to take me to dinner.  He was in excellent spirits, saying the plane flew like new.  He'd not only swapped out the carburetors but had a general tune-up done to the engines, new spark plugs and whatnot, and also had the whole plane washed and waxed.  He'd also gotten an offer to buy it from a bystander who said he'd pay $500,000.  Dad said not for sale at any price.  We chowed down at the Farmhouse Tap & Grill on Bank St., eating on the patio.  I had fish and chips.  It was really good.  But then I was hungry, relieved of the worry that the stupid airplane would  need some dumb part that was back-ordered for months or something. 

Dad had a burger with fries and onion rings and a Star Wayfinder beer, a Czech-style pilsner locally brewed, that he liked so much he ordered another.  He couldn't finish all his onion rings so I scored them.  Dee-lish. Onion rings! Onion rings! Eat 'em up! Yum! (Sing that to the tune of Barnes & Barnes' "Fish Heads." Heh.)

While we ate, dad talked about the need to update the cockpit of the Beech. Most of the instrumentation was original and even the radios, though updated, were pretty long in tooth.  If we were going to be doing a lot of long-distance flying we needed to get some top-quality avionics in the cockpit.  I thought who is this "we" you are talking about?  It sure don't include me. I've had my adventure and desire none more. But I just smiled and nodded.  He also talked about teaching my boys to fly, first in a J3 we had, the same one he had been taught to fly in by his father, my grandfather, then graduating them to a Cherokee, maybe get them some time in the Steerman, the old N2S I had seen in the ranch hanger but never noticed anyone fly, then get them into the Beech 18.  I was okay with all of that, though I wondered if, by the time they were old enough, the government would not have banned private aviation.

Dad also said that before heading for home he wanted to take a short hop somewhere to make sure everything was functioning properly and get it straightened out if it was not.  He asked me if I had any preferences. I thought for a minute and said why not let's go down to Portsmouth, New Hampshire, flying into Pease, now a civilian airport with good facilities. That would only be about an hour's flight.  Dad thought that was a great idea, especially as he knew a guy he had flown with in the service who had retired to Hampton, NH, lived in an ancient farmhouse with attached barn out towards Exeter, and maybe he could touch bases with him.

We walked over to the waterfront before heading back to the hotel, dad wanting to see it and stroll around a bit.  I would have avoided it, were it up to me, but I guess it did me good to make new memories of the place, listening to my dad reminisce about walking with my mom in San Francisco when they were dating, eating at Salmagundi's an inexpensive soup and salad cafeteria-style restaurant on, he wasn't sure, maybe Geary St., that played classical music softly in the background and gave you a free soup refill, then taking the cable car to Hyde St. Pier and walking from there along the waterfront over the hill to Ft. Mason, Marina Green, the yacht harbor, detouring over to the Palace of Fine Arts, then Crissy Field, Ft. Point, sitting there enjoying the view of the bay and the Golden Gate Bridge, then cold, tired and happy, taking a trolley bus -- he thought it was the No. 34 -- back, sitting together, not talking, content with each other's company, looking out the window at the shops and houses, cars and people, all the lights coming on as evening fell.

He sighed.  He was afraid to visit San Francisco again, dismayed and uncomprehending what it had become. He wondered if the concrete bench above the Ft. Mason piers was still there, halfway down the steps from the road passing above.  He and mom had spent many hours there, just sitting together.  He said it was the same bench that his father and my grandmother had sat on when they were young.  I knew that bench. I had sat there, too. Was it still there?  If it wasn't, I didn't want to know.  At one point, dad stopped, looking out over the lake but I think not seeing it but seeing San Francisco Bay, and said to me, "Our country's gone, isn't it?  We're still here but our country is gone."

We were at the airport the next morning before dawn, both of us eager to get going.  The starting ritual to get the old bird fired up (the Beech, not my dad), was to pull the props through several turns on each engine to be sure there was no hydraulic lock.  If there was, we'd pull off the cowling and unscrew spark plugs until we got a gusher of oil, pull the prop through a couple of times to get it all out, replace the plugs and cowling and pour the oil we'd caught in a pan (well, most of it) back in the engine. We clamber into the cockpit and go through the starting ritual: cycle the props, verify feathering actuation, oil by-pass in, fuel selectors front, cross-feed off, mixture full rich, open the cowl flaps, close the oil shutters, select the fire extinguisher for the engine we're starting first, by habit the left one.  Then crack the throttle open slightly, shout “clear” out the window and energize the starter. Vreeeee! Slowly the big two-bladed propeller begins to revolve and after it completes two complete rotations turn on both magnetos. There's a cough or two and some gasps and barks as a couple of cylinders fire. If you've opened the throttle a tad too much, you may get a backfire. A few more cylinders fire and the engine begins to stutter and growl. Smoke streams back from the exhaust in an oily cloud and then the remaining cylinders burst into life, turning the propeller blades into a shimmering disk as the engine  settles into a steady rumble.  Then repeat the process for the right engine.

We let the engines idle while we do other piloty things. When the oil temperature reaches 20 degrees C and the cylinder head temperatures rise above 100 degrees C we throttle up to 800 rpm and taxi to the runway, mag checks, trim tabs set to neutral, cowl flaps set to trail, flaps 15 degrees, lock the tail wheel once we're lined up, throttle to 36 inches and props to 2300 rpm, leading with the left engine to keep her straight, and away we go, 80 knots, rotate, gear up, flaps up, cowl flaps closed,  adjust trim, at 500 feet reduce power and props to 33 inches and 2200 rpm, at 1,000 feet reduce again and climb out at 28 inches and 2000 rpm, 110 knots, 1400 fpm, turning on to our southeast heading. At cruising altitude mixture manual lean, throttles and props to 27 inches and 1800 rpm.

I left-seated for the take-off, dad monitoring the gauges and listening to the engines intently, then once we were at cruising altitude we switched seats and he took over as PIC and wrung the engines out, climbing, descending, pushing cruise up to 90gph burn, which saw us really boring a hole in the sky, then dropping it down to Lindbergh max range speed.  Everything checked out, the plane performing like Jack the Bear, as dad said. I knew who Smokey the Bear was but  I didn't ask who Jack the Bear was. 

I took the left seat for the landing at Pease. I really wanted to do that, considering all that I had thought about my grandfather flying B-47s out of there in the 1950s, as I've written.  It had surprised me to learn there was only one runway, but what a runway --11,300 feet long and 150 feet wide, elevation above sea level just 100 feet.  Wind was 140 degrees at five knots and I set the mighty Beech down on Runway 16 like a feather and paced it so that as we slowed to taxi speed I was just at the first turn-off and taxied to the ramp, opening the window, as did my dad on his side, to get some air because it was a most warm morning.

I tried to imagine what it would have been like to howl down on that runway at 200 knots, drogue deployed to slow you down, in the hottest airplane in the sky after a 10-hour mission to taunt the Soviets into launching interceptors after you, then out-running them and skedaddling home.  But I really couldn't.

I supervised refueling while dad went to arrange meeting his friend and rented cars for both of us. I was pleased he trusted me to do this, but, you know, it really was not a big deal, just make sure they put blue gas in her and top off the oil with the right grade.  I then taxied to the tie-down area, got everything secured and went to meet pop.  He had reserved a hotel for us to stay at since he wanted to visit with his friend whom he had arranged to meet.  He'd also set up a dinner with my cousin, whom he had visited with on the way to Britain and who was, dad said, looking forward to meeting me.  So, handing me the keys to my rental, he bid me a fond farewell, saying he would see me for dinner. Au revoir mon paternel!  

Hmm.  Now what to do?

My grandfather's B-47E at Pease. Photo by him.

 First, I wanted to look around Pease a little bit and absorb the fact that I was actually here, where my grandfather had flown B-47s during the height of the Cold War.  It was hard for me to believe I was actually here, that Pease AFB actually was a real place, not just something conjured in the mind from old letters, documents and photos.  Here it was. Or what was left of it, Mostly the runway, which is the heart of any air base anyway.  And here I was.  I had actually flown in as PIC of a pretty good-sized airplane myself, one that my grandfather would have been familiar with, perhaps even flown the C-45 Air Force version.  I tried to remember all I could about him, which wasn't much. I never had a chance to see him very often, as I've written, and each time only briefly.  He seemed like a contented and cheerful man, easy going and friendly,  not like my other grandfather, with whom I spent much more time. He was rather stern, never talked much and kind of scared me.

Harl Pease in high school 

Pease Air Force Base was named for Harl Pease who won the Medal of Honor piloting a B-17D, which he had flown from the states to the Philippines in an epic, ground-breaking trans-Pacific flight, as part of a squadron reinforcing the islands in anticipation of war with Japan.  Many of these planes were destroyed in the Japanese attack when it came, but not Pease's. He flew it on attacks against the Japanese invaders, then, when all was lost, he flew it to Australia, from where he bombed Japanese forces at Lae in New Guinea and Singapore.  He led a force of half-a-dozen war-weary B-17s

B-17Ds at Hickam Field, Hawaii, on their way to Clark Field,  PI.

from Townsend, Australia via Seven Mile Strip in New Guinea  to attack the Japanese stronghold at Rabaul in the Solomon Islands in support of the Marine landings on Guadalcanal, August 7, 1942.  On the way, his plane lost an engine, but instead of turning back, he continued on, trailing behind the other bombers.  Over Rabaul, his plane was pounced on by the defending Zeros of the Tainan Kokutai and was shot down and he was captured by the Japanese.  On October 8, 1942, he was forced to dig his own grave, then beheaded. As I've written, my grandfather fought against the Tainan Kokutai.  He would certainly have known very well who Harl Pease was.  Maybe their paths had crossed.

When I was digging around through boxes and suitcases full of old family memorabilia -- okay, junk -- I came across some photos of my grandfather's family life in New Hampshire, their pet cocker spaniel, their new 1956 Ford Crown Victoria, their kids dressed up in their finest for Easter, Christmas morning present-opening and so forth.  One photo I noticed was of a statue being unveiled at Hampton Beach, a woman holding a wreath as I recalled it that somehow I thought was a memorial to fishermen lost at sea. Anyway, since I was here, I thought I'd drive down and take a look at it.  While looking up how to get to where it was, I learned it represents a Gold Star mother mourning her lost child, and was actually a  memorial to sailors lost at sea during World War II who had no burial service or other remembrance. It was originally intended to be placed in Washington, D.C., but, for some reason, it was not allowed, so it came to New Hampshire, the man who initiated the project being a New Hampshire native and it was the loss of his son at sea in May, 1945, that prompted him to get the project started.  I'd seen the snapshot of my grandfather's family at the unveiling on Memorial Day (then always the 30th), 1957, so I felt both a desire and an obligation to go see the statue.  It was still there, a relic of the old America that had a sense of itself as a people and a nation, aware of and proud of its history, eager to memorialize it for future generations whom, it was naturally assumed, would spring from those who came before and who had roots in our country, their native land.

I walked the beach, full of vacationers from points south.  I listened to their talk.  It sounded alien to me, a westerner, used to the accents of California, career military (a kind of generic, mild southern accent) and the inter-mountain west.  I suppose a lot of the vacationers came from the Boston or New York City areas where lots of ethnic whites reside. In any case, I felt a stranger among them. I listened for the famous Yankee accent I had read so much about in old books and heard in old movies and radio plays but I never discovered it.

I drove back up to Portsmouth and walked around.  It was a lovely small city that charmed me. I took a boat ride along the harbor and the Piscataqua river and back into what was called the Great Bay.  It was all so different from where I lived or had lived in the States that I felt like I was not in America but in a foreign country -- not quite as foreign as England, more like the foreignness of Canada.  I guess that's to be expected in a land as large as ours.  But it did make me feel homesick and eager to get going.

While I was on the boat, I heard a familiar sound, the unmistakable rumble of big radial engines in the sky.  Looking up I saw a twin Beech and for a split second thought, huh, somebody has one here, too.  Then I realized it was ours and for another panicked split second I thought dad had taken off without me and was heading home alone.  Hey!  Dad!  Then I realized that, of course, he and his pal had taken the Beech up for a spin.  I waved and a man standing next to me waved, too, remarking, "Pretty airplane."  I agreed and almost said that was my dad up there and it was our airplane (well, his), but I didn't.  

The ice broken, we chatted a bit.  His wife was sitting in the stern with their kids, they had driven down from Concord to enjoy the sea breezes and eat some fresh-caught lobster.  I wondered if there was a lobster season and he said he didn't know.  He asked where I was from as I didn't sound like a local.  He guessed Tennessee and I said not even close.  I've never even been to Tennessee.  So where, he asked and I said California, which was true enough for conversational purposes, not wanting to get into an explanation of where a service brat is from -- nowhere, really.  And my new home on the range didn't yet quite feel like a place I truly belonged.  I hoped it would someday.  So California it was.  I could talk about Cali with familiarity.  He wanted to know what I thought about Newsom and one political thing or the other but I just uttered a few platitudes which was fine with him because he didn't really want to hear my opinion but tell me his.  I didn't want to listen to any political crap -- I hate politics -- and I wanted to enjoy the experience of being in this place where I was and savor it. I didn't pay for a boat ride so I could listen to some stranger's rant, so I pulled out my cell phone, excusing myself that I just got a call I had to take and moved away, praying he wouldn't follow me.  He didn't.

After the boat ride, although I wanted to do and see more -- Portsmouth had really captivated me with all its waterways, bridges and lovely old buildings -- I was tired and wanted to clean up so I went looking for our hotel. Dad had taken our luggage with him and checked into our digs, the Hotel Portsmouth right downtown on Court St.  We each had separate rooms and when I got there I found that the staff had put my bags in my room already.  The hotel was in a Victorian-era building with lots of wonderful wood work.  I cleaned up  and sat down to think what to do next.  I felt tired so I flopped down on the bed and dozed off.  My phone woke me.  It was my dad letting me know that we had dinner reservations at the Martingale Wharf restaurant on Bow St.  He and his friend and that cousin I had never met would meet me there.  I told him I had seen him flying over the harbor while I was taking a boat ride and he said if he had known I was on that garbage scow he would have buzzed me.

Looking at the time, I gave myself a half hour to do some souvenir shopping. So I headed out to Market Square, which the hotel staff told me was the best place to shop and nearby. I was mainly looking for something for my kids and mom but a square-neck, shirred-waist, ruffled-hem dress caught my eye and I immediately fell in love with it. It was like this dress on the left but the one I picked out after trying on several was a dark forest green. I knew el jefe would love me in it and I just had to have it.  I bought some matching bow-front cone heels to go with it and a tote bag.  By this time almost an hour had passed and I had to rush back to the hotel and change before heading to the restaurant. I had intended to wear my Vermont sundress and flats, which was more modest, but holding up my new dress and admiring it in the mirror I thought, oh, why not?  So I took a quick shower and as I dressed thought I should have bought some perfume and then said to myself you're not going out on a date, you dope, but somehow I felt I was and that I was getting ready to go have dinner with el jefe.  Isn't that stupid? I imagined dinner, then going to a show, maybe dancing, a nightcap, then back to the hotel and.... It's what I really wanted rather than chowing down with pop and a couple of strangers, making small talk -- how's your steak tartar?  A little underdone is it?

I thought about driving over but then figured either I would get lost or not be able to find a parking spot, so I shoved my heels in the tote back, put on my sneaks and set forth at a brisk trot for the waterfront after getting directions from the friendly hotel staff.  The desk clerk complimented me on my dress and the bell hop said, "Looking good!"  I was embarrassed to be wearing sneaks so I pulled out my heels to show them I had some fashion sense.  They asked me to try them on and I did, doing a little pirouette and curtsy, then thought, crap, I'm so late and I'm doing this, put my sneaks back on and darted into the evening.

I found the restaurant with no trouble and paused to put on my heels before going in. I freshened up in the little girl's room then asked the hostess if she had a party of three, two old geezers who probably called her honey or sweetie and a younger guy. She made a wry face and steered me towards the bar.  Hoo boy, I though, if those jaybirds have been knocking back the happy juice all this time....  My thought was interrupted by my dad, having spotted me, calling out, "Well,  look at that, the Queen of Sheba has arrived!" and the old coot next to him, who I assumed was his navy buddy, said, "Holy bazoombas! Honk! Honk!"  The other guy looked me over, smiled, and said, staring at my boobs, "Hey!" slurring the word a bit.  I thought, oh, great, just great.  I should have worn a burka.  But I had to admit that I had put the girls on display, so to speak, so what did I expect from a bunch of drunks?

The hostess, giving me a sympathetic glance, led us out to our outdoor table on the terrace overlooking the harbor.  There was an argument over who would sit next to me.  I thought about asking our waitress to seat me at a separate table.  But I said, "Dad, sit next to me!" in my naval officer command voice.  And he did so.  The others sat down, too, looking contrite. The dinner was okay.  I had baked halibut and I don't remember what the others had. I was famished and realized I hadn't eaten anything since we left Burlington. I had been feeling cranky but with some grub in my gut I mellowed and got the conversation, which had dried up, going again, asking my cousin, the younger man, about his family and the area, and bantering with dad's friend.  I could see that relieved and pleased pop and I wanted to make up for being so late so I let the conversation get a little risque.  When his friend, loosened up with another whiskey sour, told a raunchy farmer's daughter joke involving a mistaken milking episode and I offered an amused chuckle my dad patted me on the shoulder. He was saying thank you for indulging my crude, lewd old buddy.  Earlier, dad had told me that the guy had saved his life over North Viet Nam and my dad had saved his, so they were sort of like blood brothers.  So him ogling my cleavage and telling bawdy stories and me smiling was, I guess, my way of thanking him for keeping dad alive.

The time passed, neither my dad nor my cousin drank anything more, their conversation was normal and interesting, the view of the harbor lights and boats passing by was pleasant, and soon the restaurant was closing and we were shooed out.  We stood in the cool night, a hint of sea fog in the air, aromatic with salt and seaweed, still chatting. Dad's friend suggested we go to this great bar he knew nearby, the Thirsty Moose or something. Dad hesitated and looked at me.  If we went to a bar at this hour we were definitely not flying anywhere tomorrow. I wouldn't mind spending another day in Portsmouth.  But then I also wanted to get this trip over with.  I also worried how much more obnoxious dad's friend might get with more drinks in him.  I was getting a little tired of laughing at oafish jokes.  But I said, "It's up to you, dad.  Whatever you want to do."

 To be continued

October!

 

 

Roll with it

 On a perfect early fall day, why not fully embrace your own life and forget about the rest of the stupid world?  Nothing you can do about any of it anyway.  Time is racing on and soon enough you and I will be gone.  So enjoy the now for this brief time while we have it.

 

And now so long ago it does seem, working 30 hours on and 10 hours off.  I was so tired I would fall asleep standing up if I paused for even one minute.  I learned what ice fog was and how to deal with - 35°F weather.  I never thought I could survive it all.  But I did.  And now it is, for me, ancient history, scarcely remembered at all.  And what did the wider world, politics, social media, the daily news and all the rest of that crap have to do with it?  Nothing.  That's what.  Nothing at all. 

I don't remember

 "Do you want to live?  Or do you want to die?

"I've forgotten it, just to live. I may look all right to you, but that's just the outside of me.  Inside ...  if you knew what's inside ... it's terrible. It would scare you.

"Losing those you love: I suppose there is no greater grief than that, because the one who still lives is not only left with a great load of sorrow, but a load of love and nothing to do with it. Failure, rejection, poverty, illness ... these are all trivial causes for depression.  The profound sorrow lies in the loss of those you loved and will go on loving after they are no longer there to be loved. 
"Love and loss. Love and loss.  It is the metronome of life. And it is not always death which occasions the loss.  Jealousy, contempt, estrangement, even boredom can accomplish the same thing. But even then, the faint memory that love once lived and animated the world brings grief unutterable.
 "To receive love is a wonderful thing.  To give love is even better, but the fundamental, the most important thing of all, is to possess, and to know that one possesses, the capacity both to give and to receive.  To be deprived of this capacity is the greatest misfortune that can befall anyone.
"No one knows precisely what love is, though poets and philosophers have tried for centuries to define it. I doubt that any one of us has been satisfied with any of the definitions. Yet we go on trying, desperate to know, desperate to feel, desperate to find, because we sense that without it we are lost."

  Beyond Belief, first broadcast by CBS Radio Mystery Theater on December 17,1979.

Vermont delay and an old friend

"Most of my money I spent on airplanes. The rest I just wasted."

We had breakfast at the hotel, a pleasantly substantial American style meal rather than the crummy continental I was expecting. Dad had a Denver omelet with diced potatoes, toasted French bread and arugula.  I had scrambled eggs, bacon, hash browns and whole wheat toast.  Of course we had OJ and coffee, both of us drinking it black.  While we ate, we discussed yesterday's events. Although he hadn't made much of it at the time, and I didn't give it any thought, dad said that the service men's bringing the wrong grade of oil had shocked and worried him.  If he had not been there to watch what they were doing and caught the mistake, they would have poured it into our engines and we would never have known until disaster struck. The engines would have fried and quit or fried and caught fire.  Both of them.  At the same time.  And down we would have gone. We might have crashed on take-off or shortly after, or we might have flown some time into the flight and gone down over trackless forest or maybe into the estuary.  Most likely, we would have been killed and it's unlikely, should the aircraft have been found, that investigators would have been able to determine the cause, not that that would have mattered to us.

So, he said, waving his fork at me, take this as a lesson and do as I do when life and limb is at stake. Never leave anything to chance or to the competence of others unless you absolutely have no choice, and even then be wary.  He said I might think he was being overly cautious to always be on hand for refueling and servicing the plane -- I didn't -- but this time his caution had saved our lives. I could thank him by paying for breakfast.  I said, Aw, gee, pop, do you really think our lives are worth thirty bucks? Plus tip, he said.  Later, it occurred to me that breakfast was included in the room rate.

I recalled hearing petty officers demanding to know if a rating or seaman had done something and being told yes, but then saying, well, I didn't see you do it, so do it again while I watch you do it, and make damn sure you do it right.  I didn't like hearing that but now, if I hadn't before, I realized that that sort of behavior helped ensure the person so addressed made certain that whatever task he was assigned he did with full attention and care, with no sloppiness or mistakes, because if the PO found he had actually not done the job or done it poorly, he would discover that his ass was grass and the PO was the lawn mower.

We also discussed the fuel burn on the trip, which had been excessive.  I figured we were running rich for some reason even though I had the mixture set to either auto lean or manual lean during the cruise portion of the flight. I suggested a stuck linkage that could easily be unstuck. Dad thought so, too, although he said we might have a fuel leak. We hadn't smelled gas fumes or noticed any puddles of fuel when we were pre-flighting the aircraft, so hopefully that wasn't the problem and it would just be a stuck linkage or something easy to fix like that.

After breakfast, dad took the hotel shuttle to the airport to get the airplane sorted out, as the Brits say.  He told me he would meet me at the airport restaurant and we could have a snack before departing.  Our plan was to fly to Eu Claire, Wisconsin, refuel, grab a bite, then fly on home. It would be a long flying day again, but both of us were anxious to get the trip over with.  As he was about to climb in the van, he paused and said that I shouldn't check out of the hotel until he called and told me everything was okay.  

It was a good thing he did, because when he called it was not to say everything was okay but to tell me that he found no fuel leaks but we had definitely burned a lot more fuel than we should have. He thought he knew what the problem was.  When he found out for sure, he would let me know, but we weren't going anywhere today and maybe not tomorrow, so I should extend our stay at the hotel.  He would try to get back in time for us to have dinner but if not, he would just grab something at the airport.  He was going to stay until the problem was solved or he knew that it would be tomorrow or the next day at the latest.

Well, rats, I thought. That plane wasn't going anywhere till the problem was found and fixed. I hoped it was something simple so we could be on our way soon.  But in the back of my mind I figured it would be something major. Isn't it always?

I took a walk around the city, which was really a quite pleasant town, strolling down Church Street and walking out to the waterfront park.  By lunch time, I still hadn't heard from dad and I was getting anxious.  I walked back toward the hotel and told myself if he hadn't called by the time I got there I would call him.  I knew he wouldn't like being interrupted if he was in the middle of something and I knew he hadn't forgotten about me.  But still....

When I got to the hotel he still hadn't called so I decided to go up to our room and freshen up, then I would call him, but as I entered our suite he called.  Whew.  He had located the problem. It was not the bad news I feared, but not good news, either.   

The type of Stromberg carburetors on the Wasp engines in our plane use a back-suction type mixture regulator that reduces the fuel flow by lowering the pressure in the float chamber.  A small nozzle in the venturi leading to the float chamber produces the suction.  When the mixture control is in the full rich position, the float chamber is vented to the air intake.  As the mixture control is leaned, a valve closes off the float vent, lowering the float chamber pressure. Got it? (I think I explained that correctly, but I've probably completely garbled it.) Dad carefully described this to me over the phone as if it were something it was vitally important that I understand. Actually, it didn't make any difference if I understood it or not; he could have just said the carbs were kaput. What he was really doing was clarifying things in his own mind by explaining them to me. 

Anyway, he said that the valves in both carburetors were not closing properly and there was wear on other components. The FBO had located replacement carbs in Manchester, NH, and sent a CFI looking to build time to fetch them. He should be back by evening.  Dad was going to wait for their delivery and inspect them to make sure they were the right type.  He'd install them tomorrow.  Then he would test fly the plane for an hour or so to make sure they were working properly, filling the fuel tanks before taking off and on landing, then measuring actual fuel used and making adjustments if needed. So we weren't going anywhere today or tomorrow, and he wouldn't get back to the hotel today until late.  He might decide to stay at the airport, sleeping in the plane, so he could get an early start on things in the morning.  He'd let me know.  

I unpacked, sat down for a minute to think how I would spend the rest of the day and tomorrow. I could souvenir shop for my kids and mom, and I decided to buy myself some decent city clothes, considering the mess my traveling clothes were in -- grease, oil and hydraulic fluid spots and splotches on them all: if you fly in an old airplane sooner or later you get this stuff on you. All I'd brought with me were traveling clothes plus some glamor-puss negligee stuff for el jefe's viewing pleasure.  I'd bought sweaters, wool skirts and a wool cap in the Shetlands and Iceland: not of much use in the humid heat of Burlington.  So I thought I'd buy a summer dress and some comfortable shoes to go with. I felt bad for just idling away the day while dad was busting his knuckles, but there was nothing I could do to help him.  The FBO had A&P mechanics.  They would be the ones doing the actual work, I supposed.  Pop would probably have a game of poker with them while they yarned about their airplane adventures.

So off I went shopping. I bought maple syrup candies for everyone, for the boys a copy of Aaron and the Green Mountain Boys by Patricia Gauch as well as The Dangerous Book for Boys by the Igguldens, Good-night, Vermont by Michael Tougias and a big Raggedy Ann doll for my mini me and a Vermont-themed charcuterie board for my mother. I bought two green sweatshirts each with a picture of a maple tree and the slogan, "I'd tap that," on them for el jefe and my dad.  I bought a cute straw hat, a maple-leaf-patterned sun dress and some comfortable flats for myself. I lugged everything back to the hotel, dumped the goodies on my bed, changed into my new duds and sallied forth again.  

It was hot so I went back to the waterfront park to catch a breeze.  While sitting on a bench watching sailboats and wondering what to do next, someone tentatively called my name, not "Wanda" but my nickname when I had been in Afghanistan (you don't want to know, haha).  The name, coming out of nowhere, and not having heard it in so long, gave me a shock.  I almost got up and started walking away from the voice.  I didn't.... No.  Just no. No....  But I couldn't do that. And the voice was somehow familiar. So I turned to see who it was.  I didn't recognize the guy.  He could tell I didn't so he introduced himself. As soon as I heard his name -- I'll call him Joe -- I remembered him.  He had been deployed with the Marines in Helmand Province, when, climbing over a low wall, he had been struck by a large-caliber round which shattered his leg. Subsequently, it was amputated above the knee. I had spent a lot of time helping him deal with what had happened, and for some time after he left the service he would call me, usually late at night.  He just needed someone to talk to.  And no civilian would do.  It had to be someone who was in the 'stan, too, and knew. And he couldn't have opened up to a guy.  He had to maintain the facade.  So that left me, to whom he had already revealed so much, who had helped him come to terms with his new reality.  And now here I was and here he was, after all this time, seeing each other again. 

Joe was not the old Joe I had known.  He was, of course, older, but mentally mature in a way I didn't remember him being, quiet, almost subdued.  When I mentioned it, he said that he had moved on with his life, although it had been pretty rocky at first.  His girlfriend had left him, but, he said, not because he was a cripple (his term) but because he had taken out his resentments and anger on her, though nothing was her fault.  She tried to deal with him but finally he had driven her away.  The shock of losing her, realizing the only person who cared about him was gone, had made him get control of himself with the help, he said, of a book I'd recommend he read, Viktor Frankl's Man's Search for Meaning, but that he hadn't bothered to until then.  He recited Frankl's key conclusion:  You may not be able to control what happens to you, but you can control the way you react to it.  He remembered that I had also had him recite with me and memorize Henley's poem -- "Out of the night that covers me/ Black as the pit from pole to pole/ In the fell clutch of circumstance.../ Under the bludgeonings of chance.../ I am the master of my fate/ I am the captain of my soul."

He'd suffered phantom pain seemingly coming from his missing lower leg for some time, but that had largely passed and he could use his prosthesis naturally and easily to do whatever he wanted.  He now volunteered with an organization helping disabled veterans and he passed on what I had  taught him as well as what he had learned himself about dealing with the bad hand Fate had dealt all of them.

After filling me in on his life, he asked what I had been doing and if I lived in Burlington. So I sketched the details.  He said he wasn't surprised that I'd stayed in the Navy, seeing as I was a Navy brat, but he was surprised that I was now living on a cattle ranch "out west."  He figured I'd probably be living in southern California.  I said sometimes I wished I were.  

He asked if I had eaten and I said I'd missed lunch so he invited me to a place nearby that he had been to before and was pretty good.  I ordered a BLT sandwich on toasted Italian bread, potato salad and ice tea and he said he'd have the same.  Talking with Joe was relaxing and enjoyable.  It was as if no time had passed since we were eating box nasties, or vacuuming up grub in a dusty impromptu chow hall, playing imaginary strip poker and exchanging harmless lewd banter, gossiping, talking about what we planned to do after we left the service, what we had done before.  I remembered Joe and the guys talking sports and I having no idea whether the Packers were a basketball or hockey team, to which they were incredulous.  We shared so many memories, so many old companions, had gone through so many things that others never had and could never understand.

Joe told me what some of the guys I'd known were doing now.  Several were married, working good jobs, solid family men, not the randy rowdies and hell raisers I had known.  Others had not done so well.  Some had passed on. We didn't dwell on negative things but talked about all the goofy stuff that had gone on, the legendary shower incident among others, and how when I had volunteered to go outside the wire I was reminded that I had always claimed to be a happy fobbit and intended to stay one.  He said everyone who knew me appreciated my spunk and grit. I blushed -- an 0351 Marine combat veteran said this to me.  It was such a high compliment I couldn't say anything for a minute. Silly me.  But that was about as far as we got into discussing the actual war. Who wants to remember that stuff?  What good does it do?

Joe complimented my ensemble, which surprised and pleased me because most guys wouldn't have noticed what I was wearing.  He said it showed off my figure well, especially my boobage, adding that I had great legs.  I guess Joe hadn't got the news about sexual harassment and "me too."  Fortunately.  I just ate it up.  Yeah, yeah....  But it was a delightful distraction from worrying about the stupid airplane and wondering if it would hold together long enough for us to get home, or becoming glum involuntarily recalling the bad times in the 'stan, the ones I had dreams about and that sent me into periods of depression even all these years later.  So, pulling up the hem of my dress, I stretched out my leg for Joe's inspection, turning my ankle first right, then left, wishing I were wearing heels, just for him. I said that I made an effort to keep in shape for el jefe, not only working out but doing a lot of dancing, which I really enjoyed.  I always wanted to be the girl he married and not let myself go like so many women do, especially after childbirth, and I appreciated being appreciated by the male of the species.  Joe then asked if I'd like to see his leg and pulled up his trouser leg revealing his prosthesis and stump, and I realized what a jerk I was.  I smiled awkwardly and tried to think of something to say that wouldn't sound lame.  I couldn't.  I should have just joked that his leg was sexier than mine or something, but I just froze, embarrassed, ashamed, maybe a little frightened, seeing what he had to live with, had learned to accept.  The memory of freshly dismembered limbs...and bodies...flooded my mind.

Joe tried to change the mood by asking why I called my husband el jefe and I explained that I had a Mexican friend who always mispronounced his name, Jeff, as Heff, so I just started calling him el jefe as a kind of joke, but it had stuck. Even his friends now call him el jefe.  As far as I was concerned, though, he really was the boss of me and I liked it that way. It was an off-hand comment, but Joe looked down at the table, lifted up his empty glass, set it back down and said, "Lucky guy."

After that, the conversation languished. We had so much to say to each other -- not kidding around but how we really felt, what we really wanted the other to understand -- but we didn't know how to say it.  Shortly, we said our good-byes, Joe saying he hoped he'd be able to see me again and I said if he was ever out west to look me up.  Outside, he offered to walk me back to my hotel but I said it wasn't necessary.  We stood for a minute awkwardly, not knowing how to let each other go. Then I hugged him and he hugged me back, whispering in my ear, "God, Wanda, God..."  I said, "I know." I watched him walk away.

Greenland to Labrador and Vermont

We left Nuuk before dawn heading south by southwest for Goose Bay, Labrador, about 707 nautical miles away.  I'd never imagined a time when I would head south and travel hundreds of miles in that direction to get to Canada.  We encountered ice on the climb out, including on the windshield, but broke out of it as we passed through 6,000 feet on our way upstairs.  I wanted to get across the Labrador Sea as soon as possible -- I was sick of these long ocean crossings, deep down they made me anxious -- so I again set our cruise at 186 knots.  That would get us to Goose Bay with plenty of reserve and still provide a quick crossing.  There's no radar coverage between Nuuk and Goose Bay: the controllers rely on radioed position reports from the pilot and then keep track of the aircraft by hand-moving markers across a map. That must have been the way they did it back during World War II, when Goose Bay was a refueling stop on the North Atlantic ferry route to Britain.  Flying a World War II-era airplane over this sort of Oregon Trail of the air did encourage my mind to muse over that long-gone era.  I'd read that the loss rate of aircraft on this route was 10 percent, mostly due to weather-related accidents, which was not encouraging.  But then I recalled reading somewhere that the average new pilot assigned to a squadron back then had between 300 and 400 hours total flight time in his log, and it is well known that the danger range for pilot-error accidents is between 300 and 1,000 hours, apparently because pilots gain too much confidence after getting comfortable flying and get too cocky, thinking they are experienced and can handle whatever happens.  But after they've gotten a thousand hours under their belt and encountered a few moments of the legendary sheer terror, they become humble and cautious.  Me?  I was always figuring I'd lose the critical engine just as I was in a steep turn into it and planning what I'd do.  I also imagined what I'd do should both engines quit.
Looking down at that windswept sea, I could see white caps and patches of sea fog and now and then an ice berg, some with breakers tumbling against them sending spumes of foam and spray into the air.  It was kind of a relief when we flew over an undercast that blocked the view of the ocean below, and when it rose to near our height and we began flying in and out of clouds with the sunlight causing sparkling shadows (I know, a contradiction, but true) among the towering pillars and bulging battlements, I forgot all about the menacing deep below us.

Once we were well on our way, I noticed dad beginning to doze so I suggested he go lie down and have a snooze in the cabin. He patted me on the shoulder as he climbed out of his seat and stepped back into the cabin to settle in on the couch and wrap himself up in the wool blanket I'd bought in Iceland.  I turned on the cabin heat to get a little warmth back there for him and adjusted the trim a bit to account for the weight shift.  And then, once again, I was alone in the cockpit with the drone of the engines, my eyes in a routine scan of the instruments, listening to the radios for whatever traffic there was, watching our progress on the GPS,  keeping up the dead reckoning chart and comparing it with that, radioing position reports on the HF from time to time.  The minutes ticked away and my mind began to free wheel.

Gramps in England.

I wondered if my New England grandfather had flown this route on his way to Britain back in 1944 or had taken a troop ship.  He had been on a ship heading for the Philippines with his fighter squadron, which had trained on P-35s, when the Japanese attacked Pearl  Harbor and the convoy of the ship he was aboard was diverted to Australia.  He had been looking forward to meeting up with his brother, whom I've written about, who was already stationed in the P.I., also flying P-35s, but with a different pursuit group.  In Australia, the squadron was equipped with P-40s and sent to defend the Northern Territories against the Japanese bombing campaign, then sent up to New Guinea to fight the Japs there.  In late 1942, he was sent home and worked at a training command until, in 1944, being assigned to a fighter group flying P-51s out of England.  He participated in the first fighter-escorted daylight bombing raid against Berlin in March of that year.  I've written about the rest of his career in earlier posts.  My other grandfather, about whom I've also written, was also at sea when war broke out, aboard the Lexington (CV-2), and, flying an F4F, participated in raids against the Japanese in New Guinea early in 1942 and later flew during the Guadalcanal campaign, so my two grandpas at one point in the war almost had their paths intersect.  They also both fought against the Japanese Navy's Tainan Kokutai, probably encountering the same pilots, guys like Hiroshi Nishizawa, Toshio Ohta, and, famous thanks to Martin Caidin, Saburo Sakai. Of course, they didn't know each other at the time, or know that their children would meet and marry.  My New England grandfather, flying his P-40E  battling Betty bombers flying out of Timor to batter Australia, never got shot down but, as I've written about before, my other grandfather, his F4F torn apart by 20mm cannon fire from Zeros, was shot down at sea and not rescued for 37 days.  But not before he had put some hurt on Mr. Moto.  Well, that's what my men do -- fight. 

They are warriors.  Isaac Coates, General Winfield S. Hancock's surgeon, met one of my northern Cheyenne ancestors in the 1860s and wrote of him, "He is one of the finest specimens, physically, of his race. He is quite six feet in height, finely formed with a large body and muscular limbs. His appearance was decidedly military. A seven-shot Spencer carbine hung at the side of his saddle, four large Navy revolvers were stuck in his belt, and a bow, already strung with an arrow, was grasped in his left hand. Thus armed and mounted on a fine horse, he was a good representative of the God of War, and his manner showed plainly that he did not care whether we talked or fought." My boys are hellions, too, and will doubtless grow up to be just like all the other men in the family. 

From these thoughts, my mind drifted to Vikings and their voyages in open boats over these waters more than a thousand years ago, comparing their difficulty to that of the South Seas cruises of the Polynesians to discover lush, tropical paradises. They're often admired while the Viking explorations across a cruel sea to make landfall on forbidding shores girded with ice and backboned by active volcanoes tend to be taken for granted. I also thought about how the characters of nationalities change.  Scandinavians once were the terrors of Europe, looting and pillaging across the continent.  But today they are total patsies, victimized by so-called refugees, lesser breeds without the law, as Kipling would have called them, that their ancestors would have cleaved in half with broadswords.  And pretty much the same is true of Germans; only a few generations ago the saying in Europe was, I've been told, that one German was a tourist, two a factory and three an army.  No more. At least not the third part. 

 The weather cleared as we neared Goose Bay.  We dropped in on Runway 08 well before noon, wind 8 knots at 60 degrees, gusting to 15.  All routine. The airport is much smaller and much less used than that at Gander, with, concomitantly, fewer amenities.  But it did have customs, which we cleared quickly.  We had lunch at Le Airport Cafe.  I was surprised to see tonkatsu on the menu so ordered that. It was okay.  Dad ordered stirred-fried chicken and said it was good.  I was going to spear a piece to try but he smacked my hand away and told me if I wanted some to order my own.  Meanie! Then he relented and let me try a piece and I let him try my pork. We both said at the same time that we should have ordered what the other had and laughed.  The counterman smiled at us. After lunch, we took a walk to stretch our legs, and, having seen the vicinity from the air and feeling no desire to linger, we decided to take off for Burlington, Vermont, once the Beech was gassed up and the oil topped off.  So I took care of the planning and paperwork for that while dad went off to supervise the refueling, which took longer than expected because the service guys brought the wrong grade of oil and had to go back and find what we needed...always something.  While he waited, dad took the opportunity to give the plane a thorough once over.  When I had finished filing our flight plan and getting the latest weather, I went out to the flight line to see how things were going.  Dad didn't need my help for anything so I just paced around, expecting soon to be on our way.  It was in the 50s and the uninterrupted breeze on the ramp was cutting right through me. I finally decided to go back to the cafe and get a cup of coffee and wait there, telling dad to come and get me when everything was done.  I was glad I did, because I waited there for well over an hour. For much of that, I was the only customer. The counterman was French-Canadian and friendly, probably a little bored.  We chatted in a mixture of English and French, then switched entirely to French.  I thought it interesting that in Europe I'd had no opportunity to speak French, but in Canada, I did.  We talked about the current world situation and he said that in recent years Montreal had gone to hell and he had left to get away from...well, you know....  I told him that when I was in England I had been told that there was a game the natives played in London called "Spot the White Man."  He laughed, then shook his head and sighed.  About that time my dad came in and, chilled to the bone from being outside in a light windbreaker for so long, ordered a coffee.  It was getting late in the day, the weatherman said scattered thunderstorms in the Burlington area, with high winds and hail possible, and we had 730 nautical miles to fly, making it a very long day in the air, so dad gulped down his coffee and, leaving a generous tip in American dollars, we trotted over to our mechanical Pegasus, fired that mother up and launched into the wild blue yonder heading southwest at our usual 186 knots, so with climb and descent, figure total flying time around five hours plus and it was already past five p.m.  So we'd be coming into BTV after dark and I'd have my first night landing on this trip.  I knew it would be okay, but I still wasn't looking forward to it.

In the cockpit, we were much more comfortable because -- finally! -- we didn't have to wear those clunky immersion suits.  Aside from crossing the St. Lawrence River estuary, we'd be over dry land from now on.  I felt a great relief.  I hadn't realized just how anxious I was about crossing all that ocean, but now I felt a kind of elation.  The worst was over.  This night I would sleep in a bed in the good old Estados Unidos.  We were practically home! 

The flight was uneventful but interesting, seeing all that green for a change, forest and forest and forest. There's a lot of miles and miles of miles and miles in that part of Canada.  As we got farther south we began to encounter thunderstorms. We were able to steer  around the worst of them, but we did hit some turbulence. Pop stayed in the right seat and did good co-pilot work.  I was grateful that he did, especially once the sun set.  I think I was getting fatigued at a deep level, all the flying of the last days finally catching up with me.  I knew dad must be more bone-weary than me, having flown over to Europe as well as back.  With darkness came lights winking on below us as isolated farms, towns and crossroad stores lit up.  As we neared the international border a solid overcast slid over the sky above us and scattered clouds appeared at our altitude.  Without the instruments to guide me, it would have been easy to get vertigo because the lights below seemed like stars while the blackness above seemed like the earth. I had the weird sensation that I was flying upside down.  I banished it by keeping my eyes on the instruments and checking our progress on the GPS.  Once, when I stepped back into the cabin to make us coffee while dad took the wheel I peered out the window and saw St. Elmo's fire glowing blue along the leading edge of the wing and on the propeller making it look like a blue disc.  As I watched, it faded away.  When I got back to my seat, I mentioned it to dad and he said there had been some electrical discharges flickering across the windscreen while I was in the cabin.  Just as he said that, a brilliant flash of lightning lit up the cockpit like a strobe light.  There went our night vision.  After that we saw more lightning flashes, but they were always inside clouds and sometimes their light appeared to be green with tinges of red.  The old Beech got tossed around quite a bit but shortly we swept out of the storm into smooth air, leaving the lightning and St. Elmo's fire behind us.  Suddenly, I felt hungry.

As we approached BTV we dropped through a solid overcast at 6,000 feet, then scattered clouds at 4,000 but otherwise it was clear, visibility 10 miles, wind out of the south-southwest, 220 degrees at 11 knots, gusting to 21.  I set down on Runway 19, dad singing out the numbers and handling the landing gear and flaps as I call for them, drifting down gently into the pattern, turning on to base at 800 feet with 15 degrees of flaps and 100 knots on the dial, then 45 degrees of flaps as I turn on to final.  I pull the throttles back a tad, push the prop levers all the way forward, nudge the nose down slightly and we're crossing the threshold, dad calling 80 knots. I pull the throttles all the way back and we settle to earth, the  mains touching the runway with the tail slightly down. I push the yoke forward a tad and hold it till at 50 knots the tail begins to settle, then pull the yoke back all the way into my lap, adding a little power on the left engine to keep her straight. I unlock the tail wheel, turn off the runway and taxi to the ramp, the Wasps rumbling at 800 rpm, brake to a halt, pull the fuel mixture levers from full rich to idle cut-off.  The engines stutter, the spinning propellers slow to a stop, then silence. "Nice," my dad says.  We look at each other and smile.

We cleared customs and immigration briskly, then arranged to have the plane serviced, gassed up and ready to go first thing in the morning. We'd reserved a suite at the Hilton and thought we'd get something to eat at the airport restaurant before calling for their shuttle -- I was famished and dad said he wouldn't mind a bite -- but the restaurant was closed.  On the ride to the hotel, we asked the driver if there was any place to eat because the hotel only served breakfast. He said the good restaurants in the area closed by 10.  But he did know a "greasy spoon" along the way that closed officially at 11 but actually stayed open as long as there were customers.  It was a family-owned joint that had been in business forever and catered mostly to locals.  We offered to buy him a burger if he'd drive us there so we could order take-out. He said our wish was his command and off we went.

I ordered two pints of fries (they came in not small and large but pint and quart sizes), a milk shake and a cheese burger.  Dad ordered a pepper steak and fries.  I wanted a small salad as well, but they said they were about out of the fixings and were saving them for burger orders.  While we waited for dad's pepper steak I munched on my fries and drank my shake.  I was so hungry I couldn't wait to get to the hotel before eating.  But I was saving the other pint of fries for a snack if I got hungry during the night.  The driver and I chatted desultorily, he, hunched forward, one arm protectively around his meal, polishing off his root beer float, cheeseburger, quart of fries and pint of onion rings in double-quick time, as if he were afraid we'd change our minds and seize his grub for ourselves.  He asked where we had flown in from and I thought about saying Scotland, but instead said Canada.  He nodded, inquiring no further. He mentioned that the tourists were coming back now that the Covid scare was over and most of the hotels were booked through Labor Day and we were lucky to have gotten a room. I asked how the weather had been.  He said hot as usual, it being summer after all. It was a little more humid than a typical summer, he did believe. Then the conversation petered out. Dad was talking with the counterman and laughed at something he said.  I looked out the window.

The hotel was a pleasant change from the dumps we had been staying at, the suite like a two bedroom apartment. Dad's bedroom had a king-size bed and mine had two queen-size beds. There was a kitchenette and fully-stocked minibar, a honking big flat screen TV and some really comfy chairs.  The air conditioning was on and it was needed as it was around 80 degrees, quite a contrast with the weather we had been used to.  Dad and I sat down at the kitchenette table and chowed-down, microwaving our sandwiches and fries a few seconds to warm them up.  We talked about laying over a day to rest up and take a look around the town but we were so tired we couldn't decide.  So, after finishing up our meal, we said good-night.  I took a long hot shower and crawled in the sack. Oh, so comfy.  I closed my eyes. The next thing I knew, it was morning.

 

Born Too Late

 

If I ever get my time machine working (that darn fleem discronificator keeps shorting out), one time period I especially want to visit is the late 1950s -- 1957, '58 and '59 -- and especially the last -- 1959.   Those years may well be the acme of the American Century.  I could cite many reasons why I think that; some I have already in previous posts and I may highlight more in a future post. But, for one thing, just looking at 1959, consider the number of best-selling books of that year (many of which are still popular today) -- and what a variety! -- Man's Search for Meaning, A Separate Peace, Starship Troopers, Naked Lunch, The Sirens of Titan, A Canticle for Leibowitz, A Raisin in the Sun, Alas Babylon, Psycho, Hawaii, The Longest Day, The Manchurian Candidate, Good-bye Columbus, Henderson The Rain King, Time Out of Joint, Advise and Consent, Nexus, All You Zombies, The Hustler....  I could go on and on.  Does anyone even publish novels that ordinary people want to read today?  Does anybody even read novels?

I also adore the popular music of the day, especially the syrupy love ballads aimed at teenagers. So sweet and innocent.  I also like the cars of that era, in particular the Chrysler Corp. offerings.  My choice to drive on my visit would be a Dodge Custom Royal Lancer convertible.  The guys who designed it must have been drunk out of their minds on applejack and moonshine when they created it.

Oh, and how could I forget that the Barbie doll debuted in 1959!  My mom got one for her birthday. The original price was $1.29 (I looked it up!)  My mom watched Dick Clark's American Bandstand with her older sister when they came home from school and sometimes her mother -- my grandmother -- would watch with them.  They all had their favorite dance couples and were as much interested in them as the singing acts.  On weekends they would drop by the record store and buy their latest favorites. She recalls that her sister worked part-time as a waitress in a diner for 25¢ an hour plus tips and a 45 record cost 69¢, so she had to work an hour or so to buy one record that contained two songs. But she and her friends would share records, have record parties and that sort of thing so they always had access to the latest tunes from Fabian, Tab Hunter, the Diamonds and all their ginchy faves.

She was also crazy about horses and followed horse racing with a passion.  Her all-time favorite was Tim Tam, who won the Preakness and the Kentucky Derby in 1958 and almost won the Belmont but suffered an injury on the home stretch when he was leading and finished second, thus losing the Triple Crown.  His loss almost broke my mom's heart.  Little girls and horses, huh?  Her favorite book in those days was a Weekly Reader Children's Book Club selection, Old Bones by Mildred Pace, about the fabulous and beloved race horse Exterminator, who ran 100 races and won 50, including the 1915 Kentucky Derby, where he was a 50 to 1 long shot.  I've read that very same book that she did and loved it, too.  Who could not?  And about Old Bones, as Exterminator was nicknamed, author Abigail Anderson writes, "The great horse lived to the ripe old age of 30. A kind, gentle and charismatic individual, Exterminator was cherished by his fans throughout his long life. School children visited him on his birthday and a book was written about him for adolescents. He was part of the culture, part of what it meant to be American."  Over the top?  Not in the wonderful Old America that was and is now only a fading memory, to be reached out and grasped for in vain by those of us who have heard its siren call in myth and legend and do so long for it.