Domestic bliss

It's nice to have a man in the house.  It makes it more of a home.  The boys are much calmer now, too.  I'm not sure why, but it's clear they need adult male supervision.  Want it, too.  That's a relief for me.  El jefe gave both boys woodcarving sets for Christmas and he's been teaching them how to use them. They are absolutely absorbed in learning and doing.  It never would have occurred to me to buy them woodcarving knives.  I  could envision them slicing a finger open or even cutting one off.  But with Jeff showing them how to use them and teaching them safe and careful techniques, I don't worry.
 I am very definitely in a family way these days.  I've even moved to a downstairs bedroom to avoid the risk of a fall on the stairs. It's funny: Last year at this time, I was forced to sit rigid in a chair while my broken ribs and bruised and abused thigh and knee healed and this year I have to take it easy because I'm expecting.  So no horseback riding, no skating, skiing, mountain climbing, backpacking...no nothing. Even dancing is out. For the second year in a row.  Oh, well.  Last year it was just to get back to normal.  This year it is to move on to a new -- if familiar -- stage in life, one that I am anticipating.  And also worry about. But I'll manage.  At least, I have in the past.

Aviat Husky

One thing I've gotten out of all the flying I did was the realization that I don't have to drive anywhere that is a serious distance from here, as I did when I went to Gotham City Jr. for various reasons.  I could have just flown there, but it never occurred to me. Not that I plan to visit that burg unless necessary.  I'm just saying.  In fact, now I realize that if I want to enjoy a top-notch orchestra or play or dance band, I can just fly to wherever they are, very likely in less time that it took to drive to GCJ.  I ought to get checked out in our Aviat Husky, though, for shorter trips, or should I need to fly to somewhere there is no air strip, perhaps for some emergency.  It's slower than the Beech, but it can land and take off from practically anywhere, and it uses a lot less gas.  Of course, that will have to wait.  Maybe next year.

Speaking of aviation gasoline, I had to meet with our accountant to discuss whether any of the trips I took in the Beech were tax deductible, specifically ranch business related.  Alas, very few were.  About all that could be done was list depreciation on the airplane, if I understood correctly: all that accounting stuff is Greek to me.  The accountant asked me if there was any way I could reduce the fuel consumption of the plane.  Ditto oil consumption.  He shook his head at the figures I gave him: average fuel burned is 40 gallons per hour, oil, a quart an hour per engine.   I pointed out that the fuel consumption equaled around five miles per gallon which is about equivalent to that of a truck that can carry the same payload.  I checked and the EPA says such a truck gets its best mileage at 30 mph, while the Beech gets its best mileage at many times that speed.  So if time is money the Beech pays for itself.  I invited him to go for a ride sometime but he declined, saying he got airsick easily.

My cousin, whom I've mentioned that I talked out of joining the Navy (or so I thought), and who now works around the ranch, tells me that he has decided that he wants to join the Merchant Marine and has applied to the US Merchant Marine Academy. I checked out the Academy and it seems graduates have an obligation to serve five years active duty in the armed forces, I assume the Navy, or eight years in the reserves.  Well, I tried.  If that's what he wants to do, the career he wants to pursue, I will do what I can to help him succeed.  The Academy seems like a very good engineering school, tuition is free (because of that service obligation) from what I understand. One of the four years of instruction is spent entirely at sea on commercial or naval ships as a cadet. Graduates have the rank of midshipman and are guaranteed a good job in an important profession.  Well, he wanted to go to sea and he's figured out a way to do it without directly joining the Navy.  On reflection, I think it's a good way to establish the career he wants. He is one smart cookie to have figured out this way to achieve his aim, taking into consideration what I told him about how things are in the services under present circumstances. He asked me for a recommendation letter to his congressman. I was happy to supply it and suggested he ask my father for one, too. A lesson I take away from this, or more accurately a reinforcement of a lesson I long ago learned, is that you can't dissuade a person from doing what he wants to do.  He will find a way somehow, no matter what your advice, concerns or cautions may be.  So it's best just to hold your peace.

While talking to my cousin, I was surprised to learn that he has never seen the ocean. Thinking about it, I realized that at his age, living in the inter-mountain and high plains west, he's not really had a chance.  Yet he is enamored of the sea and loves ships and can't wait to sail away to distant shores.  I lent him my copy of Away All Boats by Kenneth Dodson (lieutenant then lieutenant commander during the war years), about an attack transport serving in the Pacific Theater during World War II.  I told him it was the best book I know to understand what it's like to serve aboard a ship, particularly in foul weather, to understand the power and danger of the sea, even in good weather, what is required to be a good naval officer, to appreciate what the ratings do and what difficulties, personal and professional, they face, and what kind of emotional stresses serving in a responsible position aboard ship, even when not in a war zone, place on one. 

APA-50 USS Pierce, the ship Dodson served aboard.

The novel also helps to understand the difficulties encountered and skills required to operate and navigate both small boats and ships effectively and safely.  I told him he should not just read the book, but study it. By the way, Dodson was close friends with Carl Sandburg, who mentored him as a writer and made him a character in his only novel, Remembrance Rock.  In the acknowledgements, he wrote of Dodson, "We could put in bronze the name of Lieutenant Commander Kenneth MacKenzie Dodson, executive officer of a Navy attack transport, a true mariner and a man of rare faith in the American dream." The collection of the letters they exchanged, The Poet and the Sailor, is well worth reading.  (Incidentally, William Manchester thought Away All Boats was so good that he looted portions of it to use in Good-bye Darkness.)

“Consider the subtleness of the sea; how its most dreaded creatures glide under water, unapparent for the most part, and treacherously hidden beneath the loveliest tints of azure. Consider also the devilish brilliance and beauty of many of its most remorseless tribes, as the dainty embellished shape of many species of sharks. Consider, once more, the universal cannibalism of the sea; all whose creatures prey upon each other, carrying on eternal war since the world began.
Consider all this; and then turn to the green, gentle, and most docile earth; consider them both, the sea and the land; and do you not find a strange analogy to something in yourself? For as this appalling ocean surrounds the verdant land, so in the soul of man there lies one insular Tahiti, full of peace and joy, but encompassed by all the horrors of the half-known life. God keep thee! Push not off from that isle, thou canst never return!”
― Herman Melville, Moby Dick

 

 

And now for something completely different

 An encore post from July 16, 2021.  Art appreciation, a history lesson, radio commentator Paul Harvey forecasting today's world almost 60 years ago, a smokin' piano playing good old rock and roll, politics and a joke.

 

 Art you can hear

 

A more difficult target

 

 

This explains
why it has become
harder and harder
for men to take
a flying fuck
at a rolling donut.

 

A warning from 1965

Happy feet from 1957

 

 Oh, can't you just shut up?!

 

 

Made me laff!

A guy walks into a bar with an alligator.
The bartender flips out and says, "Hey buddy, you gotta get that thing out of here. It's going to bite one of my customers." 
The guy says, "No, no, it's a tame alligator. I'll prove it to you." 
He picks up the alligator and puts it on the bar. Then he unzips his pants, pulls out his dick and sticks it in the alligator's mouth. The alligator just keeps his mouth open. 
After about five minutes, he pulls his dick out of the alligator's mouth, zips up his pants and says, "See, I told you it was a tame alligator. Anybody else want to try it?" 
The drunk down at the end of the bar says, "Yah, I'd like to try it, but I don't think I can hold my mouth open that long!" 

 

 

A lost day

"I only get scared when I don’t know what to do."
~ Richard Bach

In the days when I was running around fetching things for my sick parents, kids and the ranch I put a lot of hours on the Beech and, of course, one day the inevitable happened.  I lost an engine on climb out.  Oh, it didn't frag itself or catch fire or just quit.  All it did was tell me it had a problem and I'd better take care of it, pronto.

I was climbing out of our home airport (not the ranch strip) climbing easily at 2000 rpm and 28 inches and had passed 4,000 feet when the right engine began running rough.  My first thought was ice and turned on manifold heat.  That did nothing. Thinking it might be bad gas, I switched fuel tanks.  That did nothing.

Okay, I've got a problem.  I leveled off and shut the sputtering engine down, remembering as I went through the steps the rule: No Fast Hands in the Cockpit; easy does it.  I closed the throttle, feathered the propeller (repeating to myself right prop, right prop to make sure I didn't inadvertently feather the left prop), set mixture to idle cut-off, turned the right engine fuel selector switch to off, opened the cowl flaps, turned the right engine ignition off, pushed closed the oil shutter button, turned the right generator switch off, verified the right engine boost pump was off, turned the fuel cross-handle to off, checked that the operating left engine fuel mixture was rich, verified the fuel switch for it was set to the left front wing tank, and added power to maintain altitude.  While I was doing all this I was managing yaw with the rudders. Once the engines were handled, I trimmed the airplane so it flew straight and level.  When this was established, I made a gradual, shallow turn to the left, into the operating engine, and headed back to the airfield, scanning the ground for places to set down should I not be able to make the landing strip. 

Once I was steady on the return course and in full flight-path control, I closed the cowl flaps to reduce drag (I'd opened them to put cool air on the suddenly shut-down engine so it wouldn't overheat).  Then I got on the radio and announced my situation and intention to land, requesting any traffic to clear the area as I was going to be executing a wide left-hand pattern.  I got a response from a student pilot doing touch-and-goes in a Tomahawk asking what he should do.  I was busy with the airplane and didn't respond right away. I heard Randy, the A&P guy, who had a radio in his shop, get on the horn asking me what was wrong.  I ignored him because I'd already said all necessary about that and needed to focus on flying the airplane.  He should know that.  Then I heard the FBO, who also had a radio in his office, telling the student pilot to fly to a certain landmark and orbit it until told it was clear to re-enter the pattern.  The student acknowledged, saying where he was in the pattern and that he was departing, giving his heading.  I appreciated that and thanked him.  Otherwise, I stayed off the radio and attended to what I had to do.

When I had the runway in sight, I went through the pre-traffic pattern checklist:  radioed and verified with the FBO the altimeter setting, wind direction and speed, checked that the gyros were set and uncaged, turned the fuel-booster switch for the left engine on, verified the  mixture was full rich and the fuel tank selector switch was on left front, locked the tail wheel and made sure the parking brake was off.  I entered the traffic pattern at 1,000 feet and 90 knots, prop 2200 rpm, making 2-degree banks into the left engine.  When I turned on to final I reduced speed to 85 knots, dropped the landing gear, checked the gear position indicators, leaned forward and looked out the window to verify the gear was down and pushed in the landing gear control circuit breaker. Then I adjusted elevator trim. On short final I lowered the flaps to full down, reduced speed to 70 knots, again adjusted elevator trim and centered rudder trim. Just before contact I cut power, flared the glide and we touched down as gently as a butterfly. I let the plane roll out at its leisure as I let myself relax.  I realized I had been pretty tense keeping the helmet fire, as the Marines called combat panic, under control.  Suddenly, I was sweating and I opened the cockpit window.

I began doing everything very deliberately, perhaps as a way to ease off the adrenaline focus I had been in.  I raised the flaps, opened the cowl flaps, adjusted the oil shutter, unlocked the tail wheel, and taxied to my parking spot.  There I took my time doing the post-flight engine check -- verifying the function of the ignition switch, idle speed, mixture controls, etc. Once done, I shut down the engine: mixture lever to idle cut-off, throttle to full open after the engine stopped, ignition switch off. Then I turned off the battery switches and the instrument inverter switch. I caged the gyros, set the turn-and-bank power selector switch to normal, verified that the flaps were up, the left engine fuel selector was off, and all light switches off. I filled out the squawk sheet in firm square letters. Then I locked the flight controls and tail wheel, set the parking brake, unbuckled my harness, and climbed out of the cockpit.  I stood for a minute in the cabin, resting a hand on the back of a seat, reviewing the incident.  I was satisfied with my actions and glad to be back on the ground without having bent the airplane.  I stepped outside.

Randy was already at the plane and asked if I was okay, kind of an odd question since it was the airplane that needed looking to, but I understood his sentiment and said, yeah, I was fine. Then I explained why I shut the engine down and after checking the engine to see whether any oil or fuel was leaking, he trotted off to bring his tools.

By this time the FBO had come over and asked me the same question as Randy and I gave the same answer. 

Walking over to the right engine and scrutinizing it, he said, "It looks fine to me. What was the problem?"

"Engine suddenly began to run rough so I shut it down and came home."

"Best thing to do.  I would have done it.  By the way, that was a beautiful landing."

"Thanks."

Randy, back with his tools, was already removing the cowling and the FBO gave him a hand.  I stood and watched.  I realized I was thirsty.  When they got the cowl off, Randy studied the engine carefully, cylinder by cylinder, pushrod by pushrod.  He inspected the exhaust plumbing, the intake.... He couldn't find anything wrong.

"Well, I don't know," he said, "but you might have a fouled plug or two.  Let me pull them and see." 

He began removing and inspecting the spark plugs. One okay, two okay, three okay, four okay, five....

"Well, looky here!  We've got a cracked spark plug tip.  Insulator's damaged. I see some burn char.  It's good you shut the engine down as quickly as you did.  You were probably starting to get pre-ignition.  I'll pull the rest of the plugs to make sure, but this is probably your culprit.  I'm going to have to borescope the cylinder, check out the valves, valve seats, piston, cylinder walls.  I'll get my Snap-On."

"You're what?"

"My Snap-On.  That's just the brand name of my 'scope."

"Okay.  I hate to ask, but how long is this going to take?  Am I going to have to arrange for somebody to come and pick me up and leave the airplane here overnight?"

"Oh, no.  It shouldn't take that long, just this one cylinder.  I know this engine in and out anyway so I'm pretty confident she's okay, considering what you told me about what happened and how quickly you shut her down.  But if I should find some piston or valve damage or something, then that's a different story.  Why don't you go get a cup of coffee and I'll let you know what's what as soon as I've done the inspection."

Seeing the dismayed look on my face, he said, "Don't worry! I won't be long and I will have good news for you, pretty sure."

"How sure?"

"Seventy-five percent sure."

Sigh.  "Okay."

"Now let me get to work.  Sooner started sooner finished."

I walked over to the burger shack in a gloomy mood.  I wondered if I should assume the worst and call somebody now to come and pick me up.  It would be a long drive, hours, if somebody started right now.  And maybe no one was available, with dad so sick and mom not really up to making a long drive and everybody off working.  I guess I might have to stay in one of those crash pads next to the burger shack.  I could see now why they had them.  For times like this.  Maybe I should just accept that I was stuck here overnight. And dad needed his prescription that I was flying out to get.  Crap, crap, crap.

I let the door screen door bang closed behind me and sat down on a stool at the counter.  I wasn't hungry but I was really thirsty.

Butch took a look at my face and said, "You don't look too happy.  Trouble?"

"Yeah.  The stupid airplane."  And I explained.

"That's tough," Butch said, "But Randy's a good mechanic.  He knows his stuff and if he said you've got a good chance of no damage, you've got a good chance."

"I guess."

"By the way, I saw that landing you did.  Sweet."

"Thanks."

"So do you want me to fix you something?"

"Yeah.  Give me a beer."

"You don't drink! At least I've never seen you drink."

"I'm starting today."

Butch laughed.  "One Big Sky coming up.  Compliments of the house!"

He fetched a can of beer, got a root beer mug and poured the beer into it, tipping the mug so not much foam formed. I took a sip.  Cold and bitter. Then a long drink.  Now I really understood what people meant by a thirst quencher.  It quenched mine.  I took another drink.

"You better slow down," Butch said.  "You're not used to that."

"Yeah. Okay. You're right."

"Let me fix you something.  Anything you want.  Just name it."

"Hmm.  Chicken and waffles, Pennsylvania Dutch style!"

"I can do that for you.  Sure!  I'll have some, too."

And with that Butch got busy.  He mixed waffle batter from scratch, no Egg-Os, poured enough for two into the big waffle maker, took a roast chicken out of the refrigerator, sliced off a nice amount of white meat and shredded it, took out a container of chicken gravy from the fridge he assured me he had made fresh last evening, as well as some mashed potatoes, heated them all in the microwave.  When the waffles were done, he put them on plates, topped them with the shredded chicken, added a dollop of potatoes on the side and drizzled gravy over them.

"Here you go, Wanda, on me.  Dig in!"

The meal was delicious and Butch and I chatted as we ate.  It felt almost cozy, just the two of us, no other customers at this time of the day.  With  some good food and a beer in me, I was feeling better.

As we were finishing up our meal we heard a plane coming in to land.  Both of us went over to the door to see.  It was a Tomahawk, doubtless the one piloted by the student doing touch-and-goes when I called in my status. He came in high and fast, touching down about halfway along the runway, bouncing once.  He taxied over to the Beech and parked beside it, jumped out, strode over to where Randy and the FBO were and began waving his arms.  We could hear him yelling.  Butch and I stepped outside to see and hear better.  It seems the guy had circled and circled, waiting to hear it was clear for him to come in and land.  He radioed repeatedly but got no response, so finally he just came in.  The hour he'd intended to practice take-offs and landings was wasted and how could he just be left out there like that and, by God, he was not going to pay for renting the plane and double by God this was the last time they would ever see him. They'd lost a customer and he would tell the world why.  The FBO tried to calm him down at first them got mad himself, waving at the Beech and saying something about an emergency.

I heard a car pull up and in a minute a man came up on the porch.

"Hi, Butch," he said, then, glancing over at the hand wavers, asked what was going on. 

"Hi, Rog. Some sort of disagreement, looks like."

"Isn't that Duane over there with Randy?  And who's the other guy?"

Duane? I thought.  Duane?  So that was the FBO's first name.  I never knew it.

"Oh, some student pilot.  He was practicing in the Tomahawk."

"What's the fuss about?"

"I don't know.  All I see and hear is what you do."

All this time Randy kept working on my plane.  I was pleased to see that.  But I began to worry again.

"Who owns the twin?" Rog asked.  Don't think I've seen one like it before. Is it an old Lockheed?

"No, it's a Beech.  I don't think there are any Lockheeds around any more unless they've found Amelia Earhart's."

"Funny guy.  So whose is it?"

"It's hers," Butch said, nodding his head towards me.

"Hers?" Rog said, glancing my way, his first acknowledgment  of my existence.  "Oh, come on! No, really, whose is it?"

"I told you it was hers."

"Okay, sure, fine. Don't tell me."

"You want something to eat  or did you just drop by to wag your jaw?"

"Yeah, yeah. Gimme a chili burger.  And some Cole slaw."

"Okay.  Come on."

They went inside.  I heard Rog say, "It's too bad you guys don't have a liquor license. I could use a beer with that burger."

"Yeah, well, we don't want to attract the beer joint clientele," Butch told him.  So Rog wasn't a favored regular.  

I walked down the porch to the end and sat on the steps, watching Randy work.  The argument between the student pilot and Duane had subsided somewhat.  They were talking but not yelling.  As I watched, the student pilot turned and walked away toward me and the parking lot.  Duane looked after him and shrugged, then went over to watch what Randy was doing.  

The student pilot looked at me as he passed by.  I smiled.  He snarled, "I guess you think I'm a lousy pilot, too.  Well, what do you know about flying?  Fuck all of you!"  So I wasn't the only one having a bad day.

I got up and walked back up the porch to the old Coke machine, bought a can and sat down on the porch swing.  I saw the FBO -- Duane -- walking over.  He stepped up on the porch and paused, his breathing noticeably heavy. He looked at me and said, "I'm getting too old for this.  It's not good for my blood pressure.  I should retire."

"Did you get everything worked out with that guy?"

"Yeah.  He was right.  I just forgot about him.  I told him I wouldn't charge him for the rental, but he was still mad.  Said he'd never be back and I was a lousy so-and-so."

 "He used more colorful language than that, I bet."

Duane smiled, some of the exhaustion leaving his face.  "That he did.  I need a beer." He turned toward the screen door.

"Butch has an unfavored customer."

"Oh.  Well, I guess I'll settle for a Coke.  You want one?"

"Got one, thanks."

"Oh, right.  Sorry.  I guess I'm still rattled.  I don't like being yelled at, especially when I deserve it."

"Come sit by me and take a load off." I patted the bench.

"Oh, I'd like to, Wanda, but I really need to get back to work.  Probably somebody's been calling on the radio for an hour."

"Okay."

"Oh, by the way, Randy says things are looking good. He hasn't found any damage and is about through."

"Oh, great!  That's great.  It really is."

"Okay, see you later.  And I'll say again that was a great landing.  You're dad would be proud.  How is he, by the way?"

"He's getting better.  It's just going to take a while."

"Good to hear that.  Tell him I said to get his sorry hind end out of bed and come down and see me.  Give my best to your mother, too."

"I'll be sure to do that."

He walked down the porch, his  gait like that of John Wayne in The Shootist.  

Inside the shack I could hear Rog telling Butch about this scheming propane dealer telling him he had to replace his propane tank because it was more than 20 years old and not safe.  "He won't deliver propane until I replace the tank and guess what?  He's the only guy in my area who sells propane tanks!  Wouldn't you know it. He's six kinds of Saturday night bastard, the bastard!" 

I stopped listening and gave my attention to Randy.  He was standing on a step ladder head bent down peering at his gadget, giving an endoscopy to my airplane.  He was not working on the original cylinder, though.  I didn't like that.  It boded ill.  Or so I imagined.

As I gloomily watched Randy work, two men came up on the porch and went into the shack. "What can I get you gents?" I heard Butch ask.  

"I'll have a filly nig-nog," said one, "Or if you ain't got that, how about a New York stripper or a T-girl boner."

"I can get you a baloney sandwich," Butch said.  "To go.  Mustard will cost you extra.  And how about you, fella," apparently addressing the other man, "I can get you a PBJ."

"He's a PBJ man, all right," said the original talker.  "Pussy, butts and jugs!"

"Oh, shut up, Jack!" the other man said.  "Give me a burger, medium."

"You want cheese on it?"

"No."

"Fries?"

"No.  You got potato salad?"

"Sure.  What to drink?"

"Whata you got?"

"Coke, root beer, ice tea, lemonade, water." 

"Ice tea."

"How about you, bud? You want something or --"

"Gimme a cheeseburger and fries with a Coke."

"How do you want it?"

"On a plate."

"Don't pay attention to him," the other  man said.  "He thinks he's funny. Make his medium, too."

I saw Randy climb off his step ladder and head my way, so I stood up, stepped off the porch and walked over to meet him. I wanted to know the verdict, good or bad.

"Good news, Wanda.  No damage to the cylinder, piston, ring seats or valves.  You shut her down in good time. I checked the plugs and borescoped all the other cylinders just to be safe and they are all okay, but I recommend replacing all the spark plugs on that engine and the other engine, too, just to be safe."

"Okay. How long will that take?"

"Not long.  My worry is that whoever installed the plugs used a single-contact gap tool when he set the spark gap so you have to rotate the plug to gap each side individually  That can be okay but it risks side loading the center electrode which can cause the insulator to crack. I think that's what happened  here.  Now maybe this bad plug," and he showed it to me; it looked ugly, "is the only one that happened to, but you can't always see the crack.  There could be others that just haven't let go yet.  So I recommend replacing all the plugs. I've got a Champion gap setting tool that won't side load the electrode so you won't have to worry."

"Okay.  Can you get right to it?"

"Sure.  Give me another hour and I think we can get her done."

"Another hour?"

"Yeah. You don't want to have to do an encore performance of today's drama, do you?"

"I'll wait."

"I'm on it!  By the way, where did you have these plugs installed?"

"Um....  I think it was Burlington --"

"Where's that?

"Vermont."

Huh.  I didn't know you were in Vermont. That's clear across the country."

"-- or maybe it was Glasgow."

"Is that in Vermont, too?"

"No. Scotland."

"Where's Scotland?  You don't mean the country Scotland do you?"

"Yep."

"You were in Scotland with this airplane?  My God, Wanda.  That's crazy.  Scotland's on the other side of the world.  Across the ocean."

"Yep."

Randy shook his head.  "This is a good airplane, but crossing an ocean...I don't know...."

"I won't do it again.  I promise."

Randy laughed.  "Okay, then.  I'll get to work now.  I should have you out of here in an hour or so.  You just take it easy."

I stood on the ramp watching him head back to his shop.  I looked at the Beech. "Hey, airplane," I said.  I don't know why.  Then I walked back to the burger shack porch and sat down on the bench swing, picking up my Coke from where I'd set it and took a sip.  Another hour....

I finished my Coke, went to the little girl's room and dawdled, went back to the porch swing and sat down, got up, opened the door to go into the burger shack but saw a half-dozen or more customers and Butch busy, so I closed the door and went back to the swing. I sat looking at nothing and without being aware of it, dozed off.

I woke up when an older couple sat down in the Adirondack chairs with their take-out meals, chicken tenders wrapped in pita bread, french fries and Cole slaw. The woman smiled at me and said it was too crowded inside so they decided to eat on the porch.

"Is that mayonnaise on your sandwich?" I asked.

"No, it's tartar sauce.  It doesn't sound like it would be good but it is.  My husband put ketchup on his, but he's a barbarian.  Aren't all men?"

"That's been my experience. And lewd ones."

"Oh, don't I know it!  The mister here plants his eyes on every skirt that passes by."

"Jeans and shorts and yoga pants, too," interjected her husband. "But I really like looking at girls with nice racks."

"Oh, Sam!"

"Well, that's all I do, look, so don't complain.  It's too much trouble to do anything more."

"As if you could!"

"Even if I could, I wouldn't bother.  I just enjoy the scenery. Same as I enjoy looking at these airplanes" -- he waved a hand toward the flight line -- "but have no desire to fly one."

Randy stepped up on the end of the porch and I thought he was coming to talk to me but he went into the FBO's office. I looked at my watch. Over three hours had passed. The couple were yammering on but I had stopped listening.  In a few minutes Randy came out and walked toward me just as the woman asked me, "Don't you agree?" and, although I had no idea what she was referring to, I said, "Of course. Everyone knows that's true."

"Well, I don't!" said her husband. "It's stupid. Only an idiot could think like that -- no offense, lady."  I scarcely heard him because my attention was fixed on Randy.

"Okay, Wanda," Randy said, wiping the back of his hand across his nose, which was dripping, leaving a black grease smudge across his face, "All done. She's ready for a test drive."

"You come with, okay?"

"Oh!" Randy seemed surprised.  "You want me to come on the test flight?"

"You bet.  Right in the pointy end with me."

"Gosh.  Okay.  Just let me clean up.  I'll meet you at the plane."

Before we took off we did ground checks on the engines, taxied back and forth, and only then did we leap into the wild blue yonder.  Everything tested out fine, the engines just humming.  Randy admitted he rarely got to fly and was having a great time. I did some steep banks doing tight figure eights which had him laughing and gripping the sides of his seat. He wanted me to fly over his house, which was about 10 miles from the airport. I circled it a couple of times while he snapped photos with his cell. Then I dropped him off at the airfield without shutting down the engines and took off immediately.  I calculated how much daylight I had and figured there was just enough time to get dad's necessaries and get home in time to land before dark. 

The flight to Destination City was uneventful, something I'd grown to expect but now was grateful for. I borrowed a beater car from the FBO to drive to the pharmacy...where there was a long line of people waiting for their prescriptions.  I stood in line for 40 minutes before my turn came.  Then they only had one prescription ready.  They'd forgotten about the other one, so I had to wait again, but this time only for about 15 minutes before they called my name.  

Looking at the time, I realized I was not going to make it home before dark.  I thought about just giving up and getting a room here and flying back tomorrow morning.  But I don't like to stay alone in a hotel or motel where everybody knows I've checked in alone and....  I'm too chicken to do that.  It was a clear night but no moon until after 8 pm when a gibbous moon would rise.  It would be "moon noon" six hours later.  Having once landed at our airstrip by starlight and moonlight I thought I should be able to do it again.  If I didn't like the look of things, I would just return here and sleep in the plane.  The FBO has a security guard on duty all night, and there's airport security so it should be safe.  So I decided to spend time in the city until the moon rose well up then make my try.

So I went shopping.  I browsed in a Target and a Michaels and bought some notions, possibles and whatnots. I bought some groceries at a supermarket.  I found a used bookstore and discovered it had a whole shelf of old Pelican paperbacks that I sifted through, finally selecting to buy Man, on His Nature by Sir Charles Sherrington, who at one time held the Chair of Physiology at Oxford.  I knew him from his classic Integrative Action of the Nervous System, which I read in high school. He delivered the Gifford Lectures on Natural Theology at Edinburgh University in 1938. In these, he examined human consciousness, mind and brain, as biological phenomena. Man, on His Nature is the book form of these. I also bought The Prehistory of East Africa by Sonia Cole because when I started reading it I became engrossed, so I wanted to finish it.  Both books were ancient, and long out of date, but I like old books and learning what people knew and believed in by-gone days. 

I spent more time in the book store than I did anywhere else; in fact, they shooed me out because they were closing, and by the time I stepped outside it was time to head to the airport. I got pulled over by a cop on the way because one of my tail lights was out.  I had a time explaining about the car registration not being in my name and was getting exasperated until I realized he was just using that as an excuse to chat me up.  He was probably bored.  Anyway, he ended up giving me a warning ticket.

At the airport, the FBO was closed but the security guard opened the gate for me and let me drive out to my plane to unload my goodies and stow them aboard.  He rode along with me and drove the car back.  I took a photo of him with the car as proof I'd returned the car undamaged in his care and sent it to the FBO with a note about the tail light.  

In the plane cabin, I made myself a cup of coffee before climbing into the cockpit. By this time, the moon was well up, so I took off with high hopes that I'd be able to land at our airstrip.  I climbed to 8,000 feet as I circled the city, enjoying the view of the spider web of lights sprawling below me, then pointed the old freight dog, as Jim the cropduster called the Beech, homeward.  I always enjoyed flying on a clear, calm night, with the stars spangling the sky in their myriads. It felt cozy in the cockpit with the heater on, the glowing lights of the instrument panel, the drone of the Wasps, and outside the whole universe in its amazing gorgeousness displaying itself just for me.  I sipped my coffee and lived the moments as they passed.

Too soon my reverie ended as the lights of the ranch came into view. I picked out the hanger and beside it, clearly visible in the bright moonlight, was the runway.  I flew an extended pattern to get a feel for the relation of the airplane to the airstrip and to set up a slow, constant rate of descent.  Flying a wide pattern also enabled me to line up with the runway from a good distance away so that I had more time to note any drift and adjust my approach for it. I kept power on all the way to more easily reduce my rate of descent by quickly adding power if I need to, especially during the flare-out when I was judging my distance from the ground and might not have it just right.  When I did flare, thinking I had the touch-down nailed, I pulled back power.  But the wheels contacted the runway about a second before I thought they would, so we hit -- and that's the appropriate word -- with a solid, bone-jarring thud.  But we didn't bounce and stayed glued to the runway for a long roll-out.  I was reminded of the time I'd made a hard landing some years ago at a remote field under difficult conditions and one of my passengers called out, "Did we land or were we shot down?"

I taxied up to the hanger, expecting somebody to be there to greet me, but there was no one.  Well, it was late and I had told them that if I was delayed and it got too late I would just stay in town for the night.  I'd forgotten to call to say I was on my way.  I was too tired to fool with getting the airplane into the hanger so I just chocked it and tied it down. Then I climbed back into the cabin and tried to figure out how I was going to get everything I bought home.  I was going to have to hoof it up to the house, a good half mile.  I decided to leave everything in the plane except dad's prescriptions and the two paperbacks I'd bought.  As I stepped out of the airplane and closed and latched the door I heard a car driving down the road from the house.  It was my mother, looking a little sleepy and dressed only in her nightgown and robe.

"I thought you were staying overnight in the city," she said, "otherwise I would have been here waiting for you."

"I forgot to call. My bad."

"Oh, it's not your bad. You've had a tough day.  Let me make you coffee when we get back to the house and you can tell me all about it."

"I've got some groceries and things in the plane.  Let me get those and then we can go."

I reflected that it had, indeed, been one memorable day, after its own fashion, one I wouldn't care to repeat.  But all had ended well and I was back home safe and sound.  Nothing more could happen unless we had a flat tire on the drive to the house. I half expected we would, considering how this day had gone.

But we didn't.

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.