Chitchat

When I was running around in the Beech last fall, one day I got to chatting with Duane, the FBO at our local airport.  I'd said something about how it was possible to carry out IFR flying in difficult conditions using just the Beech's ancient basic instruments -- an old style attitude indicator that had to be caged (locked) if pitch and roll became extreme, altimeter, vertical speed indicator, airspeed indicator, turn and bank indicator, heading indicator and whiskey (magnetic) compass, but that I wished that we had an updated panel with modern instruments, including Strike Finder or StormScope and all sorts of other goodies, including for fuel and engine management.

I mentioned my father had talked about upgrading the cockpit gizmos, including installing weather radar, something like the Garmin GWX-8000 with Doppler, wind sheer and turbulence detection and ground clutter suppression.  I surely would love to have that.  We were flying the bug smasher with instruments Jimmy Doolittle would have conducted the first blind flight with back in 1929. That seemed dumb to me, considering all that was available today.

"You tell your dad we can install all of that and whatever else he wants right here.  And I'll make sure he gets a special price, too," Duane said.

"Gonna overcharge us, huh?"

"Oh, Wanda! I wouldn't do that to an old friend and a long-time customer."

"Kidding."

"Seriously, your dad can trust us to do a good job in a timely fashion at a fair price.  If you go somewhere else you don't even know if they can work on that plane and if they can it might be a year -- and that's no exaggeration -- before you get it back.  We'll just order what you want and install it.  Also tell your dad that if he is upgrading the panel he should seriously consider upgrading the engines -- I mean, you've still got generators and carburetors on that old-timer.  Think what fuel injection and electronic ignition would do for  reliability and performance, and alternators... -- oh, right I was thinking of mentioning to your dad that he ought to install Hoerner wing tips.  They really would improve performance and handing.  You just can't spin a plane with Hoerner wing tips."

"I wasn't planning to spin it.  I don't think that's on dad's 'to do' list, either."

"Well, you know what I mean.  The tips make the plane more stable.  Think about that in IFR turbulence."

"Okay, you sold it to me.  Now sell it to dad. And you know what else I'd like?  One of those laser landing height systems, one coupled to a gear-up warning -- not that I would ever land with the gear up or not be able to judge my landings" -- cough -- "but, you know, just in case."  I was thinking, but didn't say, that I'd like a gear-up warning that didn't just sound a horn but one that would bellow in the voice of Ron Lee Ermey, "Hey, numbnuts, lower the fucking landing gear!"  Being in the Navy and serving alongside Marines endears that sort of exhortation to you.

"Whatever you guys want, we can order and install."

I sensed a bit of eager urgency in Duane's pitch and, looking around the rather bleak airport with no aircraft in the pattern, only one employee besides Duane, Randy, the A&P guy and all-around service provider and some occasional part-timers and hanger monkeys I'd seen around -- of course, there was Butch, who ran the diner, but he wasn't involved with airport operations -- I realized that this was an airport on the edge of extinction.  I'd never thought about it before.  The airport had always been here.  Duane had always run it as far back as I could remember, but recalling visits here in years past, it seemed that it had once been much  busier.  I asked Duane about it.

"Oh, yeah.  We were doing gangbusters before Covid."

Duane explained that there were tourists flying in in summer as well as the ag business and in the fall came the hunters and fishermen in season.  In addition, there were plenty of locals, especially the ranchers  with their own planes who serviced them with him. Aircraft from government agencies like the Forest Service, Department of Agriculture, occasionally ICE or other law enforcement, contract firefighters, even some National Guard flights also stopped by for fuel, sometimes maintenance or to have a bite to eat and take a bathroom break. 

"I had three full-time A&P guys doing maintenance, repairs, annuals, plus a couple of helpers for them and a dedicated fuel service man, line service technicians, customer service lady and two or three ramp apes. Let me think who else we had....  Well, some others. I had two or three CFIs that kept busy.  When they weren't instructing they offered scenic flights.  They did pretty well.  We talked about setting up a skydiving operation but never got around to it."

Duane said the restaurant was also doing a great business before the lockdowns.  He had a cook, cook's helper, two waitresses, a busboy and dishwasher and a cashier.  The two rooms that are now crash pads for rare overnighters used to be one big dining room. It had a little stage for local musicians or whatever else.  A poetry reading group used to meet there. Duane recalled a young woman reciting in dramatic fashion a poem about Bonnie Parker.  She was so good all the diners stopped eating to listen to her, then gave her an ovation. There was a local drama group that acted out plays. It all brought people in. 

"But then with the Covid lockdown everything came to a stop.  Airport business dropped off a cliff and it's just never really come back."

The restaurant suddenly had no customers. No locals, no tourists, no fly-ins.  Duane had to let everyone go and closed it.  He converted the dining room to sleepovers just for something to do, really, and to maybe get some income when the motel down the road also had to close.  

"You remember -- that one at Cool Springs that Tom H___ had with the kids' playground, curiosities museum, souvenir store and cafe?  He got pretty near wiped out by the Covid thing." Tom converted the motel to monthly rentals, which is all that saved him, Duane said, since they filled up pretty quickly.  There's not much in the way of cheap rental units out here.  

"That's where Jim lives, you know.  He does when he's here in the summer, anyway. Tom's dad started that place with a bait shop after he got out of the service in the Sixties."  He got drafted but lucked out, Duane said, getting stationed in Germany rather than being sent to Vietnam.  His brother joined the Marines, wanting to see some action, but he was trained as an air traffic controller and spent his enlistment at Yuma and never left the States.  "He worked here when he first got out and came home, but after a while he left, I think it was in..., huh, I can't remember.

"What was I saying?  Well, anyway, Tom closed the bait shop, the souvenir shop, general store and everything. You know the place I'm talking about, right?  A few miles down the road."

"Oh, yeah," I said, "My aunt Viola was the manager of the cafe and store for a long time.  She started working there after her husband died. Her daughter worked as a waitress summers when she was in high school."

"I remember Viola! Sure.  And was that her daughter Hester or ... oh, what was her name?  Roxanne!  Oh, course, Roxanne. She was the pretty one.  She could have been a movie star."

"It was Hester."

"I should have remembered that.  Well, anyway, Tom has a Navion that he hangers here.  He inherited it from his dad when the old man passed away.  But he hasn't flown it since the lock down. I imagine he can't afford to anymore. He put it up for sale but so far there haven't been any offers."

"That's like my dad inherited our Beech from his father," I said.  Granddad bought it after he retired from the Navy and returned to the ranch."

"Most of the planes and the folks who fly them out of here have been doing it down through the generations, passing on their planes to their kids. I guess you will be getting the Beech one day." 

"I hope it's a long way off, and, anyway, one of my brothers may want it.  I'm not going to get into a fight with them over a dumb airplane.  So, what are your plans for the airport?  Are any of your kids interested in operating it?"

"I don't know, Wanda.  They all have established careers.  None of them flies.  None has ever expressed any interest in the airport and I don't think any of them would want it.  I suppose when I pass on they will just sell it.  If they can find a buyer.  If not, they'll probably sell off the equipment and land for whatever they can get, or just abandon it."

I didn't like the sound of that.  This airport was a big convenience for us.  Where would we go for fuel and maintenance, annuals?  Not to mention the comradery.  Destination City was a long haul away and we really didn't know anybody there so we'd just be dollar signs to their FBO.

"I hope you stick around for a long, long time.  You and this airport."

"Thanks, Wanda, so do I.  But, to be honest, I don't know about keeping the airport going. Randy has hinted that he may have to move on if things don't pick up.  A good, experienced A&P man like he is could make a lot more money someplace busier.  I think the only thing keeping him around is he has family here, owns his house and his wife and kids aren't eager to move."

I thought about Butch, the fry cook, it would be pretty tough on him if the airport closed.  I said as much to Duane.

"He's done pretty good for himself here," Duane said.  "You know, I was just thinking about re-opening the restaurant when he showed up, pushing his motorcycle."  He'd run out of gas in sight of the airport.  He was dead broke and asked if there was some kind of work he could do to earn enough money to buy a meal and a tank of gas.  Duane asked him what he could do and he explained he was a short-order cook.  

"I hired him on the spot.  But I told him I couldn't afford to pay him much by way of salary, at least at the start."  Instead, Duane offered him a percentage of the sales plus let him live in the apartment above the restaurant rent-free -- it was empty anyway.  

"Butch brought the place to life and he works like a dog.  Never takes a day off, is up in the wee hours getting everything ready for the breakfast trade, cooks, serves, buses, washes, sweeps and mops.  Whatever needs to be done he does it." Duane explained that Butch managed the inventory, worked with vendors, handled the books.  He even made the roadside sign advertising the place, designed it, built it, installed it.  "He's a wonder, Wanda, he truly is."

"I had no idea, but I'm surprised he has no help."

"He could hire whatever he needs, but he says until the place is solidly profitable he won't take on any expenses not absolutely required."

"He's going to burn himself out."

"I've told him that but he laughs it off.  He says he's got nothing else to do anyway.  Better to be taking care of the diner in the evenings than sitting alone in his room watching TV.  I guess he's right about that."

"So what will he do if you decide to shut down?"

"I talked to him about the possibility and he just said that he was looking for work when he came here and he'd be looking for work when he left." Duane scratched his head.  "I guess that means something."

"Maybe it means he doesn't expect much from life anymore."

"I suppose no one should."

An idling mind

 

It hasn't been a bad winter so far, all things considered.  We did have some very, very cold days a while back, minus 40 degrees one morning, which is a mite chilly. We had snow flurries today, the high around 30 or so I think and there's long been snow on the ground, six or eight inches or thereabouts.  Last year I would have thought we were having a terrible winter, but this year, eh, just the dreary season.  Or for me it is, not being able to do much, even go outside for very long or very far.  No sidewalks here. When I do go for a mosey, I take along a stout oak walking stick. I have to be careful not to slip and fall.  But whereas last year I was very agitated in my forced immobility, this year, other than being prone to mopiness, I am okay to sit by the fireplace, look out the window at winter and read or knit.  Lord, I'm turning into my mother -- not that there's anything wrong with that!

I wrote a while ago about a relative back around 1900 or so getting in a gun fight with horse thieves while she was pregnant and getting shot before doing for the bad guys.  I was thinking about that today and wondering if I could do it and the answer was no way, are you out of your mind?  Forget it.  They could have the stupid horses.  No question people back in those days were made of the very sternest stuff. Genuine pioneer stock was too tough to kill they used to say. They had to be to create a civilization out of a primeval wilderness.  I'm proud of my pioneer ancestors although nowadays I'm supposed to be ashamed of them.  Fie, I say.  Fie!

Dad is so much better now that he and el jefe went snowmobiling cross-country, staying a couple of nights at one of the remoter line shacks while they snow-shoed around the neighborhood.  Have you ever tried to walk with snowshoes? -- not just for a few yards but for miles?  Include me out on that.

In 1982, my father visited the Triumph factory in Meriden to pick up a new Bonneville he had ordered, an Imperial Edition made to commemorate the wedding of Prince Charles and Lady Dianna Spencer.  For some reason, I remembered it as a special edition commemorating the Pearl Anniversary of Elizabeth becoming queen, but when I asked my dad about it, he set me straight. Now that I think about it, it could also have been the Oak anniversary edition, too, as Triumph had been making motorcycles since 1902.
Anyway, while there, he was given a tour of the factory and he spotted some sort of machine tool, I forget what it was, that had been clearly broken badly and then welded back together. He asked what happened to it, and his guide casually explained that it had been damaged when the Germans bombed Coventry in 1940. At that time, Triumph had a factory on Priory Street where it had been building motorcycles since 1907. The plant was destroyed by the Luftwaffe.
But the Triumph workers dragged the machine tools out of the ruins, repaired those that had been damaged and installed them in the relocated plant some miles away in Meriden.
Whenever the subject of the value of the strategic bombing campaigns during World War II has come up, my father always mentions this little story to illustrate how futile much of the effort was. It’s really hard to damage machine tools, process machinery and the like, by bombing so thoroughly that they can’t be put back in working order.
In any case, there was that piece of equipment still doing its job more than four decades after the Blitz had ended.
While my father was at the factory, he met Lord Hesketh, who was contemplating buying or investing in Triumph. He invited my father to visit his estate at Easton Neston to do some pheasant hunting. There he met his friend, Bubbles, and some race car driver (the Lord financed a Formula racing team) who gave him a jacket with the racing team patch on it, the slogan of which was, “Sex: Breakfast of Champions.”
Lord Hesketh was also into creating his own motorcycle (I assume he wanted Triumph to manufacture it), the Hesketh 1000, an example of which he gave or maybe sold at cost, I don’t know, to my father, to evaluate. It was supposed to be the modern-day reincarnation of the fabled Vincent Black Shadow with state-of-the-art engineering.
We still have both motorcycles. The Bonneville runs just fine, but the Hesketh long ago lunched its transmission.
My mother took one look at the Hesketh jacket my father proudly wore home from his trip to the Sceptered Isle and informed him that he could keep the motorbikes but that jacket had to go.

Erté ideal woman

Gibson girl

The image of the ideal women of 1947 depicted in the diagram to the left persists today.  It was firmly established in the public mind by the artist George Petty and his Petty girl, which began appearing in the 1930s, published by various men's magazines and adorning calendars advertising the Ridgid tool company (there's a joke lurking in that name and association but I won't stretch for it).  Prior to the Petty girl, the ideal female shape was the 1920s boyish flapper, depicted famously in the art deco women of the artist Erté, who once remarked that the perfect female breast fitted inside a coupe cocktail glass.  And before that was the narrow-waisted, buxom Gibson girl, evolved from the bustled beauty of the previous generation.  It seems to me part of and evidence for the ossification of popular culture that the female shape deemed most ideal, which once changed from generation to generation, has now remained unaltered for a good 90 years.

 

O
f course, males still think association with females will give them cooties. 

"I went out to buy an envelope.
"'Oh,' my wife says,  'Well, you're not a poor man, you know, why don't you go online and buy a hundred envelopes and put them in the closet?'
"I pretend not to hear her and go out to get an envelope because I'm going to have a hell of a good time in the process of buying one envelope. I meet a lot of people, and see some great looking babes. And a fire engine goes by and I give them the thumbs up. And I ask a woman what kind of dog that is. And, and I don't know.
"The moral of the story is we're here on Earth to fart around.
"And, of course, the computers will do us out of that. And, what the computer people don't realize, or they don't care, is we're dancing animals. You know, we love to move around. And, we're not supposed to dance at all anymore."
~ Kurt Vonnegut

The Pilgrim Soul

 The Fury of Aerial Bombardment
You would think the fury of aerial bombardment
Would rouse God to relent; the infinite spaces
Are still silent. He looks on shock-pried faces.
History, even, does not know what is meant.

You would feel that after so many centuries               
God would give man to repent; yet he can kill
As Cain could, but with multitudinous will,
No farther advanced than in his ancient furies,

Was man made stupid to see his own stupidity?
Is God by definition indifferent, beyond us all?                 
Is the eternal truth man's fighting soul
Wherein the Beast ravens in its own avidity?

~ Richard Eberhart

 

 "The dictionary defines a pilgrim as one who travels in alien lands.  In a sense, we are all pilgrims, for all of life is a search -- for security, for success, for love. For some of us, the journey is a longer one than for others, and for the few it can seem all but impossible: a confusion of desires exists within -- the desire for recognition verses the desire for anonymity, and trust verses suspicion.  If the confusion reaches too great an intensity, we run the risk of losing our bearings altogether.

"It is said that there is at least one extraordinary event in the life of each of us, a moment so outstanding, so inexplicable that it stays with us forever, timeless, always present, and if this event is properly understood our lives can change radically.  But if the meaning of the moment is lost on us we are doomed to wander, Cain like, forever."

The Pilgrim Soul, first broadcast over CBS radio on November 13, 1978.

When you are old and grey and full of sleep,

And nodding by the fire, take down this book,

And slowly read, and dream of the soft look

Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;

How many loved your moments of glad grace,

And loved your beauty with love false or true,

But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,

And loved the sorrows of your changing face;

And bending down beside the glowing bars,

Murmured, a little sadly, how Love fled

And paced upon the mountains overhead

And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.

~ William Butler Yeats 

 

 

Bits and pieces

White women of reproductive age constitute 2 percent of the world's population.  White children under the age of 18 constitute 3 percent of the world's population.  If whites were a species of bird or amphibian, they would be considered endangered and their habitat would be protected and invasive species removed.

 Aircraft pilots have the second most dangerous occupation in the United States. First is loggers.  Police officer is twenty-second.  The most common causes of aircraft crashes are pilot error and maintenance error, in no order.  The loss of an engine I experienced recently was a maintenance error, and a very minor one -- a bit of one-sided pressure when gapping a spark plug cracked an insulator that later broke off, causing pre-ignition. I was fortunate that the incident happened in fair weather during daytime near the airport in an empty airplane with plenty of altitude under me. But if I had had to deal with an engine shutdown while in heavy icing conditions or a severe thunderstorm, especially if I were near maximum gross weight with cargo or passengers and far from a landing strip, despite my best efforts, I very easily could  have lost control of the airplane and crashed, the cause being put down to pilot error or perhaps listed as unknown.

The family owns ranchland from California to Colorado and with this recent series of discoveries of vast lodes of rare earth ores, some  are thinking that our lands, too, may contained huge deposits. If so, I wouldn't be surprised if environmentalists sue to keep the stuff in the ground.  I would kind of be on their side because the way the ores would be extracted would be through enormous open-pit mines.  I'd rather we establish and maintain good relations with China and get the rare earth metals we need from them and let that country destroy its landscape, since they seem indifferent to it, while we preserve ours.  We shouldn't leave our descendants a barren desolation but pass on to them intact the glory we inherited.

I found some more of the buttons my mother used to collect when she was young.  She remembers that she got the "British Troops Out of Ireland" button from some guy who was giving a speech at Speakers Corner in Hyde Park, London, in 1973.  She still remembers the pure hatred in his face as he talked.  She'd never seen the like before.  She couldn't tell the difference between English people and Irish people.  They looked the same to her.

I showed the buttons to my dad and he remarked that the green one was typical of shoddy British quality, noting how the American buttons were still like new.  I pointed out the ribbon of the flag button had seen some rough times and dad said that showed just how much the button had been worn yet it was still in near pristine condition.  Pop is hard on the poor Brits and their miserable manufactured products, but still he is a fan of classic British motorcycles -- Triumphs, BSAs, Nortons and others -- and at one time seems to have had a thing for MG sports cars.  I think the last one he had was an MGB GT that he bought used in England and had shipped to Japan as part of his personal effects under SOFA.  Since it was right-hand drive, it fit in well with Japanese traffic. 

 El jefe likes my hands.  He says they are one of my most feminine features. I do try to take care of them, which is not always easy, but wearing gloves helps, as does  religiously using assorted creams and lotions.  My mother still has very nice hands so I think there is some genetic component to having and being able to keep good hands.  Anyway, both el jefe and my dad abhor what they call "sausage fingers" on a woman.  I've pointed out that such fingers may be the result of damaging manual labor -- washing pots and pans, scrubbing floors and that sort of thing.  They shrug.  It doesn't change what they like.

 

Reading Plato's Republic, in Book VI I came across this: 

"Those who...have...seen enough of the madness of the multitude know that no politician is honest, nor is there any champion of justice at whose side they may fight. They may be compared to a man who has fallen among wild beasts -- he will not join in the wickedness of his fellows, but neither is he able singly to resist all their fierce natures, and therefore seeing that he would be of no use to the state or to his friends, and reflecting that he would throw away his life without doing any good either to himself or others, he holds his peace and goes his own way. He is like one who, in the storm of dust and sleet which the driving wind hurries along, retires under the shelter of a wall; and seeing the rest of mankind full of wickedness, he is content if only he can live his own life."

I agree with that sentiment and hope to convey it to my children so that they do not throw their lives away on some political crusade or trumped up war, revolution or riot.  Stay out of the way of the thundering herd and keep your own council.  Think what you will but express little of what you think or, better yet, nothing at all.

Jean-Pierre Claris de Florian, the 18th century French poet, was of a similar mind.  He is most remembered today for averring that, as it is usually phrased in English, "to live well, live hidden"; that is, out of the way of events.  Alas, it did him no good, for he was deemed an enemy of the Revolution and imprisoned, only spared from the guillotine by Robespierre's death, instead, still imprisoned, dying of tuberculosis in 1794.

The fable in which the famous line is the moral:

 LE GRILLON

Un pauvre petit grillon
Caché dans l’herbe fleurie
Regardoit un papillon
Voltigeant dans la prairie
L’insecte ailé brilloit des plus vives couleurs
L’azur, le pourpre & l’or éclatoient sur ses ailes.
Jeune, beau, petit-maître, il court de fleur en fleur,
Prenant & quittant les plus belles.
Ah ! disoit le grillon, que son sort & le mien
Sont différents ! dame Nature
Pour lui fit tout, & pour moi rien.
Je n’ai point de talent, encor moins de figure ;
Nul ne prend garde à moi, l’on m’ignore ici bas !
Autant voudroit n’exister pas.
Comme il parloit, dans la prairie
Arrive une troupe d’enfants.
Aussitôt les voilà courans
Après le papillon dont ils ont tous envie :
Chapeau, mouchoirs bonnets, servent à l’attraper.
L’insecte cherche vainement à leur échapper,
Il devient bientôt leur conquête.
L’un le saisit par l’aile, un autre par le corps ;
Un troisième survient, & le prend par la tête :
Il ne falloit pas tant d’efforts
Pour déchirer la pauvre bête.
Oh ! oh ! dit le grillon, je ne suis pas fâché ;
Il en coûte trop cher pour briller dans le monde.
Combien je vais aimer ma retraite profonde !
Pour vivre heureux, vivons cachés.

 

These days

 These days I have trouble breaking out of melancholy and self-doubt.  Unable to engage in much physical activity, I stare out the window at the gray sky and snow flurries.  A raven caws.  He flaps up from a tree branch and rows across the sky. At night the wind, moaning and whistling around the eaves, seems to be talking to me, but what it says I can't make out. It's all vowels and no consonants.

 If I sit down at the piano to while away the time, I find myself playing Ravel's Pavane Pour Une Infante Défunte or Elgar's Sospiri.  I worry and wonder about things I need not and I know that I need not, but I do.  I also know that all this will pass and brighter days and brighter thoughts will come.  But still....  At this moment, this eternal now, that seems like a comforting lie.

Letting my hair down and other things

When I got back from Europe, one of the  first things I did was go down and see our horses, breathe in their scent, along with the smell of sunshine on straw, and all the aromas of the out of doors carried on a gentle breeze.  I've lived a lot of places in my life but this has become the only one I truly feel is home.

The first meal I made for el jefe when he came home was good old-fashion cheese runzas, at his request.  I hadn't made any in a long time, but they were a big hit with everybody.  I made two dozen, figuring that I would freeze most of them, but they all got gobbled down in double time, with requests I make more.  Well, maybe next week.  I served them with homemade French fries and a French bistro salad. Dessert was nutmeg apple pie with vanilla ice cream, both homemade, of course, the ice cream made with cream from our own cows.  All the greens as well as the potatoes, cabbage and apples came from our own garden, garden greenhouse and root cellar, the cheese from a nearby cheese factory that is supplied by a local creamery.

The two most requested desserts I make are applesauce cake and banana bread.  My mother and I, with my mini-me helping, make lots of applesauce from our apple trees, preserving it in mason jars, but the bananas come from the grocery store.  They make the best banana bread when the skins are turning black.  The next in popularity are pies of all varieties, then donuts.  Donuts take a lot of work and are hard to fry just right.  Cookies are only popular, it seems, around Christmastime. I don't know why.  But in that season I also make plum pudding and my own fruitcake, which actually tastes good, as well as fudge. People seem to prefer peanut butter fudge to chocolate fudge.  Throughout the year, I always make sure to have some variety of cake available, usually carrot or spice cake.  When the spirit moves me, I make angel food cake or Japanese castella sponge cake. Chocolate cake seems just for birthdays, one of my boys likes it with chocolate icing decorated with walnuts and the other likes it with gooey coconut icing decorated with maraschino cherries. My mini-me likes it with butterscotch icing decorated with pecans. Last year she said she wanted an oatmeal cake. I think it's because oatmeal is her favorite breakfast.  I didn't know how to make that but found a recipe in my grandmother's 1942 cookbook for such a cake with coconut-almond frosting.  It was really good.

I'm always baking bread and rolls.  That's something we never buy.  I make all varieties, from good old standard white bread to whole wheat, sourdough, English muffins, potato bread, baguettes, Italian, French and rye, to pumpernickel. Hot rolls and assorted muffins, as well.

A typical hearty dinner I serve is a garden salad, soup -- something like French onion -- roast beef, mashed potatoes and gravy, steamed peas and corn topped with butter or green beans mixed with bits of fried bacon, steamed carrots and broccoli topped with mayonnaise, or maybe honey-baked carrots, yellow squash fried crispy in butter, and plenty of  fresh-baked hot rolls.  If the spirit moves me, I may make Yorkshire pudding, too. Dessert could be anything from flan to pecan pie.  The drink during the meal is usually lemon water.  Nobody really cares for wine and those who like beer don't enjoy it as a dinner drink.  But if a guest wanted wine, for this meal I think I'd serve a syrah; if he preferred applejack, I'd serve him that. After dinner is coffee.  I've saved a chair for you, come sit down and dig in -- and you'll enjoy the conversation as much as the meal!

 One of the things I've done since leaving the Navy is let my hair grow. I intend to just let it grow and grow. Before I joined up I had long hair.  I was very proud of it and it pained me to have it cut. Now, with pregnancy, my hair is thick and shiny and seems to grow longer by the hour.  My mother brushes it for me, one-hundred strokes every day. Looking at me, she says my face is more relaxed than it has been in a long time.  She noticed me becoming less rigid in bearing and less emotionally self-contained in the days after I left the Navy and came to live on the ranch.  Now she says I am getting back to the way I used to be, a girly-girl. I hope so. I always thought I was a girly-girl, but I guess to others I was not.  El Jefe said much the same thing when we got together last summer. He noticed a distinctly more feminine me than I was before and he very much approved. He called me his golden-haired beauty.  That was sweet of him. I hope I can always be that for him.

I'm still subject to bouts of melancholy.  I guess it's just part of my nature. And the emotional ups and downs of pregnancy, to say nothing of the physical disorders, hasn't helped. Lately, I worry about losing el jefe. Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night from a dream in which he was gone from me.  It's strange, but now that he's here beside me I imagine it more than I did when he was overseas and at risk every day.  I sleep with my head resting against him and don't ever again want to only feel a cold pillow and sheets on the other side of the bed.

 I lost my high school sweetheart, as I've written, and I don't think I could take losing my husband. I want to grow old with him just as my parents have grown old together and my grandparents did. Should I lose him, I would never re-marry or enter into any kind of relationship with a new man.   I like to banter, flirt with and tease guys, but that's as far as it goes. I don't even do that as much as I used to. It seems kind of silly at this point in my life, especially since it furthers nothing I want to happen.

When I say to friends that I would never remarry, one thing they often ask is what about my boys, don't they need a male role model and don't you need help raising them?  Well, there is that. I don't know. But the thought of turning my face to the man in my bed and it's not el jefe but some stranger I cannot countenance. I have and always will have only one husband.  I used to think that my father could be a role model for and an aid in raising my boys should something happen to el jefe, but now I realize that he won't always be with us, and the same is true of my uncles. My brothers are not available, both far away except for occasional visits, one being a career naval officer and the other a forest ranger. Besides, they have their own families.  So there would be no men to help me raise my boys.  I guess I would have to rely on God for help.  Is that a vain hope?

 Now I've gone and depressed myself.  Why do I think these thoughts?  I usually break out of my gloomy moods by dancing. My brain shuts down then and I'm just an animal living in the moment.  But now I don't dare do that.  Maybe I could shuffle a few steps, but that's about it.  So I will just think back in my mind's eye to when I could and did dance.

 And this sweet old love song (from 1873) is how I wish that my days and my husband's play out:

  Darling, I am growing old,
    Silver threads among the gold
    Shine upon my brow today;
    Life is fading fast away.
    But, my darling, you will be
    Always young and fair to me.
       
    When your hair is silver white
    And your cheeks no longer bright
    With the roses of the May,
    I will kiss your lips and say,
    Oh! My darling, mine alone,
    You have never older grown!
          
    Love can never more grow old,
    Locks may lose their brown and gold;
    Cheeks may fade and hollow grow,
    But the hearts that love will know
    Never, never winter’s frost and chill;
    Summer warmth is in them still.  

Do you think there is a disconnect between the two videos?  Perhaps, but each is part of life and the stages we travel through it to the inevitable end.

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.