Flying

I have always loved airplanes.  When I was a toddler my mother would take me outside when she would hang the laundry to dry.  I would sit in my little chair looking up at the sky. At the sound of an airplane I would point my chubby finger skyward and scream, "airpane, airpane".  Later, after spending years building model airplanes, I would find that I was afraid of heights. I was not just afraid, I was flat out scared!  Yep! Terrified! If man had been meant to fly, God would have given him wings!

But, those Wright boys from Ohio didn't know that, so they built the airplane. And since then airplanes have become the way to get from one place to another place FAST.

When I was twenty-one-years-old, the federal government decided that I was needed in the United States Armed Forces - the Army. I was drafted. You see there was a bit of a scuffle going on in southeast Asia at that time, and they said my services were needed.  That meant that I had to fly. The cross-country flight was not so bad; we stopped a lot. My belt size went from a 38 to a 35 inch size from tightening my seat belt.

When we flew across the Pacific I saw the longest crap game in the world.  It lasted from San Francisco to Manila. I was very concerned when we stopped over in Guam.  The plane was descending and descending and I could see nothing below except water. I began reciting what the stewardess had said about landing in the water.  I was not sure that my seat cushion would support me; it did not look like a life jacket. I looked for someone to trade with, but it looked like everyone had the same size cushion.  After boot camp I was at my lowest weight since I was fourteen.  That would help. A few minutes later the plane made a funny noise, like metal scraping against metal, and I was thrown forward against my seat belt restraint as the plane slowed on the runway. Soon I was off the plane and inside that airport building. They call it a terminal.  I don't like the idea of something being terminal.  That kind of signifies the end of something. It could be me!

There was that one time while in the Navy when some of my shipmates and I had to wait for our plane to be retrieved from a snowbank before we could board it. The plane was an R4D, also know as a DC-3, a WWII vintage aircraft still in service. In those days you always faced aft on military aircraft. I don't like to ride in any vehicle faced toward where I've been, although faced forward I may not be able to see where I'm going. It was a rough ride back to Norfolk, cold, drafty, and noisy. Years later I was taking a very small airliner out of Albany, NY.  That flight was kind of dicey.  The plane had a late departure due to mechanical problems. Naturally you always wonder if they got it repaired properly. It was a small twin-engined plane with a pod underneath for luggage.  I think it was a Piper or Cessna. When we finally were taking off, the safety instructions came from a tiny speaker sounding an old eight-track tape from the sixties. Then the Captain spoke over the speaker with the "Welcome aboard"speech. That's when I found out we had a woman pilot.  I don't have a problem with women. (I married two of 'em and my mother was a woman.)  But I was not ready for a woman pilot. A soon as the plane lifted off the runway, all the snow in the world descended on us. 

I have flown many more times since then, and some flights have been quite memorable.  Once in Alaska I was in a Turbo Otter float plane flying through the mountains. Yes, I said through the mountains.  The plane did not fly over the mountains but between the mountain peaks. They were craggy peaks with a smattering of snow. They were like giant hands with claws reaching up to grab us.  I decided that I would look up front to see how the pilot was driving. He was a wiry looking fellow with salt and pepper hair stuffed under a battered New York Yankees baseball cap. There was a grin under his huge handlebar mustache and his eyes were fixed on an attractive blonde in the co-pilot's seat. His demeanor did not instill confidence, but both of his hands were on the control yoke. Back in my seat I tightened my seatbelt, pulled my earphones back on and closed my eyes. The landing was my smoothest ever on water. Actually it was my only landing on water.

Frequently, when flying, an adult must restrain one's self from committing the crimes of infanticide plus.   I added the plus to include the killing of older children also. In air travel the length of time a child can cry is measured in miles or destinations.  I overheard a young mother say rather nonchalantly, "Oh yes, he cried from Chicago to Cleveland".  THEY ARE USED TO THE CHILDREN CRYING!  WE ARE NOT! Don't they know our malice can spread to include them AND their children.

I have my own list of caveats while flying.

1. Always get an aisle seat. (You can stretch one leg out.)
2. Sit next to a small person. (I don't like to have flesh spillage from the next seat.)
3. Sit near the lavatory.
4. If  "Airplane" is among the selection of inflight movies, DON'T WATCH IT!
5. This is the most important rule. If there is a small child in the section of the plane you are in, disregard previous rules and MOVE AS FAR AWAY FROM IT AS POSSIBLE

Just one more note on my air travel adventures. We, my dear wife and I, were on a flight from JFK (the worst airport in the world) to Charleston, South Carolina, late one evening on a small airliner. There were not very many passengers.  There was a very rotund man sitting in front of us. Had he been, and I don't think he was, a pro wrestler, he would have been called a man mountain. The flight attendant asked him to move to the other side of the aisle.  I think this was to balance the load on the airplane. The skies were not friendly to Delta that night and I don't think they would have been friendly to United either. Yep, rough air! It has been said that the air is smoother over thirty thousand feet, but he who said  that wasn't on the plane we were on. About a half hour into the flight things did smooth out though, and we were served coffee and a cookie. Soon after I felt the call to nature and made my way to the rear of the plane. The "Vacancy" sign was illuminated, so I walked right in and sat right down. Did I say this was a very small lavatory, maybe a little smaller that a Porta-John. It was the full width of the rear of the plane. As I was about to reach for the toilet paper, the solitude of my confines was broken by the crackling of the loudspeaker. "This is the captain speaking.  Please refrain from walking about the aircraft. Please remain in you seats and fasten your seatbelts!" So there I am, an old man with his pants around his ankles, precariously trying to maintain his balance while trying to reach a roll of toilet paper which is hell bent on not losing any of its sheets. As luck would have it, the next movement of the aircraft hurled me into the opposite wall and I was able to grab the objects of my desire. An opposite movement allowed me to complete the operation I had begun seemingly eons ago and escape from the tiny lavatory.

I wrote a letter to Delta Airlines requesting seatbelts in the lavatories of their airliners. 

I have found a way to overcome many of these issues I have with air travel though. I fly first class.  Snuggled in my cocoon in first class I am  oblivious to my surroundings.

Gritz

I like grits. I have always liked grits. And I'm not sure why everyone doesn't like grits. There is something about a steaming bowl with a puddle of butter in the middle that I find irresistible. Or maybe some fried hickory smoked bacon crumbled on top with a bit of sharp cheddar cheese.
It is difficult for me to fathom why some people would not be aware of the mere existence of grits. I have seen them referred to as cereal. I find such declarations appalling. When a new acquaintance informed me that grits were available in a upstate New York town, I was overjoyed. But then he told me how he loved his grits with butter and maple syrup, I realized I may not fit into local culture. My new friend was right about one thing though. Grits were available at the local Price Chopper grocery store. I found them in the breakfast cereal section in a cardboard canister with a man with a big hat on the label. Where I had been educated at Bradley Elementary School in Bradley, SC, I learned that men dressed like the one on the grits container were called Quakers.  We also learned that the Quakers settled the state of Pennsylvania. I knew that I could not eat any grits produced by anyone above the CDL. That's the Culinary Discretionary  Line that runs through middle Tennessee. I knew that I would have to write my mother a letter requesting some good old Jim Dandy grits. (I saw my cousin with a hundred pound bag of Jim Dandy dog food once.) Those would be white grits.  Grits are of two colors just like the corn from which they are made, white and yellow.
I have always eaten white grits until recently. Not so long ago we discovered our friend Butch Chastain at the local farmers market selling stone ground grits. Butch is a former airline pilot that now grinds corn into grits or cornmeal with grindstones powered by an antique gasoline engine. Using grindstones to grind grain is almost as old as time itself. Butch only grinds yellow corn so I changed my preference in grits. I can tell very little difference in taste.
I have very simple tastes in grits. I like them well cooked, slowly.  You gotta keep stirring them to keep them from sticking to the pot. My wife Claudette cooks the in the microwave oven.  They’re real good. But I can’t help remembering that they called those first microwave ovens radar ranges. Not sure I like of radar beams touching anything I eat. (I think there was something about this in the fine print of the marriage contract that allows this kind of food preparation.) Grits should gently fall off the fork much like molasses from a jug, not gritty texture and not soupy..  Salt, pepper and a bit of butter is all I require. And I like them served only at breakfast. Recently, grits have gravitated to other meals but not for me. Some of the upper tier restaurants in Charleston not serve grits cooked in milk.  And these grits are frequently covered with shrimp in gravy. Other dishes feature fried grits. The chefs of Charleston's restaurants are a competitive bunch and play a great game of one upsmanship in grits dishes.  No doubt they will soon be served with maple syrup. 

But that's not for me. 

There are things that are best the way they are. They do not need updating or changes in any way.

I feel that way about grits.

Where Have All the Gumshoes Gone?

Where have they gone indeed? I remember my first televised show about a gumshoe. Maybe I should use a more common term for gumshoe: detective.

As I remember those days of snowy images in black and white, one detective comes to mind.  And with music.  I can hardly remember Peter Gun without Henry Mancini's driving jazz beat. Craig Stevens played the private detective from which the television series got its name. Gunn was the quintessential private eye.  He had all the characteristics those following him would exhibit. There had been television detectives before but not quite as sauve as Gunn. After all, he was handsome, well dressed, and had an attractive girlfriend.  After  Peter Gun I was a big fan of 77 Sunset Strip.  Efram Zimbalist Jr., Roger Smith, and Edd "Kookie" Byrnes starred. I was developing an interest in hot rods then and was a fan of Kookie's Cadillac powered '23 "T" roadster.  I remember one show in particular. It was named "The Silent Caper". (All of their shows were called capers.) It was a silent movie, not  a word was spoken.

Through the years I enjoyed Simon and Simon, Barnaby Jones, Mike Hammer, Spenser for Hire, and the detective that made a fashion statement of the rumpled raincoat, Columbo. There were of course many more, particularly if you included the police shows. I remember the craggy-faced Lee Marvin on the streets of Chicago in M Squad. 

As I grew older I continued to enjoy the "whodunnits".  Some had a profound effect on me. As a avid fan of Magnum, P.I., I developed a taste for Hawaiian shirts and red Farraris.  I still wear Hawaiian shirts sometimes but still await my first red Farrari. In the 1980s I discovered the British detective shows on Public Broadcasting's Mystery.  At first I was enamored by Diana Rigg of The Avengers but then a new kind of detective was introduced to me. There were several that were favorites of mine.  The British have a way with murder mysteries that I fear the Americans lack.  In most of the British detective shows you rarely see the crime committed and there is very little gore. They tend to be more cerebral. Frequently, the crime is not easily solved although usually the perpetrator of the crime is seen in the first act of the show.  The British crime shows were, and still are, great.  Some of my favorites were Foyle's War, Midsomer Murders, and Inspector Lyndley Mysteries. I will forever be spellbound by Helen Mirren in Prime Suspect or the egotistical little Belgian, Hercule Poirot in Agatha Christie's Poirot. The recent Sherlock series starring Benedict Cumberbatch is a visual treat as well as having unique storylines.

But out of the over thirty-six British detective series I have watched over the years, my favorite is Inspector Morse. Detective Chief Inspector Morse of the Thames Valley Criminal Investigation Department has a keen analytical mind and a penchant for the Times crossword puzzles. His tastes lean toward English real ale and his ear toward classical music, preferably Wagner.  The sight of blood sickens him  while the sight of an attractive female allures him.  Sometimes curt and disdaining of authority, he is easily identified by his shock of white hair and his classic Jaguar Mk 2 sedan. John Thaw played the main character and Kevin Whaley his sergeant.  In the last episode of the series, Remorseful Day, DCI Morse  dies. Soon after John Thaw, the actor forever identified with this character, died. Not only did I enjoy stories in this series (I've seen most of the episodes multiple times.), I also enjoyed seeing the English countryside and the town of Oxford as well.  I am a closet Anglophile.

To relax your body and exercise your mind, grab a long-necked stout, kick back and watch  British mystery! The gumshoes have gone to the UK.

An Engineer's Problem?

Recently, while talking with a friend from the west coast, I heard an interesting story. He related the situation of a person at the high tech company at which he works. My friend told of the ongoing campaign of a fellow engineer to help his extended family. This engineer had immigrated from Venezuela. His family had been splintered due to the economic unrest in the country. Portions of the family were in Peru and other countries in South America, others in Columbia, Chile and virtually any country they could immigrate to. But his aging mother refused to leave the family property which as been in the family hundreds of years. A brother and sister are staying in the country to care for her. Over three million people had left the Venezuela and the exodus continued. Many were professionals, doctors, lawyers, engineers and such. Life had been good for the middle class in Venezuela until the election of Hugo Chavez. Chavez rode into power on the backs of the working class. His mantra was, “Power to the People” and sought the elimination of corruption of the ruling class. After Chavez took office things began to change. Lip service was given to the promises made to his political base. He seized power and began nationalizing private businesses and industries. Chavez created an oil based economy.  Venezuela has the largest oil reserves in the world. The strong and booming economy began to decline.Due to a drop in oil prices, in a matter of a few years Venezuela was transformed from a modern prosperous South American state into one of poverty and corruption. At this point my friend's workmate escaped.  Inflation of the currency skyrocket but the government raised the minimum wage constantly. Actually the minimum wage became so high that businesses could not make a profit paying required wages. So they went out of business and no longer produced some of the necessities of life. Conditions in Venezuela continued to worsen. Food was scarce, so much so that zoo animals are killed for food. Life saving medicines were no longer available to the people. The country refused humanitarian  aid from outside. 

What did the engineer do?  He found a way to help his estranged family in Venezuela. Periodically, he ventures in to Mexico to buy medications needed by family members in Venezuela. Medications are less expensive in Mexico than in the United States but still present a financial burden for him.  He has found an American company that does legitimate business with his former homeland. That company is willing to smuggle the medicines his aging mother needs to survive in the South  American country.  

How long can this continue? Is there any hope for Venezuela? 

Bodies on the Cold Ground

I heard an interesting   story from a man from Toronto at dinner. We had chatted a bit about history, the American Civil War, etc. I had mentioned how I along with my ancestors and offspring had fought in every American conflict. He then began his story about his father's participation in WWII.  It seems his father was shot in the head by a German sniper.  This was during the invasion following Normandy. It was the winter of 1944 and the snow covered ground was occupied by the Germans He was left on the ground for dead in a puddle of his own blood. Bloody white fragments of his skull punctuated the snow.  The temperature was freezing .  When they were gathering up the dead, the frozen bodies gave new meaning to the word, "stiff". The Canadian's father was discovered to be breathing. A sharp-sharp-red young man noticed the breath of a seemingly dead soldier condensing in the frigid air.They gathered  some of the bone fragments from the back of his head before transporting him to a field hospital. Believing that death was imminent the doctors stuck an IV in his arm and pushed his bed over the corner and waited for him to die. But he refused to die. When asked about it later he said that he was in a snow covered field one minute and then he woke up in the hospital a month later. After realizing that he wasn't going to die they placed a steel plate in his head and sent him home. The right side of his body side had no feeling in it. His mother was over protective. He was wheelchair bound and she waited on him hand and foot. After all he was her baby boy. One day, while visiting, the family priest, who was probably with Noah on the ark, convinced her that she had to let him go through lengthy rehabilitation. And that if she continued caring for him hand and foot, he would remain in a wheelchair the rest of his life. At first he could barely stand and then he sought himself to walk by pushing a chair around. With improvement he managed to get a job  and managed to have a good life with a good wife who presented him with ten children.  However, the memories the war remained and he ways wondered how he had gotten off that battlefield.  Late in life he attended a reunion of the members of his old army unit. He was surprised to hear a voice from behind announce, "You look a lot better than the last time I saw you!"Surprised, the handicapped veteran exclaimed, "Who arenyou? I don't know you!"

"I'm the man that put your butt in a wheelbarrow to get you off the field when you were shot many years ago." A Iife long friendship began that day.