The Northward Contrail

The disappointed optimist

The other night I was talking with a friend about our views on life.  He and I have roughly the same outlook, and we've run into the same criticisms.  "Why are you such a pessimist?" is a question with which we're both familiar.  Neither of us can get people to understand that ours isn't pessimism.  Instead, it's experience talking.

I really do want to believe in sweetness and light.  In my heart of hearts, you'll find someone who wants a world where love stories really do happen, where all sunsets are rosy, and basically the whole Merle Haggard "Rainbow Stew" scenario plays out.  I can't think of anything that would make me happier than waking up tomorrow and finding a world out of a storybook.

But experience has taught me that doesn't happen, and that life is messy, and that high hopes often result in tears and skinned knees.  That's because, and there's no way around this, life means doors slammed on your fingers.  Life means heartbreak.  Life can mean great plans, on which you've labored for years, collapsing in the blink of an eye.  Life can mean people not acting rationally, and often it involves people taking advantage of you.  Life means any business telling you it's doing something "to better serve you" means it's actually doing it to better serve itself.  Life means that politicians who tell you "I appreciate having the benefit of your comments" are actually telling you "I already made my mind up long ago, so get lost."  Life means that any technology that's meant to improve life or deepen scientific understanding will inevitably be adapted for less benevolent purposes, and that in struggles between taste and profit, taste loses four times out of five.

No one wants to go through life with a cheery outlook more than I do, and deep inside I harbor hopes that one day we'll all wake up and realize we have to share this life and this world together, and that perhaps we should ditch the greed and hatred and anger and prejudice and learn how to get along with one another like God's children should.  Believe me, if I could have one wish, it would be that.  But reality and experience have taught me this isn't very likely to happen.  Please don't mistake this for me thinking it can't happen.  Instead, it's that I realized long ago how long the odds are.

The way I figure it, I could do one of two things.  I could drive myself crazy railing against it, or I could develop armor and move on with life, adapting as best I can.  I hope things will work out, and to the extent I can, I work hard to make things go as well as I can, to look out for myself and those I love, and to be the best neighbor I can to my fellow humans.  And, deep inside, I hope there's a bright ending to this movie. 

On the other hand, I'm prepared, and I'm not surprised if it doesn't turn out like in the movies.  With the number of scars I have, it's impossible for me to be any other way.

Rufus

We're used to seeing all kinds of creatures in our back yard.  Aside from the usual wild birds, we've seen rabbits, wild turkeys, deer, opossums, snakes...you name it.  We've even seen a transient bobcat stalk through the yard on his way elsewhere.  It's part of the fun of living in the middle of a national forest, and why we bought so much wooded land and left most of it intact.  Aside from the isolation it affords us, we wanted to leave it so the wildlife would always be welcome.

One afternoon last summer we looked out the back door and saw a stray cat on the edge of the yard.  It was an older cat, and looked like it had lived hard; it was scrawny, battle-scarred, with a world-weary look on its face.  We didn't think too much of it at first.  But we'd look out the same time the next day, and the cat would be sitting out in the back yard, on the edge of the woods.  We took pity on the poor cat.  I took some of the Mighty Tiger's dry food and put it in a little tub, and also put a little tub of water out there for the cat.  Once the cat found it, it didn't last long.  The next time I was at the store, I bought a bag of cat food just for this cat. 

Over the next few days, the cat would show up now and then, usually once a day in the evenings.  Using a term of my mother's for the stray cats around her house, I took to calling this cat our "virtual pet."  I don't know how it happened, but we took to calling the cat Rufus.  I'd see him out there eating, and we'd look at one another.  He was very wary of humans.  I never really wanted to get near him, but I'd talk sweetly to him when I was outside, and I always wanted him to know he had a place where he'd be safe and cared for.  Maybe he understood.  One long Sunday evening in July, I looked out in the yard and Rufus was under a tree, curled up asleep.  It made me happy to see that.

I don't know the story of this cat.  I don't know if he was an escaped pet, or just one of the millions of feral cats out there who have no real home.  All I could really tell was that he'd had a rough life, and still did.  Meanwhile, our cat was spoiled rotten.  He was well-fed (perhaps too well-fed), got annual check-ups, lived in a climate-controlled house safe from bad weather, and had people who loved him and saw to his every need.  We used to tell the Mighty Tiger that he should think about how lucky he was, and that he should say a prayer for his cousin Rufus.

Rufus had seen the Mighty Tiger before.  Sometimes I would sit at our back door and hold the Tiger and we'd look at Rufus, and Rufus would look at us from his perch in the woods.  One day, though, the Tiger was at the back door when Rufus came walking into the back yard.  They saw one another, and a stare-down ensued.  The best I can figure is that the Mighty Tiger gave Rufus the ol' stink-eye, because that was the last time we ever saw Rufus.  I kept the food and water freshened up for a few more days, but it never got touched. 

I don't know what became of Rufus.  Maybe he's still out there somewhere, or, as the saying goes, maybe he's playing his golden harp now.  Whatever happened to him, I hope Rufus knew that, at least once in his rough life, he had a couple of people who loved him and cared for him, and a place where he'd be safe.

Draken

At the IPMS/USA Nationals a couple years ago, somebody made me an offer I couldn't refuse on the then-new Hasegawa J35 Draken, in Austrian markings.  It included decals for a gaudy commemorative version.  I opted instead for the standard service markings (and based on a photo reference that let me omit the big day-glo numerals on the wings).  Not my usual subject matter, but a very quick and fun build, and beautiful in a 1950s way.

Ten years ago

Ten years ago this morning I woke up in a new, strange place. 

The day before, I'd left the home and the town I'd known all my life.  It wasn't the first time I'd left -- graduate school had seen to that years before -- but this time, it was for good.  In grad school, I could sneak home on the weekends.  But, this time, the cradle was gone forever. 

My family did not want me to go.  My mother's protestations were muted.  She'd said goodbye to me before, when I went off to school, so she dealt with it relatively well.  My father tried to talk me out of leaving.  He was fighting tears when we talked the night before.  There was a big brown grocery bag full of food for the ride down that they gave me.  There was something poignant about it, so earnest.  The temptation was so strong to stay.  But I couldn't.  I really hate the expression about "needing to spread your wings," but there's no other way to describe it.

The ride down was not easy.  I spent the first hour driving past familiar sights, wondering if I really knew what I was getting into.  But, as the miles clicked on, I started to get optimistic.  It literally was like the first-season opening of "The Mary Tyler Moore Show," when Mary is in her car, headed off for the big city and the future ahead.  My sadness started to give way to vague optimism.

The miles went on.  I remember I-16 through Georgia being particularly lonesome.  Then the hundreds of miles of I-95 just seemed to take forever.  But things went uneventfully until after I'd stopped for dinner.  Somewhere around West Palm Beach, my car's alternator light started to flicker.  And then it stayed on.  I was an hour from my destination.  I didn't know if my old car was going to stay alive.  I was in a strange place, I had no idea what was going to happen, and I was a little scared. 

Finally, I got where I was going, or at least the neighborhood.  I drove around and around until I got the landmarks I needed.  And then, there I was, at my new home.  New boyfriend (and eventual hubby) was waiting for me.  The car got unloaded, and when that was done, we settled down on the couch to watch television.  "Law and Order" was on, the season finale.  And, while we were watching, the brave front finally let go, and I bawled.  Everything: the homesickness, the uncertainty, the anxiety of wondering if my car was going to make it, everything. 

The next morning, ten years ago today, I woke up in this new place that was my home.  Future hubby had invited me to a cookout his employer was hosting.  I drove over and met up with him, and had a nice time.  That weekend, we met up with some of his friends, and in no time they were my friends, too.  I'd started to build a new family. 

It wasn't always easy.  Those first few weeks, I wondered if any job offers were forthcoming, and even set a vague deadline for moving back if nothing happened.  I don't know if I actually meant the deadline, or if it was one of those things I did to cope with homesickness.  But, slowly, the good started to outweigh the bad.  We got my car fixed.  A job offer or two came in.  And, gradually, I started to get accustomed to the place.  Maybe I never got completely comfortable down there -- you can take the girl out of the country, and all that -- but I did learn how to get around and look out for myself. 

That year I spent down there, in many ways, taught me more than all the ones before.  It was a tough thing to do, but it did me a lot of good in more ways than I can count.  And it all started ten years ago.

One bite at a time

This hobby isn't about little pieces of plastic.  It's about solving problems.

This is the Revell-Germany kit of the McLaren Mercedes MP4-20.  There's really no easy way to produce a kit of a Formula One car.  There's so many wings, struts, arms, winglets, spoilers and everything else, and all of them compete with each other for priority.  One way or another, the manufacturers have to figure out how best to mold them.  It's a compromise.  No matter how you do it, it's not easy.

This requires the modeler to spend at least an hour on strategy.  How do you attack these problems?  You're going to have some very challenging seam work.  Suspension arms often run through bodywork or drivetrain components, and seams or gaps there will stick out like a red flag.  Nor do you have a lot of room in which to fit sandpaper or sanding sticks, either.  (Hint: the narrow sanding sticks found in craft stores are a lot of help.)  Wing assemblies and spoiler boxes require precise alignment, they often require different colors, and you have to figure out how and when to apply carbon fiber decal where needed.  Fun.  And there's very little room in which to work, too.

There's an additional challenge if it's an injection-molded plastic kit; the limitations of the form mean parts a little too thick and clunky.  Then there are problems you wish the manufacturer hadn't induced; for instance, this McLaren kit has wide, trench-like panel lines that don't look realistic at all.  Others come when you compare the kit to pictures; the side stacks, for instance, need to be moved down the side pods a bit, and there are a couple of tiny strakes that need to be added. 

Then there's that fabulously complex paint scheme, too.  And it involves silver, one of the colors least forgiving of sloppy surface preparation.

It's because of these problems that this McLaren has sat, forlorn, upstairs for a while.  I'd started to work on it months ago, but in the course of solving some problems, I created others.  On Sunday, inspired by the Monaco race and my momentum going because of the Sea King and Crusader, I got back to work on it.  By the time evening came, I was covered in dust and tiny plastic shavings from sanding things out and thinning parts down.  But, darn it, the thing was starting to look like the real car. 

It may not come out looking like a showpiece, but I can at least say that it'll come out looking better than it would have otherwise.