The Northward Contrail

Reward and risk

So the big adventure has been over for a couple weeks now; slowly the ache is melting, and slowly I'm getting accustomed once more to being where I am.  And it's not a bad place to be, really, even if the heat and humidity here have lately been making our digital weather amusement center go haywire and reset itself every couple of days, and have made me long for being in a place where in July it's in the 60s and occasional 70s and things are bright and pleasant, and if you want cooler you can always climb higher.

Even with all this, and even with the healing that's gone on, and even as the sweet little aches recede into the realities of life, I keep coming back to the question: What part does Alaska play in my life?  More to the point, what part should it play?  My friend told me a week or so ago that he half expects me to inform him before too long that I'm coming up for an extended stay that becomes more than just a research trip.  As much as I chuckled with recognition, I know that's not likely to happen.

Oh, there are reasons, and I've gone over the more practical ones: the good job I have here, the family I have here, the home we've built, adjusting to a different climate (which, as much as I sometimes really hate the climate here, it's at least climate I've lived with most all my life, so I know how to deal with it).  There's the turmoil it would cause.  There's the pain of moving.  There's a spouse I have to think about.  There's my feeling that moving to Alaska just to do the same kind of work I do here would be kind of pointless. There's a list of practical reasons as long as your arm against it.

But there's one very good reason I probably won't make the move, and I haven't shared this with anyone.

One of my favorite movies of all time, one I'd put on the proverbial desert island list, is Mister Roberts.  I love it for way too many reasons to list.  But, in this case, I think of it as a cautionary tale.  Roberts wants nothing more than to be transferred from his sleepy duty aboard a cargo ship; he wants to go where the action is, transferred to a combatant vessel.  The end of the war is coming, and he can't get to the action, and it frustrates him.  Finally, he gets his wish and is posted to a destroyer off Okinawa...where he's killed, drinking coffee in the wardroom, in a kamikaze attack.  

That came to mind the other day when I was thinking about how I'm sitting here some days, thinking about those distant mountains and those bush planes, and it's just like Roberts in the opening titles of the movie, standing on the foc's'le and watching the task force slink by in the distance, imagining himself on the bridge of a carrier or a battlewagon headed for the waters off Japan.  Roberts wanted it, and it cost him his life.  And, as much as it kind of freaks me to say it, I can see the fulfillment of my dream of Alaska costing me mine. 

It's because I see Alaska in much the same way I look at an airplane like an MU-2.  The MU-2 is a marvelous airplane.  But get behind the airplane while you're flying it, and it will kill you just like that.  It has happened many times.  You have to know exactly what you're doing, maintain complete awareness of what the airplane is doing, and you need to be trained and proficient and competent.  It takes time and training and skill and good judgment, because inattentiveness, carelessness or other lapses in an MU-2 will kill you a lot faster than in many other aircraft. 

And I can completely see this happening.  Let's say the stars do align somehow and I move to Alaska and I fulfill this wild dream of owning a little airplane, flying out to these remote areas.  I can easily see me getting just a little bit careless one day and smacking into a mountain.  Or say I go out for a nature hike one day and I fail to see that I'm between mama moose and her baby.  Or, just as easily, that I have an encounter with a bear that doesn't end well.  Or I'm driving to work one day on a snowy road and lose control of my vehicle and plunge off something, or swerve to miss a moose and end up losing an argument with gravity.  Or I go hiking and climb on the edge of something, and the ground beneath my feet turns out not to be quite as firm as I originally gauged, and it's two hundred feet down from there.  The list goes on.

Could I survive there?  Yes, as years pass, I would probably build the skills I needed, become wise to my environment, and do other things to mitigate the risks.  I already play it safe, and I'd build on that.  If I did join the ranks of the airplane owners up there, I'd take all the training I could, fly as much as I could, and generally try to stay wise and proficient (and if I couldn't afford to do all that, I just wouldn't fly).  And, I mean, it's not like I haven't learned how to adapt to strange new environments before (South Florida has its own hazards, and yet I survived there and adapted pretty well), and it's not like the place I live now doesn't have its risks -- there's snakes, deer darting in front of your car, angry bees, bobcats and other wild creatures that can get rabid and tear into you, and that's just the wildlife hazards.  But those, at least, I've become savvy about.  I know this because I've lived most all my life knowing certain things.  I know there are certain times of the year I don't go into our woods without watching my step very carefully and keeping my .38 in my back pocket in case I have a rendezvous with a copperhead.  I know the things to avoid.  I know the ways to protect myself here. 

And, over time, I'd learn how there.  I know I would, and I know I'd build a certain level of competence in being out and about.  But I'd have to approach it with a lot of care, and I'd have to give it time.  I would need to give myself time to build the kind of intelligence I'd need to survive.  I know I could do it.  But I'm also aware of how much I don't know, and it's what I don't know that could really bite me, especially early on.  Or, even, what could bite me after I've had years and years of experience, just like what almost happened to me a few months ago.

No matter where you go or what you do, there are risks.  Heck, I could walk out the door of my office tomorrow, cross the street and get hit by a bread truck (or ambulance, since I like the conceptual versions of such things to have elements of farce to them).  But something about being up there this time, and seeing more of it and being reminded of its power, has reminded me that with great beauty comes potential danger.  It's not fear that I have of this wild, strange, wonderful place called Alaska.  No, it's more like respect, and being reminded of just how much respect you need to have to avoid grief there, and that you need to keep your mind in the game when you're out and about. 

Like that MU-2, Alaska offers great reward.  But, if you're not careful and you let yourself fall behind, it'll bite you.

Maybe not

There are times I wish I did creative things more openly, instead of just doing what I do as a hired gun.  For instance, there are times I wish I wrote novels, or performed music, or was some sort of great public thinker.  Something, somehow, where I created something and put it out for the public to enjoy -- and, not incidentally, collect a little money for it.

Then there are times I'm very glad I don't do that.  Why?  Because it's inevitable: be creative, and somebody will take what you do and use it in a way far removed from your intent.  Put something out there over which you've labored, something with deep personal significance, and chances are somebody will appropriate it for something that's far removed from what you want.  If you're a philosopher, people will appropriate your words in ways that would horrify you, or use whatever ambiguities they can find to make your words fit their intent. 

(Or if you've said something really witty or memorable, you can bet on it making its way into Bartlett's.  Then, from there, you'll find it being included in graduation speeches, Speech 101 speeches, political addresses, personal webpages, editorials...so on and so forth.  Every year when the new student government officers are installed, I start wondering to myself which awkwardly-inserted, overused quote from which overquoted historical personage will be cited in the new student body president's inaugural address.  Churchill?  JFK?  Yogi Berra?  It almost never fails.)

If you're a musician, you run the risk of someday finding a song that's deeply meaningful to you being used as the backing track to a nacho chip commercial.  (Especially if you didn't sew up control of the rights.  Lots of musicians have been stung by that one.)  Be a movie star, and 20 years after you're dead, your estate will sell the rights to your image to appear in a commercial for something. 

I put this stuff out here on this blog for fun.  Some of it may seem like good stuff, on occasion.  But let me assure you that the really primo stuff, I don't share on here.  That, I'm saving, and I'm very careful who I share it with.  Because I know what happens.  You put it out there, and you lose control over it.  I've seen it happen too many times.  I don't want it to happen to me.

Random randomness

Last week was refreshing, but this week I'm back in the salt mine, and it's one of the crazy parts of the year, and things are starting to stack up a little.  So, in lieu of any Really Deep Thoughts today, some random Internet silliness I've enjoyed:

-- Looking for fine dining?  Try Hamm and Buble.

-- Titanic, as re-imagined by a certain entertainment megacorporation.

-- And because there's a place on the Interweb for everything, a website devoted to game show pilot episodes (industry lingo for the "proof-of-concept" shows done for networks or sponsors). 

Boeing Boeing 707

Found online, in six parts: a wonderful look back at the Boeing 707's first year.  Start here with Part 1 and work your way forward.  Not to be missed in Part 3: a segment about President Eisenhower's historic trip aboard a certain beloved aircraft.

Enjoy!

Glass houses

I grew up surrounded by trucks.  Not just pickup trucks, but big trucks.  Our dad drove trucks as part of his work, so my brother and I were riding on 18 wheels from the time we were, as they say, knee-high to a grasshopper.  (If I had a dollar for every mile I spent in the cab of an R-600, I'd never have to work again.  Man, those were fun days.  And, yes, there's another Jim Rockford parallel with my life: a dad who drove trucks.) 

It was also the 1970s, the heyday of Smokey and the Bandit and Movin' On and Convoy (the song, and then the movie) and what not, when CB radio was the big thing and "10-4, good buddy!" and "What's your 20?" were commonplace.  It was everywhere: in the music, on television, in the toy stores (care to guess how many of these types of things my brother and I built?) and elsewhere.

So whenever there was something truck-themed on television, we'd watch.  Movin' On was a staple, and we liked it in our home.  (We never did warm up to B.J. and the Bear, I think because it was a bit silly and because it was a bit too pretty-boy for our tastes.  Though I think we did watch Sheriff Lobo when it became its own show.)

Back then, the trucking movie that was most widely seen was when ABC's prime-time movie series would show White Line Fever with Jan-Michael Vincent.  Back then, it seemed ABC would show it two or three times a year.  We'd watch.  But a couple scenes would terrify me as a kid.  One was when Slim Pickens would get killed.  But nothing could match the stark raving terror I'd feel when this scene played.  Now I can watch it and laugh, but back then, it scared me to death, and I'd have to turn my head and close my eyes.  Go figure.

Perspective

I was looking for something the other day and happened across this (it's in six parts; the link takes you to the first part, and you can find the rest there).  It's a long-form interview, conducted by a famous documentarian, with Capt. Denny Fitch.  If you don't know the name, Fitch was involved in the United 232 accident in 1989.  He happened to be aboard the aircraft and volunteered his help to the flight crew.  It's a deeply moving film, in unexpected ways. 

If you've had a bad day, it's excellent viewing to help you put things in perspective.

Lurching toward completion

Last week I had a series of gift cards to use.  The time after the holidays is a good time to do this, too, since there's usually no shortage of sales, special deals and so on.  It also helped that a certain bookstore was running a special on DVDs, too.  So I'm now the proud owner of the Studio One collection, the Golden Age of Television set, and the Preston Sturges box set.  (If you've read this blog for a while, you'll know these selections are completely in character.  And, yes, at some point before too much longer I plan to blog about some of these things -- especially the Studio One DVDs, which contain commercials, station breaks and a bunch of other neat surprises, including a great panel discussion with some of the participants.  I'd forgotten how totally awesome Betty Furness was, but this panel discussion sure reminded me.)

While I was at it, though, I took care of some completion tasks.  For the past several years I've been collecting the Saturday Night Live complete season DVD sets.  This has been harder than it may seem, because there's two different styles of packaging.  One style, the "limited edition" style, comes in a stiff case with a hinged front that opens like a book.  There's another style that comes without that outer case.  The problem with ordering it online is that you don't know which one you'll get until it arrives.  This has resulted in some detective work, some of it frustrating at times.

One more collection that needed work was my SCTV collection.  I had the first two sets, but since they were so expensive it required time and luck to find them affordably.  However, a little online sleuthing and comparison shopping resulted in some good luck there, too, and I now have the third and fourth sets.  It may not be a complete set just yet, but it's still a relief, one less thing for which to look.

Let's just say it's a good thing I had those gift cards.  Being a completionist can sure be a pain in the neck sometimes.

For whom the blog rolls

We had some time the other day for movies, and we watched Julie and Julia.  If you haven't seen it, you really owe it to yourself; it's a delightful movie, and Meryl Streep could not have better inhabited the role of Julia Child.  (And the scenes with Jane Lynch as Julia's sister are nothing short of a hoot.)

The premise of the story, based on something that actually happened, is that a young woman decides to cook her way through Julia Child's cookbook in 365 days, and she writes about her experiences in a blog that steadily gets a following and media attention.  Throughout, there's her wish that she could meet Julia Child, and her wondering if the great one had read her blog.  (I'll leave it at that so I won't spoil the story, if you don't know the outcome.)

I watched this film with delight, of course, but I also watched it from the standpoint of someone who keeps an online journal.  Unlike Julie's, mine doesn't chronicle an ongoing adventure or project (unless you count "living one's life" as an ongoing adventure or project).  There's really no mission here, as you've probably noticed.  I have thought it would be great to have an ongoing project I could chronicle and share online, because it's neat to check in on projects and watch progress be made.  Once upon a time, I meant to do that with my flying lessons, but you know what happened there.  I could do it with my models and gadgetry.  But, there, you run into the same problem I have with the projects I do in the workshop: I work on them at a glacial pace, and I really hate having to stop at certain points to take pictures, and then download them from the camera, Photoshop them...you get the idea. 

And, aside from that, none of the projects I do are really that interesting.  There's only so many posts, for instance, you can get out of degreasing and cleaning a surplus Enfield.  Once you've cleaned and refinished one, they're all pretty much the same after that.  Could I do the same with a Selectric?  Well, I could sure take it apart, but getting it back together and working properly again...let's not talk about that.

For whom do I write the blog?  For me.  I know there's a few folks who read it (even a famous person or two have stopped in), and I appreciate it, and I hope they get something out of it, even if nothing more than an occasional laugh (for the right reasons, I hope).  But, if no one else but me ever read it, I'd still do this.  It's good for me.  It helps me keep my writing skills at work.  It also lets me get some thoughts and feelings out that I couldn't easily get out elsewhere.  (Few things are less romantic than a quiet evening at home in which I turn to hubby and say, "I had the greatest day cleaning my Selectric II today."  Yeah.) 

Would the Julie Powell thing be interesting if it happened to me?  Perhaps.  I'd love a book deal, for one thing, even though I really have nothing worth putting in a book (though Heaven knows we could use the money).  But, even if the blog remains forever the way it is now, I'm happy.  I have enough going on to be content, and I like having my own editorial direction.  It's one place where I know I'm in charge, and I like that.  

Gifts to myself

I've been doing a bit of Christmas shopping the last couple weeks.  Happily, most of it's completed now.  There are a couple of gift cards I still need to get for a couple people, and one or two smaller things, but the big stuff is either in hand or on the way.  I'm a firm believer in the wonder of e-commerce, and I'd much rather wait in line at the post office or wait for the delivery truck than risk life and limb in a retail store.  (Maybe that explains why some of my clothes don't fit so well.  But, I digress.)

In the process, I've picked up an item or two for myself.  Why do I do holiday shopping for myself?  For one, my likes and wants are obscure and close-held, and I can't drop hints to save my life.  Aside from that, it makes me feel clumsy when I do.  Why ask someone else to do something I can do for myself?  The other factor is that some of the things I like are a trifle dear -- not prohibitively expensive, but I feel less guilty when I'm the one paying for them.  So here's what Santa is bringing me this year:

:: The movie poster for Four Days in November.  I've been wanting this for a long time.  My office has needed a movie poster in it, and this is nice and understated. Plus, as you remember, the film is a favorite of mine.  

:: The Disney "Tomorrowland" DVD set.  Something else I've wanted for a long time (I have some of them recorded long ago on VHS off the Disney Channel, but I couldn't find them if you gave me all day to search), and if you know anything about the history of American space exploration, you know why these are historically significant.  It's an interesting glimpse into our memories of what the future would be like, and you watch these and can't help feeling a little cheated that 2010 doesn't look too terribly different from the 1980s and 1990s.

::  And, I've been a good girl, I guess.  (Or tried to be, at least.)  So I threw caution to the winds and treated myself to the Model Factory Hiro/Barchetta kit of the VJM02.  It's pretty in that orange and green, isn't it?  Tip of the hat to the always dependable folks at Strada Sports for their wonderful service on that one.  (Don't miss the adorable picture at the bottom of that page, by the way.)

Why we fight

Yesterday was Pearl Harbor Day, and as part of a Frank Capra marathon Turner Classic Movies was showing several of the Why We Fight films.  As some of you know, the War Department asked Capra to make the Why We Fight series as a crash course for new recruits during World War II.  It was figured new inductees didn't have the detailed knowledge behind why the United States was at war, so Why We Fight was meant to inform and motivate.

I've often talked about the Why We Fight films in some of my classes, but I'd never really sat down to watch any of them, so I watched War Comes to America.  I have to confess, I wasn't prepared for how powerful they were.  Capra's style of filmmaking -- the triumph of the decent, honest, upstanding little guy against all odds -- is well-known, and applied to the story of good vs. evil on a global scale, it's powerful.

Capra's films are often derided as "Capra-corn" because they have this quaint, almost naive faith in decency and in things working out in the end.  Life, of course, is seldom like that.  (I've found my own life is far from Capra-esque.  It's more like something Preston Sturges would have made.)  All that said, I can still get choked up by a good piece of Capra's work, and that's what worked on me as I watched last night.  Capra's idealized retelling of American history really got to me, and there's a reason.

I was a bookish kid who spent so much of my childhood reading biographies of historical figures.  To me, history was full of great heroes.  The libraries of my schools had these 200-page biographies of great Americans, written for schoolchildren, and I'd constantly have one of those checked out.  They were the stories of great leaders who rose from ordinary childhoods.  I could sympathize with the stories I read.  Henry Ford, the endless tinkerer whose father called his first automobile a fool contraption.  Young, weak, asthmatic Theodore Roosevelt being bullied by older and stronger kids, only to grow up and become President.  I read these books, and they were the stories of people who seemed no more special than I was, going on to do great things, fighting great battles and make history. 

I almost envisioned history as this sort of Camelot, full of these great figures who rose from simple beginnings and overcame the obstacles of life to become noble warriors who fought great battles.  As I grew older, I graduated from the junior biographies to books like Walter Lord's Day of Infamy and A Night to Remember, narrative history as a series of vignettes, and was captivated by those almost innocent images, almost straight from a Johnny Horton song.

Of course, I grew older and wiser, and I found things out.  Every great historical figure has a dark side.  I held American presidents high on a pedestal, only to learn as I grew older just what goes into attaining and maintaining office, and to learn that every President and every public figure had lesser qualities.  There's the line attributed to Pappy Boyington: "Show me a hero, and I'll show you a bum."  Having grown from an enthusiast to a trained historian, I know exactly what he's talking about.

Still, I see certain things in history, or from history, and I choke up a little.  I can watch Howard Hawks' Sergeant York, for instance, and though in some ways it's a very corny movie, oh, how it drills right to that part of my heart: the day is saved by a quiet hero who does the right thing when the moment comes to act, because it's the right thing to do.  It's the same chill that went up my spine when I visited Queenie a few months back: The cynical, grown-up me knows all the dirty political stuff that likely took place on board (and about her planned role as spy aircraft), but the more innocent part of me absolutely reveres that aircraft because I read stories of her in books when I was younger, and I know about all the history she made, and it absolutely humbled me to be aboard. 

The cynical, grown-up me knows the stories are a little corny.  But the seven-year-old me, nose in a book, doesn't need it explained to her.