The Northward Contrail

That's all there is

I'd dreaded this day, not just because I'd be going home, but also because I was worried about how I would handle it.  Three years ago, when it was time to say goodbye, I was distraught.  My friend and I still joke about how I was inconsolable at the thought of leaving, how I burst into tears as we drove around Anchorage that morning, and all that.

But this year, it didn't happen.  There's a reason, and I'll get to that in due course.  Anyway, I took my bath and packed my bags, made sure everything was accounted for, and waited for the day to begin.  There had been talk of a meet-up with my friend's wife at lunchtime, and I was hoping that would come to pass.

But then the phone rang about 8 a.m.  That wasn't good.  I could hear my friend having a rather detailed discussion about a technical problem. Yep, the real world had intruded.  My friend was not very happy about it, not only because he'd had plans for that day, but also because he was officially on vacation.  When he was done on the phone, he told me we'd be heading into Anchorage a little early because he had to go by the office and deal with this issue.

The lunch plans got scrapped, and instead we went by my friend's place of employment.  I took a seat in his office and minded my own beeswax while he went into the equipment room and installed some new tubes on the UNIVAC or whatever it was he had to do.  When that was done, we went to lunch at a really good Japanese restaurant.  I managed to use chopsticks without looking like a (total) klutz.  Your victories are where you can get them.

From there, we drove over to the airport.  But not to the terminal just yet; there was still some time.  Instead, we went to the Alaska Aviation Heritage Museum by Lake Hood.  It's not the largest museum or the shiniest, but it's a great museum, not to be missed.  This doesn't begin to scratch the surface, but some pictures:

I used to watch these fly out of Anchorage.  One of my fondest memories is of a morning six years ago when we watched one of these (perhaps this very one) do a post-maintenance four-engine run-up not fifty yards from where we were. Now Northern Air Cargo's DC-6s are history.

Remains of the Douglas World Cruiser "Seattle."  Of obvious interest to anyone who has the old Williams Bros. kit.

I'm seriously thinking of putting this sign over my office door.

Lowell Thomas Jr.'s Helio Courier.  (You probably know of his dad, but Junior's led quite the life of his own.)

Just like a certain 747, not even a DC-6 can escape the tax man. 

The Mudhen.  One of Alaska Airlines' 737-200 Combi aircraft, outfitted with a gravel kit to let her operate from unimproved runways.  She carried cargo up front and people in the rear.  Years ago I had a chance to fly on one, but didn't take up the offer.  Now I wish I had.

You know you've been used a lot when your doublers have doublers.

One rescued PBY.  Just needs a little work.

A couple of Cessnas parked near the PBY.  It's impossible for me to describe the multiple layers of longing that scene makes me feel.  (No, I didn't take that picture thinking "Windows wallpaper for work computer."  Why do you ask such silly questions?)

Next door is Rust's Flying Service.  There's no shortage of interesting hardware there, but when we were walking around the outdoor exhibits, we heard this beast roaring along the adjacent taxiway.  And then we saw it.  The Otter sounds as evil as it looks with turbo power, but, oh, man, what an airplane. When I saw it parked there, I told my friend to stop for a moment because I was having a Moment Of Geek and needed to take a picture.

Unfortunately, soon it was time to head to the terminal.  We took one last look around.  There was an American 777 parked at the end of the International terminal, not something you see often in Anchorage.  We wondered what the story was.  (Later, we found out.)

But the time had come.  And I didn't cry.  Instead, my friend and I laughed, embraced, made jokes.  I told him defiantly, "Make sure this place don't go nowhere.  I'll be back real soon."  And I meant it. That's what made this time different: knowing Alaska is mine, any time I want it.  All I have to do is go online, book a ticket (which is surprisingly affordable), and it's mine.  Last time, I felt grief.  This time, I felt I'd conquered something.

Alaska used to make me cry with longing.  Now, it makes me go, "Hot diggety damn!  When do I get to do it again?"  (If I'm lucky, it'll be sooner than ever.  Stay tuned on that.)

41 years ago

I didn't get to add this link yesterday, when I would have liked to, but: My friend Professor Mondo posted this wonderful essay yesterday, looking back at a night 41 years ago.  Nerd Girl says check it out.

Welcome to Alaska

The new day dawned.  Actually, the new day had dawned very early; it's that time of year in Alaska.  The room I was in had very good drapes on it that kept out most of the light, so sleeping was easy enough.

Most of this day was spent out exploring nature up around Hatcher Pass and Summit Lake.  My host and his wife do a lot of hiking and exploring around the huge natural paradise in which they live, and part of why he had me up this time of year was to see the difference from my usual mid-May visits.  Believe me, it was different, very lush and green.  We had gorgeous weather that day, too, which made it seem even more otherworldly.  I didn't feel like I was in Alaska; it felt like New Zealand or Ireland.

There were many people out taking advantage of the nice weather (including a lady whose two dogs splashed around Summit Lake, one of them coming over to try to take my water bottle).  But do some careful hiking and you can find a place to sit and think all by yourself.  That's what I did, taking a seat on a rocky ledge, looking out at this paradise you see below, and thinking about how lucky I really am.  Yep, this place is my other home.

The rest of the day was spent on more humdrum tasks.  We went into town for lunch, stopped by a bookstore and looked around, and then hit the grocery store for supplies.  Rainier cherries were on sale, dirt-cheap, and we loaded up on those.  And among the provisions were a couple pounds of fresh salmon fillets.  Although I normally avoid meat, I'd been wanting to try some Alaska salmon for a long time, and my host was going to oblige this visit.

Back at the house, we adjourned to his workshop.  My friend and I share the hobby of these little plastic airplanes, and he also has a fine stock of rare woods and woodworking equipment.  We've known each other coming up on a dozen years, and we share the craftsperson's mindset, so we understand each other on that level.  But it's more than that.  There's a saying about how friends are the family you choose for yourself, and that's why I tell people part of why I'm in Alaska so much is because I have family there.  Yeah, my friend and I share the same interests, have the same sick sense of humor, and all that, but we can have long conversations about life and the universe and all that.  I have a brother and I love him, but my friend's like another brother I should have had (though he's no doubt thankful not to be related to me, but I digress).  That's much of the fun of getting together.  We had a few bottles of locally-brewed product and talked for a few while, and life was great.

After a little while we came back inside.  His wife had come home from work, and I hadn't seen her since my last visit, so we spent some time talking in the den, catching up on things and comparing stories about our cats while my friend made dinner.  It was during this lull that the house suddenly went "whump!" and swayed a little.  The nearest thing I can compare it to is being aboard an airliner that's made a hard landing, that same sort of quick thump that dampens out.  After a second or two, everything was fine.  Just like that, I'd experienced my first Alaskan earthquake, another component of my indoctrination.  It's a fact of life up there, just one of those things that happens, and it's much better to have a bunch of little earthquakes than have 1964 happen all over again. 

After that, the rest of the evening was quiet and uneventful.  Dinner was good.  The day's adventures had tired us out, so we didn't linger too long after dinner.  The next day would bring more adventures, and some memorable photographic opportunities.

A Memorial Day prayer

From Norman Corwin's "On a Note of Triumph":

Lord God of trajectory and blast
Whose terrible sword has laid open the serpent
So it withers in the sun for the just to see,
Sheathe now the swift avenging blade with the names of nations writ on it,
And assist in the preparation of the ploughshare.

Lord God of fresh bread and tranquil mornings,
Who walks in the circuit of heaven among the worthy,
Deliver notice to the fallen young men
That tokens of orange juice and a whole egg appear now before the hungry children;
That night again falls cooling on the earth as quietly as when it leaves your hand;
That Freedom has withstood the tyrant like a Malta in a hostile sea,
And that the soul of man is surely a Sevastopol which goes down hard and leaps from ruin quickly.

Lord God of the topcoat and the living wage
Who has furred the fox against the time of winter
And stored provender of bees in summer's brightest places,
Do bring sweet influences to bear upon the assembly line:
Accept the smoke of the milltown among the accredited clouds of the sky:
Fend from the wind with a house and hedge, him whom you made in your image,
And permit him to pick of the tree and the flock
That he may eat today without fear of tomorrow
And clothe himself with dignity in December.

Lord God of test-tube and blueprint
Who jointed molecules of dust and shook them till their name was Adam,
Who taught worms and stars how they could live together,
Appear now among the parliaments of conquerors and give instruction to their schemes:
Measure out new liberties so none shall suffer for his father's color or the credo of his choice:
Post proofs that brotherhood is not so wild a dream as those who profit by postponing it pretend:
Sit at the treaty table and convoy the hopes of the little peoples through expected straits,
And press into the final seal a sign that peace will come for longer than posterities can see ahead,
That man unto his fellow man shall be a friend forever.

(Thanks to Transom.org for the text.)

From Norman Corwin's "On a Note of Triumph":

Lord God of trajectory and blast
Whose terrible sword has laid open the serpent
So it withers in the sun for the just to see,
Sheathe now the swift avenging blade with the names of nations writ on it,
And assist in the preparation of the ploughshare.

Lord God of fresh bread and tranquil mornings,
Who walks in the circuit of heaven among the worthy,
Deliver notice to the fallen young men
That tokens of orange juice and a whole egg appear now before the hungry children;
That night again falls cooling on the earth as quietly as when it leaves your hand;
That Freedom has withstood the tyrant like a Malta in a hostile sea,
And that the soul of man is surely a Sevastopol which goes down hard and leaps from ruin quickly.

Lord God of the topcoat and the living wage
Who has furred the fox against the time of winter
And stored provender of bees in summer's brightest places,
Do bring sweet influences to bear upon the assembly line:
Accept the smoke of the milltown among the accredited clouds of the sky:
Fend from the wind with a house and hedge, him whom you made in your image,
And permit him to pick of the tree and the flock
That he may eat today without fear of tomorrow
And clothe himself with dignity in December.

Lord God of test-tube and blueprint
Who jointed molecules of dust and shook them till their name was Adam,
Who taught worms and stars how they could live together,
Appear now among the parliaments of conquerors and give instruction to their schemes:
Measure out new liberties so none shall suffer for his father's color or the credo of his choice:
Post proofs that brotherhood is not so wild a dream as those who profit by postponing it pretend:
Sit at the treaty table and convoy the hopes of the little peoples through expected straits,
And press into the final seal a sign that peace will come for longer than posterities can see ahead,
That man unto his fellow man shall be a friend forever.

(Thanks to Transom.org for the text.)

Ain't that weird?

One of the big influences on my sense of humor was "Brother Dave" Gardner.  I think I've talked about him before on here.  My parents had his first four ablums he did for RCA Victor, and my brother and I listened to them a lot growing up.  (And I mean a lot.)  I can still tell many of his stories word for word.  It's a little weird hearing this far-out stuff coming from a hep-talkin' Southern cat, but, man, it influenced me like crazy, not only in my philosophies of life but also in my sense of humor.

Back then, I didn't know much about him.  He seemed to have dropped off the face of the earth after the early 1960s.  Some time in the early 1980s, a local newspaper ran a wire story showing a picture of Brother Dave, smiling, sitting in a hospital room after a brush with death, talking about his poor health and trying to get out of debt.  Not long after, he died.  One day, we discovered his 1975 "New Comedy Album" in a used book store, and listening to it was sort of a jolt; you could recognize flashes of the old Dave, but there was something worn-down and a little bitter about it.  (Years later, I came across Larry L. King's Harper's essay "Whatever Happened To Brother Dave?" -- it used to be online in full but isn't any more, but it's worth seeking out regardless -- and a lot of blank spots got filled in.)  Even with what I know about Brother Dave now, and what became of him, I still love him and I'm still interested in him.  There's been rumors that a biography will be written, and I hope that happens.  

Anyway, while Brother Dave is remembered as a comedian, he was also a singer and musician, and that's the point of today's discourse.  The ever-useful WFMU blog featured this post a few years back I recently discovered, with some recordings from Brother Dave's 45s.  By far, my favorite is his minor hit "White Silver Sands."  He performed a version on one of his comedy ablums, but the 45 version is so much fun.  Give it a listen and see if it doesn't make you smile.

The old garage

Last week I reminisced for a bit about the old trucks at my great-grandfather's place, and all the other treasures that made visiting them a treat.  And while I talked about the trucks, I didn't talk about the vehicles that still operated.  Those were pretty interesting.

My great-grandparents bought their last vehicles back in the 1950s and 1960s: a 1954 Chevy pickup and a 1962 Impala sedan.  They'd kept driving them through the years.  They had no need for anything else, and they knew there was no need to trade in something that still works just fine.  Both vehicles could have used a coat of paint, but otherwise they were in good condition and ran fine.

For me, this was another treat.  That Impala was a time machine for me, and I loved climbing into the driver's seat and pretending to be out and about in this wonderful old car.  My great-grandfather knew I loved that car, too.  I remember he pulled it under the big oak tree in the back yard one day so I could wash it for him, because I'd begged him to let me.

The pickup, I liked too.  I especially loved the front end on it, with that goofy pointy nose.  You didn't see that every day.  It was in that truck that my great-grandfather taught me how to use the "three on the tree" straight-drive transmission out in his driveway one day.

My great-grandfather was a kind, loving man.  My great-grandmother was just outright sweet.  The memories I have of her are of a tiny woman with a quick wit and a heart ten times her size.  When she died, it devastated my great-grandfather.  I was too young to realize this, or why it was he'd sit all day up in his house in his favorite chair and not do very much.  I was too young to understand that he was heartsick.  The love of his life, and he'd spent more than 50 years with her, now gone.

One day I was out in the shed playing in the Impala, just as I'd always done.  I could hear his voice yelling through the open window, telling me to get out of the car.  I could play in the truck all I wanted, he said, but leave that car alone.  He was getting kind of upset about it, too.  I ran down to my grandparents' house, in tears, and sobbed to my grandmother about how mean my great-grandfather was being, for no apparent reason.

It took me many years, longer than I'd like to admit, to figure out why he was so upset.  It's because the Impala was what the wife for whom he was grieving used to drive.  That was her car.  That's why it upset him. I didn't mean to, but I was disturbing her memory, and it tortured him.

My great-grandfather died not long after.  We figured he died as much of a broken heart as anything else.  He sold the truck a few months before he died, and the Impala got dealt in the settlement of the estate.  Lord only knows what became of it, or the pickup. I'm not sure I want to know, really.  It would probably break my heart.

Upstairs in my workshop I have a resin conversion set to turn the AMT 1950 Chevy pickup into a 1954 version, complete with that pointy front end.  I plan to paint it the same color as my great-grandfather's, maybe weather-beat the paint just a little too.  It'll bring back a lot of happy memories.

Now what?

I used to be involved in preservation efforts.  My heart's still with those efforts, even if what I've learned has jaundiced my views. 

Saving something historic is noble and worthy, and I'm all for it.  Anyone who's put as much of their life into it as I have would have to be in favor of it.  The problem is, it's complicated.  It's even more so if it's something mechanical.  And large.  Add even more complexity points if you want it to work as it originally did.  If it's made of metal, add even more complexity.  If it floats...oh, brother.

Sometimes I look around the Internet and see these groups that are trying to preserve historic vessels.  That's dear to me, and I applaud them for doing it, and of course I hope they succeed.  But sometimes I wonder if they really know what they're getting into.  A ship is difficult to preserve.  It can be done, and done very well, but it takes a lot of planning, a lot of resources, and a lot of cooperation from the government and the local business community.  And a lot of money doesn't hurt, either.  The stories are too numerous of the efforts that didn't take, for whatever reason.  And, a few efforts I've seen, I would love to see them come through, but I seriously wonder if they're feasible.  Maybe 10 or 15 years ago, something could have been done, but time and events haven't been good to the properties in question.  Restoration to some acceptable standard for display and reuse would cost upwards of a hundred million or so.  

What I particularly love are the people who want to see certain things saved, or certain aircraft back in the air, or you name it...but it's obvious they're daydreaming, and/or spending someone else's money to do it.  Would it be nice to, say, see a squadron of F-102As performing on the airshow circuit?  You bet.  The F-102 is probably my favorite of the Century Series.  (Not quite as elegant as the follow-on F-106, but lovely in its own way.)  But you're talking about half-century-old airframes that would require renewal, ancient avionics that aren't so easily replaced with newer systems, older-generation jet engines that aren't exactly fuel-efficient...that's not to mention the costs of training pilots to fly the things and getting people who know how to work on the aircraft (and, let's not forget, the knowledge base on the Deuce, contained in the brains of those who used to maintain them, dwindles by the day), doing all the paperwork and certification (and how many casual airshow fans really know what goes into all the paperwork the FAA requires for most anything?), and getting all the required licenses, permits and waivers and so on.  Already you've spent millions upon millions upon millions before you've even taxi-tested the aircraft. 

So, yes, it would be nice to satisfy the fans of the classic iron by having an old rare airplane like that zoom from the history books into a low screaming pass down the local runway.  But where's the money coming from?  Are the fans willing to pony up to help make it happen?  Or is it a daydream to be played out with the money of some imaginary benefactor? 

Please don't mistake me as someone who thinks preservation is a stupid idea.  Believe me, if I had the resources, I'd be funding preservation efforts right and left, and you'd see some really important ships and aircraft and buildings and other big structures being restored.  The problem, though, is that I don't.  And, I've been there.  And while I understand the impulse the observer or admirer may have to say "they oughta save this," it all comes down to resources.  As the line goes from The Right Stuff, "No bucks, no Buck Rogers."

Sepia

Time does things to our recollections.  It blunts sharp edges, for one.  Or, you think about the troubles you're facing, and look back to an earlier time when things didn't seem so bad.  What you often fail to realize is that, yes, times were just as bad then as they are now.  Things from back then only seem better; that's because you know how it all turned out.  Then, chances are that in the future, you'll look back on the rotten times you're having now and think, "Man, things weren't that bad, were they?"

This happens a lot, and I've talked about it before, how time puts sepia tones on everything, but if you went back in time to that moment, it probably wouldn't take long before you started thinking, "Man, this really sort of sucked, didn't it?"  For instance, I look back sometimes on my first year at this job, and I think about how wonderful it is in retrospect: sprung from a location I didn't like and a job I didn't like, and starting over in a place not too far from my hometown, a place where I felt comfortable, where the students were so much nicer and the higher-ups a little more laid-back. 

But what do I forget?  The months hubby was out of work after he moved up.  The months between the last payout of my previous contract's salary and the time my new job's contract kicked in; for several months, I was living off a line of credit that I didn't pay off until just a few years ago.  Or the months before I'd set up a bank account here, when I'd have to Express Mail a check to my bank in Florida to prevent a bounce.  I also had no health insurance until that October (I couldn't afford COBRA, and couldn't buy my own insurance due to a pre-existing condition), so I lived in mortal fear of something happening to me.  (Oh, and let's not forget how the world turned scary for everyone a few weeks into the Fall 2001 semester.  Let's not forget the angst of the week or two afterward, when I had to sleep with a light on.)

Better back then?  As if.

I caught myself thinking about this a few mornings ago, wondering if, someday, I'll look back on all these mornings when I left home before dark to come in early and catch up on my work and do all these other things -- these mornings that, as things grind on, become more miserable and make me ache for May to get here -- and I wonder if I'll foolishly look back on those days with fondness. 

If that happens, I hope someone comes up from out of nowhere and provides me with a hilarious dope slap.  Because, I'll tell you right now, Future Me, it ain't anything to be fond about.

A visit with Neil

A few years back I happened to be in Alabama.  Talladega was just over a little from my destination, so I made time to visit the museum next to the speedway.  It's well worth a visit if you're in the area.

There's a lot to see in the museum.  Some exhibits are more interesting than others.  Some exhibits are more intact than others.  And some are unexpectedly moving, especially on afternoons when the visitors are few and the exhibit halls are quiet, as they were the day I visited.

This is what remains of a Chevrolet Lumina stock car driven by Neil Bonnett at Talladega in 1993.  Neil had been out of action for a few years after a horrifying accident left him with head injuries.  He recovered, went on to a second career as a beloved member of the team in the broadcast booth.  But the fire was still there, so Richard Childress Racing put Neil in a car for a couple races in 1993.  (Childress employed Neil's best friend, Dale Earnhardt, so it isn't hard to see how it happened.) 

It was said when Bonnett took to the track in this car, after being away from racing for so long, his eyes welled up.  It was where he wanted to be, and he was in his element, and all at a track he knew well that was close to home.  Then this accident sent the car flying into the catch fence, tearing down part of it.  It looked horrible.  But Neil was soon out of the car, walking and talking, seemed to be just fine, and ended the day in the broadcast booth alongside his former television colleagues.

Neil Bonnett hoped to end his racing career on his own terms, and was going to drive a few races in 1994 with a different team.  But he was killed in a single-car crash at Daytona the following February.  Something went wrong and Neil was killed.  There are those who say that after his best buddy Neil was killed, Dale Earnhardt never really got over the loss.

What's left of Neil's Talladega car is in the Talladega museum.  It's mute testimony to the violence of a high-speed crash, and testimony to how these cars protected their occupants.  As you can see, there's only a rope line between you and the wreckage, and it beckons you for a closer look.

Get close enough and you can almost stick your head in the driver's side window opening.  It's an eerie feeling to look in there.  You know nobody was hurt in there, but you also know that its driver was taken from us a few months later.  It's almost like Neil's aura is still there, somehow.

Maybe you can understand why, when I looked in there, I whispered, "Hey there, Neil."

The things yet undone

I've done a lot of cool things in my life, and I've had a lot of fulfillment.  But there are some things in this life I haven't done, and I'd still love to do them.  This isn't the really big stuff -- I haven't ruled out flying in space, for instance, but I know it's kind of a tall order -- but, rather, things that if I threw some time and money at them, I could reasonably accomplish. 

I'm not sure if I'll ever get all of these done, but I do like the idea of having goals yet unmet.  It gives me something to shoot for.  (To paraphrase the lovely words of Scott Crossfield, I like the idea of always having another dawn.)

In no particular order:

• I'd love to master a foreign language.  For some reason, I've wanted for a long time to learn Russian.  I think it's because of my Cold War fascination.
• I'd also love to learn how to read music.  And learn how to play at least one musical instrument, too.
• I'd love to take courses in driving a race car.  At Oshkosh a few years back, I talked with one of the instructors from the Skip Barber school, and that really did me no good.  I'm not talking about one of the one-day skills courses, either; I'm talking about a full-blown racing course.  Of course, there's no way I'd become a professional racer (I'm too aware of my own limitations for that; maybe, at best, I'd be the third-string driver on a GT team at a Rolex Series race), but it's something I would love to do.
• I'd love to have a couple days at one of the major broadcasting repositories -- say, for instance, the Paley Center -- so I could finally view a lot of historic recordings that aren't commonly seen.
• I still have to visit New Zealand.  (This isn't a matter of "if," but "when."  This is because promises have been made to third parties.)
• I'd love to write, shoot, direct and edit an original documentary.  I had a hand in one a few years ago, but my students did most of the work and the subject, though intriguing, wasn't of my choosing.  This time, I'd do the choosing, and all the work, and retain the ownership. 
• For a long time, I've thought it would be a hoot to travel the entire length of U.S. 1, north to south.  It used to be the major East Coast artery, but that function's been taken over by I-95.  I'd love to see what's become of the old road.  (This is similar to how some folks travel the old route of Route 66.)
• I'd love to spend several days in Washington, D.C., seeing things at my own pace, not on a tour or anything, but just going to these locations I've read about, places I traveled to in my youth as I read biographies and histories.  I've been to the nation's capitol (and been in the Capitol itself, on a rather amazing self-guided tour with a friend), but I've never had enough time when I was there.  
• It also occurs to me that I should probably ride a horse at least once in my lifetime.  I don't believe I ever have.  I like horses well enough, but I haven't had occasion to spend time around them.  Still, maybe it's the latent Teddy Roosevelt (or Liz Halliday) in me that says it would be a bully idea to ride a horse at least once in my life.