The Northward Contrail

The big shot

Some Tuesday viewing: assorted clips from the coverage of Apollo 4, the first launch of the Saturn V, in November 1967.  Included are some real treasures, including Uncle Walter's excited commentary about the studio window vibrating.  And some vintage Bergman, too.  Enjoy.

Video hypnosis

For Friday's video fun, I'll share something from my travels.  When I'm traveling through central Florida and have to spend the night, it's inevitable I'll come across a commercial like these as I'm flipping through the channels.  Good ol' Sam pops up on the cable system, and I can't tear myself away.  With his enthusiasm for appliances, his unusual demonstrations, and the mesmerizing green-and-yellow suit worn by his assistant, I can't change the channel. 

But the one I'll always remember is this one.  It happened to be playing the weekend last year that I went down for the launch of STS-124.  I remember spending that morning in my motel room waiting for the call from the guy who was providing my transportation.  The cable channel that carried NASA TV ran these ads during lulls in the coverage.  So for the rest of the day, while I was there to see this great moment I'd waited my whole life to experience firsthand...in the back of my mind, all I could think about was Sam loading red velvet cake into dishwashers.  What a moment.

A close second was the morning in Daytona Beach when I was flipping through the channels and found the Ronco Showtime Rotisserie infomercial...dubbed into Spanish.  Seeing Ron Popeil on the television, but with his voice dubbed over with this really suave voice speaking in another language, was on that border between "weird" and "awesome," with the balance tipping towards "awesome."

The best medicine

"Medicine's not a science."  -- Dr. Leo Spaceman

I went to the doctor on Friday.  It was my annual check-up; time to get everything done and get the meds re-upped and everything.  I made a day trip of it, and despite an unpleasant surprise, it ended up being a really good day out.

This clinic I use is two hours away, but is worth the trip.  I've been seeing these folks for more than a decade, after a really fortunate referral.  The doctor I was initially with moved on, and I was put in the care of a nurse practitioner.  This turned out to be a really lucky thing.  She's *very* good at what she does, and she's very wise to the ways of the human body and to the things that happen to ladies as we mature.  Imagine a really cool older aunt, one who's really wise to the ways of the world, one who's always quick with a wink and an encouraging word, and there you are.

I'm very loyal to her, and for good reason.  Many doctors I've had were interested only in whatever specialty I was there for, or whatever my chief complaint was.  This nurse practitioner, though, is interested in more than certain of my components; she's also interested in how I'm doing overall, both in terms of physical health and also how my life is going.  That kind of interest and caring is worth an awful lot to me.

I don't see doctors very often.  I try my best to stay away from situations where I have to see them, and that involves a lot of exercise, careful diet, good hygiene, avoiding germs when I can.  When I do see a doctor, though, whether it's for illness/injury or a routine exam, I want to know I can rest easy.  That's especially true if that doctor's going to be sawing on me while I'm out.  Twice I've been operated on by doctors who were really cool, who had the understated confidence of fighter pilots.  I knew I'd be just fine with those guys at work.  I'd say the same about the doctor who did my flight physical last October; she seems like not only a great doctor, but someone you'd love to have as your next-door neighbor, and if I didn't live so far away, I'd definitely have her as my general practitioner.

At the other end of the scale, I've had some doctors who acted like weenies.  Two in particular come to mind: one an ex-Navy doctor I got, by luck of the draw, when I ended up in the emergency room once (he didn't care for me too much, and, to be honest, I ended up not being exactly thrilled with him either), and the other a general practitioner in Florida who was a gruff bully with no bedside manner (and with whom I ended up having a rather nasty shouting match in his waiting room after my health insurance ran out).  Most doctors I've had just fade into the background, especially since they're interchangeable large-practice GPs that you pull by luck of the draw; just look at my infected sinuses, give me the prescriptions and go see the next patient.  You don't really get to know these folks.

With that in my history, there's a reason why I like finding good doctors and sticking with them.  And that's why I drive two hours to see this nurse practitioner.  I like knowing someone will take care of me who will talk to me gently (especially important given how much I don't like doctors' offices, and given certain unpleasant portions of the physical exams ladies have to undergo), listen to me, provide me with the information I need, give me advice on how to head off potential problems, and do it all with a wonderful sagacity.

That's part of why today went well; I came out of it all feeling I'd been cared for, and that gave me a good feeling.  Of course, with it came a surprise; seems in the last little bit, I'd picked up a little minor ailment that required some medication.  (I imagine stress, travel and so forth the last few weeks aided the development of this little problem.)  No problem, though; in fact, I didn't know anything was wrong until she pointed it out.  Then it all started making sense, given a few very minor, scattered symptoms I've had the last few weeks.  The lightbulb in my head is like an old radio tube sometimes; you have to turn it on and let it warm up for a while.  But she was on it, told me what I needed to do, and although it startled me a little at first, I knew I'd be okay.  (Among other things, I'd need to take Cipro.  Remember a few years ago, during the anthrax scare, when everybody was wanting to hoard that stuff in case there was a big anthrax attack?)

Other than that, things were fine, and with prescriptions and lab paperwork in hand, I was off to find more adventure.  I needed lunch, and panini is always good for what ails me, so I went and had some lunch.  Then I decided to get the two single-shot prescriptions filled before heading home, since I'd probably get back about the time the local drug store would be closing its pharmacy.  There's a Wal-Mart adjacent to a favorite hobby shop, so I went down there and dropped off the prescriptions.  I was advised to return in a half-hour, because they'd be closing the pharmacy for lunch.  I came back a half-hour later; the antibiotic prescription was ready, but they were awaiting a callback from the doc on the analgesic I'd been prescribed, and were about to close for lunch.  I foresaw this taking all day, so I just had them sell me the antibiotic, return the prescription for the analgesic, and make do with that.  While the analgesic would be handy, it's the Cipro that does the heavy lifting.  The once-coveted terrorism-fighting drug set me back all of four bucks.  Nice work.

So, with that settled up, it was time for hobby shop fun; something for me and a surprise for hubby (who's home doing yard work).  The folks at the shop want to know where he is, and send their regards.  And then, before hitting the road to go back home, a stop at Dunkin' Donuts.  We don't have many of those around these parts, and I'm taking advantage of this opportunity.  Eight bucks gets you a dozen, any assortment you want.  Only it ain't the Dunkin' Donuts guy from the old commercials; it's a kid, probably not yet out of his teens, who could still use a little instruction on how to properly use the little piece of wax paper.  Oh, well, you microwave these things when you get home, anyway.  (And while I prefer the lightness of a Krispy Kreme doughnut, I'm not about to knock Dunkin' Donuts at all.  Seldom in my life have I ever considered any doughnut to not be good.)

And then the winding road brought me back home.  It was a long day, but a good one, and it ended well.  I started in on my Cipro and slowly started to feel some improvement.  Hubby and I started laying waste to the box of doughnuts.  And things seemed right with the world.

Somewhere, Rube Goldberg was laughing

Saturday, two days in, and I'm still getting used to a different time zone.  My internal clock wants to get me up three hours early.  I go back to sleep and have a weird dream in which I am Liz Lemon.  (What, like I'm not in real life?)  Soon enough, the real get-up time comes.  I get cleaned up and hang out in the lobby for a little while, using the wi-fi and waiting for my friend.  There's a swarm of cruise traffic and flight crews checking in and checking out.  There's also an education convention here, too, and that gets interesting as well.

My friend and I have breakfast.  He opts for the buffet again, and I toy with the mega-waffle again but settle for a bowl of granola, fruit and yogurt.  I'm eating like crazy on this trip, and discretion should be the better part of valor at least some of the time. 

We're on the road for Bremerton today.  My friend had agonized over taking the ferry vs. taking the drive around vs. parking the car in Seattle and doing the walk-on deal, and finally settled on us driving around and taking the ferry back with the car.  So we set out.  I'd been on the phone with a friend who works with the Navy up here, and he was going to meet up with us over in Bremerton.  It's a beautiful drive.  Somewhere around Tacoma I get a phone call from my friend and we agree on a rendezvous point (a decommissioned destroyer now serving as a museum ship near the ferry dock) and time.  All is good. 

The drive is gorgeous.  We round Tacoma and cross the narrows over the Tacoma Narrows Bridge, the 1950 bridge that replaced "Galloping Gertie."  This means a lot to me, because Gertie's been a fascination for more than 20 years or so.  Now here I am, crossing the bridge that replaced one of history's most famous engineering disasters. 

In a little while, we're coming up on Bremerton.  It's a visit I was fated to make, sooner or later.  About 20 years ago I thought I was moving up here to work on a museum project, but it never came to pass.  Now, though, here I am.  We come around a couple of curves, and, big as life, there's the naval shipyard.  Three decommissioned aircraft carriers sit stripped, awaiting their fates.  Three big ships -- Independence, Constellation, Ranger, their deeds well known to me, ships whose names were constantly in news stories when I was growing up.  There they are, faded, stripped, peeling, riding high in the water.  They remain majestic, even as powerless as they are.  You wish they didn't have to sit through this, waiting year after year for whatever fate is coming. 

Around the naval shipyard we go, into town.  But we didn't count on what was going on that day.  We'd noticed flags at half-staff, and had wondered who died.  Well, much of Bremerton is blocked off.  We notice a parade going on.  Lots of full-dress ROTC types in chromed helmet liners and plated Garand drill rifles.  Downtown is a mess, and the detours snake us around a town we're already unfamiliar with.  Since we're early, though, it's no big deal. 

We're not due at the museum until noon, so we take some time to reconnoiter a route to the ferry pier.  A few twists and turns, and there's the ferry dock.  Only we don't see a turn-around.  Ah, crap.  Then, salvation.  There's a turn-around.  In the queue ahead of us is a large white passenger van.  We fall in behind it.  Problem is, the van is too long to make the turnaround in one move.  The driver hits reverse.  The next thing I know, I'm shouting the name of a preferred higher power, my friend is leaning on the horn, and there's a very slight nudge to our front end.  The van's driver pulls forward, hits the gas, and is gone.  Since it all happens in a hurry, and since we're not sure if there's any damage, neither of us has the presence of mind to get a tag number.  We make the turnaround, then my friend hops out to see if anything happened to the car.  As soon as he makes it around to the front end, I know something happened, and that it wasn't good. 

We worm our way around, trying to find a place that's safe to park and call the appropriate parties.  We end up finding a parking place across the river.  I hop outside with my phone and notify my friend we're meeting up with that we've had something happen and may be a little late.  Right then, I wasn't expecting it to take very long; by then, I'd had a look at the damage, and it wasn't much.  It almost looked like you'd taken a fist and punched the corner of the front bumper; the damage would probably pop right out, and any paint damage could be polished out with a little compound.  Still, better to let the rental firm know. 

To make a long story short, the next hour and a half was like a really sick series of bureaucratic jokes involving the rental agency, an insurer, and, eventually, the local cops.  We had to call them to file a report because the rental agency insisted on a police report and case number.  And getting hold of the Bremerton cops on a weekend was a real effort, especially for a car accident with no injuries.  All the while, I'm playing constant telephone tag with my friend, who's across the river aboard the very museum ship we were then supposed to be aboard, the very ship I am staring at as we wait and wait for this all to play out.

Finally, the cop finds us and does what he has to do.  He's pretty cool about it all, a little frustrated that the rental agencies make them do this kind of thing (it eats up time they could be spending on more serious things).  He's very professional, but also very pleasant to us, and after everything that's happened, that's as much a relief as anything. 

At long and blessed last, we're free to go.  We wind our way back across the river and finally make it to the museum, where my friend awaits.  He's already paid our admission and we can go aboard, but first, my friend and I are parched, and we shotgun a 24-ounce soft drink each before going aboard.  It's a welcome relief. 

Then it's time to go aboard USS Turner Joy.  Maybe that name sounds familiar?  Well, this ship was involved in the second round of the Gulf of Tonkin incident in 1964.  (The other destroyer involved in the incident, USS Maddox, went off to her fate long ago.)  Turner Joy served in the Pacific Fleet for more than two decades before being laid up at the Puget Sound Naval Shipyard.  While most of her sister ships were scrapped or expended as targets, Turner Joy instead was towed around the corner and opened as a museum ship along the redeveloped Bremerton waterfront.  The ship has been well cared for, and though there have been a few modifications made in the name of accessibility and tourism, Turner Joy still feels much like a working warship. 

My friend is a retired Navy officer who now works with the Navy as a civilian.  Before he retired, he was chief engineer on a destroyer.  He was assigned to ships similar to Turner Joy, and the first hour of our tour is spent below decks, getting a detailed crash course down in the engine and boiler rooms.  We learn a lot of stuff that you'll never find in the textbooks, and it's great. 

In all, we spend a couple hours aboard, and it's time well spent.  As we're climbing all around the ship, though, I take a glance over towards the shipyard.  Something caught my eye and made me do a double-take.  Sure enough, sitting over in the yard was a big ship with the number "63" painted on the island.  It was an old friend I hadn't seen in 18 years, the aircraft carrier Kitty Hawk.  In 1991 we took a vacation to Virginia and dropped by during the open-house at Norfolk one Saturday.  Kitty Hawk was just back from a major overhaul and was open for visiting, and we went aboard.  Now Kitty Hawk's back from her final deployment, just decommissioned a few days before, awaiting whatever fate holds for her. 

Soon we're back on the pier, and we talk a while with my friend before it's time to go.  While my friends talk engineering, we notice an eagle perching atop Turner Joy's mast.  Another one comes along, and I try my best with the point-and-shoot digital camera I'm using on the trip.

It's getting late, and we need to catch the ferry back to Seattle.  We drive over, buy our ticket, and park the car in line.  There's a lot of shops around the ferry terminal, and my friend and I go to a nearby ice cream parlor for something to tide us over.  We come back to the car and eat ice cream and listen to music.  Soon the ferry arrives and we drive aboard, leave the car and head topside.  As we pull away, I take some farewell pictures of Kitty Hawk.  (I've deliberately not Photoshopped these.  In their original state, they capture what I was feeling.)

I also notice something else: what's left of the nuclear-powered cruiser Long Beach.

I hadn't known what to expect on this ferry trip.  It ended up being one of the most memorable parts of the whole journey.  My friend and I spent the trip at the railings, taking pictures and talking about life and everything else.  To describe it would be to take away from the moment, but it was one of those moments that you want to file away in the back of your mind for when life gets really bad; you can always remember this moment, on the ferry headed back for Seattle, surrounded by all this gorgeous scenery, the mist splashing over the bow, Rainier looming in the background, the seagulls flying formation with you, the wind meeting you head-on...and all you can think about is, holy cow, how lucky is your life that you get to do stuff like this? 

Soon the Emerald City is dead ahead:

A couple of Coast Guard icebreakers in for maintenance, one in a floating drydock alongside another ship in another floating drydock:

And too soon the Walla Walla pulls in alongside a sister ferry.

All too soon, it's time to claim the car and drive off.  Seattle's a mess to drive in as it is, but the ferry traffic lets out right near Safeco Field.  And there's a game.  Not just any game, mind you, but the Red Sox are in town.  And it's a Saturday night.  What a mess.  After a bit, though, we're out of the snarl.  A quick stop at a store for some supplies, and then it's back to the Doubletree.  We get something to eat, kill a bottle of really good sherry, and then call it an evening.  It's been a too-long day. 

Back in my room, I give myself some time to enjoy one more night's worth of cool breeze through my open door before bedtime.  I won't get this again anytime soon, so best enjoy it while I can.

How fast do you want to spend?

I'm slowly going through the pictures and everything from this weekend.  We shoot a lot of pictures when we go to the Rolex 24.  If you're lucky, sometimes you get a real keeper or two of a shot.  When I have the camera, I do a lot of bracketing, hoping that if I take ten pictures, one will turn out pretty good.  On the other hand, hubby has the golden touch.  The picture up above, of the #01 Lexus Riley fighting the ultimately victorious #58 Porsche Riley, was taken by him.

Sometimes hubby and I have daydreams about various fun, money-losing enterprises we'd get into if we could.  One such fantasy is fielding a team in one of the sports car series, and while we were killing time in the stands before the race Saturday we talked about it again.  We've come up with a name for our team and identified a sponsor or two we'd love to snag.  Between the two of us, we know enough people who have been involved in motorsports at various levels that we have a start on a pit crew and a driver team.  We're in pretty good shape.  Now all we need is one of those ones with a bunch of zeroes behind it and one of those funny "S" symbols that has a couple lines through it.  That's all we really need, just a little money.  To give you an idea of what we'd have to do, here's an article.  (Though some folks in the know say those estimates are low by at least 30%.  Emphasis on "at least" there.)

:: Ad astra per aspera  Those who know the history of American space exploration know that the last week of January and the first day of February bring three grim anniversaries: the Apollo 1 fire in 1967, the Challenger accident in 1986, and the Columbia accident of six years ago.  NASA's Day of Remembrance website has a Flash presentation that pays tribute to the 17 explorers who lost their lives in these accidents.  (From the archives: You can see a picture of Pad 34's ruins in this post, and a quiet little floral tribute here.)

Winston Wolfe and you

I started out this morning with a list of things to do.  Actually, it was carried over from yesterday.  There are a couple items I needed before one of my completed projects was ready to go out the door.  For the life of me, I couldn't find them.  The local mega-retailer, which had been a reliable source for them less than a year ago, has now eliminated these items from stock.  I was ready today to drive way out of my way, risking life and limb, on a wild goose chase for these items.  ("Wild goose chase" because I didn't know if the stores I was going to check had them.)

This morning, though, in some idle searching online, eBay came to my rescue.  I found them -- and, yes, I'll have to pay for postage, but that's worth its price in the sanity I'll save today, as I can focus on the other things I must get done.

Moments like that are when you hear a well-dressed (and, thankfully, dressed) Harvey Keitel in your brain.  "I'm Winston Wolfe.  I solve problems."

:: Take a look at this little science project.  Wow.  You know, to digress a bit, I see stuff like this and it still makes me a little sad that, by the time I got into ninth grade, they'd eliminated the practical space-science part of the science curriculum.  I used to watch with envy as the older kids got to build and fire model rockets.  By the time I came along, though, they'd eliminated that.  Man, though, can you imagine being 11 or 12 and helping send something into space like this?  Wow.

The Feast of Maximum Reading

So the semester is over.  Today is "Reading Day," supposedly a day for the kids to prepare for the final exams, which begin tomorrow.  When I was an undergraduate, my college didn't have a reading day -- we went straight into the final exam schedule.  It took me a little time to get accustomed to the practice once I began working. 

I always hated final exams, anyway.  Maybe it's the practical side of me, but I never really thought exams (especially final exams of the sort commonly given) did anything except reveal how much you were able to cram the night before.  Instead, I always thought a more lasting, and in some ways more diabolical, form of final exam was when you instead have to demonstrate some sort of mastery of how to do something, or how to employ a concept.  It's one thing to recite something back; it's another to actually have to do it, and in so doing have to demonstrate an understanding of why something does what it does.  That's why, whenever I can, I give final projects that make my students show me that they know what to do in response to a given task.

There are times I feel I don't belong in academia.  I enjoy it, but sometimes I'm too practical and don't have the classic mindset of an educator.  It's more like I'm an assignment editor telling the students, "Here's what you need to go do -- now go do it.  I'll guide you a little, but I won't baby-sit you.  You're supposed to know how to do it by now."

:: Miles and Miles O'Brien  There's a particularly diabolical form of heartbreak I'm feeling, as word comes that Miles O'Brien is leaving CNN.  The network is reshuffling things, and O'Brien's form of science reporting is out.  I'll spare you the typical rant about how this ill-advised reshuffling only drives home my belief that modern electronic journalism is even more going to hell in a handbasket, but I think you know how it makes me feel. 

I feel O'Brien's loss especially hard because he was about the closest thing left to a Jules Bergman in television news -- a reporter who, while he could do many things, pretty much owned the science and aerospace beats.  And, better still, a reporter who knew what he was talking about.  While many reporters and anchors routinely shoot their mouths off not knowing what they're talking about when there's an aviation story, O'Brien could talk authoritatively about it: not only as a journalist, but as a pilot.  He followed the space program very closely, knew it inside out, and was in line to become the first journalist in space (until the STS-107 disaster wiped that out).

O'Brien's departure, and the folding of science/space/environmental coverage into the general editoral structure, is also sort of a symbolic passing, too.  One of the people who helped Ted Turner start CNN was Robert Wussler, who in the 1960s and early 1970s was the executive producer of CBS' coverage of the Apollo missions, including its epic coverage of Apollo 11.  So, from its start, CNN had sort of a historic link to the glory days of the space program and its coverage on television.  Throughout CNN's history, it gave coverage to spaceflight when other networks wouldn't (remember, CNN was about the only outlet to cover Challenger's final launch as it happened).  Into the 1990s, CNN gave coverage to spaceflight when others wouldn't or couldn't, and let reporters like John Holliman (and, later, O'Brien) serve as specialists on the subject.  Now, with this reorganization, and with Miles O'Brien leaving, what's to become of that legacy?

I shouldn't be surprised, though.  It's journalism, yes, but it's also business, and the conflict between the two has lasted as long as they've coexisted.

Happy birthday, Fredo

Today is Fred Haise's 75th birthday.  He's most remembered as one of the Apollo 13 astronauts (Bill Paxton played him in the movie), but there's more to him than that.  He did a lot more with NASA, notably serving as a test pilot during the atmospheric tests of the Space Shuttle in the 1970s.  In so many capacities -- support crew member, test pilot, astronaut -- Fred Haise gave an awful lot of himself to the space program.  And by many accounts, he's a heck of a nice guy. 

Now Fredo needs your help.  He's been working to get a science center built near his hometown of Biloxi, Mississippi.  But it's been slow going.  Here's where you come in.  The science center foundation is starting a new campaign called "$2 Our Hero."  If two million Americans kick in $2 each...well, you do the math.  When you have a few moments, why not head over and see what you can do to help?  It'd make his day.

The flashing "next event" light in your brain

I've noticed something the longer I've been working here: the longer it goes on, the less of an attention span I have.  This job has taken multitasking to a new level.  Like right now, for instance: I'm typing on this while listening to a live audio stream.  While I'm doing that, I'm keeping an ear open because, at any moment, a student could be walking my way for help.  I'm also keeping an eye on the clock because it's coming up time for the next class.  Frequently, what I'm doing is interrupted by the "bing" alert of a new e-mail via the listserv.  Then I mis-type something and have to correct it, which TypePad's new interface makes more challenging because there's a lag between keystroke and character showing up on the screen.

The upshot?  I experience several things at once.  But none of them stick.  Imus just interviewed Howard Kurtz, and it was a good interview.  I love when Howard Kurtz is on.  But I didn't get to hear a word of it because I've been busy.  That wouldn't be so bad, but it'll probably get replayed tomorrow on the RFD-TV telecast when I watch the first part of it from home...and while I may get to hear it, I still won't hear it.  See, it follows me home.  There are times when I come home and would like to sack out on the couch for a bit, but I don't because I have the feeling the phone will ring or something else will happen.  I figure that I won't get any rest if I get interrupted, so why bother to begin with?

Maybe that's why I come home and rest, but don't rest.  It's that flashing "next event" light in my brain.

:: Speaking of flashing lights, a couple of great websites that'll suck you in for hours: the Apollo Lunar Surface Journal, a comprehensive (and I mean comprehensive), living, frequently-updated guide to the lunar explorations of the Apollo missions; and the in-progress Apollo Flight Journal, which intends to do the same for the parts of the flights not covered in the ALSJ and the non-landing flights as well.  Nerd girl says check 'em out. 

:: A couple of passings to note.  Herb Score, whose promising pitching career was cut short by a rather horrific injury and who built a second career as a well-loved play-by-play guy, passed away after an illness.  So too has Dodger great Preacher Roe. 

The meetings about the meetings will continue until the next meeting

As if the succession of meetings and other obligations that will eat up next week's afternoons and evenings isn't enough, I got notice today (almost first thing when I came in) that there's to be yet another one, the following week.  Decency standards forbid me from sharing here what I said then, but suffice to say that some angels somewhere are probably weeping and some longshoremen are probably blushing. (Yeah, sometimes I drop a wurty dird or two.  It's that calm, even German-Scots-Irish temperament of mine.)  

:: Two package notices in the mailbox yesterday, resulting in two packages being picked up, resulting in much fun once I was home.  One contained another package of DVDs.  This time, there's viewing pleasure in the form of most of Apollo 10, and solemn memories in the form of live coverage of the Challenger accident.  I haven't watched much of either one yet, but thus far what I've seen of Apollo 10 is a lot like the Apollo 8 stuff I described a couple weeks back, right down to the Western Electric ads.  The Challenger coverage is a slice of life from 1986 until the accident happens, and the commercials you see pretty much scream "aspiring Wall Street yuppie" (there's an ad for Fortune magazine that pretty much drips that gestalt).  The coverage itself reminds me a lot of the coverage of the Kennedy assassination, but with a few more (but not many) technological innovations to tell the story, notably the endless replays of the videotape in true shooting-of-Buckwheat manner.  Anyhow, I'll write more about both of these at some point after I've been able to give them both the eyeball.

The other package contained a book titled Anyone Can Fly.  It was published in 1964.  It sounds like any other book about flight instruction, except for its author: ABC's Science Editor, Jules Bergman.  I grew up scared to death of Bergman; he had this voice-of-doom demeanor, and when I saw him on television, it scared me, I guess because he so often talked about scary scientific things.  (Considering I became aware of him about the time Three Mile Island and the DC-10 accident happened, maybe that's not surprising.)  I later came to learn that Bergman wasn't really a scary guy, and even got to see him be less than serious in some archived stuff.  It's the more relaxed Bergman you meet in Anyone Can Fly, as he describes with detail and humor the story of how he and his wife learned to fly, taking instruction in a Piper Tri-Pacer.  What makes my copy special?  On the flyleaf page, my copy is inscribed to its original owner: "With best wishes & safe flying -- Jules Bergman."

So it was a good day.  Of course, I wish I could have had many more hours yesterday to enjoy (well, in the case of the STS-51L stuff, I don't think the word "enjoy" is appropriate, but...) this stuff...sometimes, it's sensory overload!  Anyhow, I'll write more about this stuff as I'm able to, and I'll also try to provide some photographic accompaniment.  This stuff is pretty epic.

:: Another passing to note.  Last week we lost Studs Terkel, whose life in so many ways was a chronicle of our country's last century and whose contributions to literature, history and the arts (remember Studs' Place?) are beyond number.  I didn't make note of that last week, and I feel bad I didn't.

Well, this week we lost another: John Leonard, the activist, author and literary critic.  The way I came to know John Leonard was through his film and television reviews on Sunday Morning back in the Charles Kuralt days. Leonard's critiques were direct, incisive, occasionally snarky, frequently spot-on...and always made me think about what I was watching.  (You can read an archive of his work for New York magazine through this link.)  To borrow someone else's word about Leonard's essays, they challenged me.  Of course, there was more to John Leonard than that, and the many obits about him will fill you in on the whole story.  I'll just say that I miss the guy with the boundless vocabulary who used to visit me every Sunday morning, and fed my desire to be a vulture for culture.