Dispatches From the Away-Dad Nation

The New Year

2012-01-04T20:42:00.000-06:00

Another year in my life and yours. River rafting strikes me as a metaphor for life: when you're negotiating the turbulent rapids, your attention is focused on what is to come. But then, in the calm stretches, you have the luxury of looking back and wondering about the meaning hidden in the calm behind you.

Gee. That was so profound, I just want to hurl.

Things change. I learned that a couple of high school classmates died. Some coworkers went to other helicopter operators. People I know moved away from our area.

I came back from two weeks away from home last time, and I wondered if someone slipped some sort of growth formula into my kid's food: he looked nearly as tall as Rhonda, who's five-seven. Sure enough, I put him up against the growth chart, and my eleven year-old son, Dylan, is now five-five. He's grown an inch and a half since September. I fear, with teenage years on the horizon, that we'll have to take out a second mortgage just to feed him.

I realize that my writing dwindled more and more, so I made a modest New Year's resolution: I will write for a minimum of six hours per week. Blogging, working on the anthology, grocery lists, whatever: if I have to set my alarm for an hour earlier a few times a week, I'll get those hours in. Six hours ain't much compared to what serious writers put in, but it would be a marked improvement in output for me.

Happy New Year to all my friends out there, and may the rapids in your life be just frequent enough to give you a renewed appreciation for the calm waters.

But, not so frequent that you wanna hurl.

Fun With Spam

2011-11-30T14:26:00.001-06:00

It's been a good while since one of these emails snuck through the spam filter, so I thought I'd have a little fun with it.

Here's the email from, uh, "Mary."

Wow!

You are an exquisite looking man. So stunning. You captured my attention.

But then I imagine you have that affect on all women. Would you be interested in corresponding? If you would like to know more about me, please reply to my email.

Sincerely,

Mary

I couldn't just leave the poor gal hanging, so I promptly replied.

Dear Mary,

It's true: tall, middle-aged, somewhat overweight balding men such as me are often burdened by the need to fend off young, alluring women such as you.

That said, I do appreciate the accolade. I'll try to keep it in mind when I shave in the morning, when I'm prone to talk to myself: "Whoa man, what the hell happened to you?"

However, my wife is a passionate Italian woman who happens to be quite proficient with firearms. So, even if I were inclined to let the little Eskimo explore strange igloos, my strong sense of self-preservation would preclude such (mis)adventures.

I sincerely hope I've let you down gently. And please, quit skipping meals.

Regards,

Hal Johnson

Mixing

2011-11-24T22:00:00.001-06:00

It's been a long time since I've thought of someone as "my bartender." I don't frequent taverns much nowadays, but for the last few months, on my break night before flying home, I've stayed at a hotel in New Orleans with a bar and restaurant I like.

The first night I met K as my bartender, I was talking to a British waterworks engineer who'd recently lost his wife. K mentioned that she'd lost her husband a few years ago to cancer. He was only in his forties.

The last time I saw K on the night before flying back home, the restaurant was busy, but the bar deserted. Being the nosy guy I am, I asked how she met her husband. She told me that they met during Mardi Gras, and started dating. She then told me how they came to be married.

"Marry me," she said to him.

"I don't want to get married," he said.

"Then I'm going back to California," she said.

"Okay then, I'll marry you," he said.

They were married for twenty-five years before cancer took him away. She followed the ambulance with her oldest son and daughter in the car. Her youngest son rode with his dad in the ambulance.

The dad looked at his son. "I'm not going home again. You know that, don't you?"

The youngest son couldn't accept such a proclamation. "Sure you will, Dad."

Silence.

The dad looked at his youngest again. "Your mom is the love of my life."

And indeed, the dad never went home again, although his message did make it back to the woman who would soon carry on as a single parent, making a living in a bar, pouring beer for nosy guys like me.

September Exchanges

2011-10-04T04:22:00.000-05:00

A few nights ago, I came upon Dylan eating sunflower seeds. I asked him to clean up the shells. An hour later, the shells were still there. I asked him again. 20 minutes later, the shells were still there. So, I gave him a choice. "You can clean up those shells NOW, or I'll pick you up from school tomorrow wearing a Speedo."

The boy moves fast when he's motivated.

***

A question from my eleven year-old son: "I hear people say they're 'overwhelmed.' Is anybody ever just 'whelmed'?"

***

A day after the ten-year anniversary of the 9-11 attacks, journalist/musician Jim Dyar posted this: "I remember the short window of unity that happened after 9-11. It didn't last long, but it was tangible. Can we go there in our minds again? It requires dropping off all your bags that are marked 'I hate (something).'"

A Change of Heart

2011-09-27T04:30:00.000-05:00

People ask me how my son handles me going away to fly helicopters. That's the nature of most flying jobs; dads (and sometimes moms) go away to work.

At eleven, Dylan is pretty stoic about me leaving, except during times like hurricane evacutions in the Gulf of Mexico, or annual training, when I'm away for longer stretches than usual. My friend and coworker Todd has a son the same age, and relates that it's pretty much the same with his son.

It's all Dylan has known, after all. When he was a little guy, prior to starting school, I'd get a kick out of how he reacted when I walked through the door after being away: it was like he picked up on whatever conversation we had before I left.

But at the age of seven, it seemed that Dylan really got a grasp of how other families lived. His little friends had their dads home every night. One night, when I reminded him that I'd be leaving the next morning, he burst into tears. It shook me. I held him in my arms like he was three again.
"I don't want you to leave, Daddy."

Oh geez. For the last year, I'd been "Dad" instead of "Daddy." This was serious.

I said, "Dylan, if me going away is really getting to you, I'll find another job."
"Really?"
"Yeah, really."

He pondered that for a moment. "So you'd be home every night?"
"Yep. Every night." More pondering.
"Dad, would you still volunteer at my school?"
"Well, probably not. I'd probably be at work. Have you noticed that it's mostly moms who volunteer at school?"
"Yeah. Dad?"
"What, Punkin?"
"Does that mean we couldn't go camping during the summer?"
"We could go camping, but it would mostly be on the weekends."
He frowns. "While more people are there at the lake?"
"Yeah."

He thinks more. "Dad?"
"Yeah?"
"If you got a job where you didn't have to leave, does that mean you wouldn't be a helicopter pilot?"
"Well, yeah, I guess that's what it means."
"I couldn't tell my friends my dad is a helicopter pilot anymore?"
"I guess not," I say.

He holds his hands up in a stop right there gesture. "WHOA WHOA WHOA. FORGET IT."

And that was the last time he brought it up. Sometimes, I guess, peer influence can be a blessing.

Shoulder Time

2011-09-20T05:48:00.000-05:00

A couple of nights ago, Dylan and I sat next to each other on the sofa. He was feeling rotten, suffering through flu-like symptoms. He leaned against my shoulder as we watched TV, and a realization washed over me: it had been at least a year since he'd leaned up against me like that. He was sick then, too.

Don't get me wrong. I'm openly affectionate toward Dylan, and he doesn't seem to mind. We hug a lot. When I drop him off at his school in the morning, I still kiss him on the head, and he doesn't seem too embarrassed.

Yet?

He's eleven now, and getting more independent, and the little boy in him is receding into the background, little by little. I thought about that as we sat there on the sofa.

Sometimes, he gets exasperated with me, and informs me that I still treat him like a little kid. I explain to him that, to me, it doesn't seem so long ago that he was so small I feared breaking him while picking him up.

One day, when he was three, we came back from town. I extracted him out of his car seat, held him close, and kissed his head.
"Thank you, Daddy. Will you still kiss me when I'm thirteen?"

I was taken aback, and I laughed a surprised laugh. Where the heck did a three year-old come up with such a question?

"Well of course, Punkin'. But you know, sometimes by the time boys are thirteen, they don't want to be kissed by their daddies anymore. I might have to chase you down and tackle you just to kiss your head."
He giggled. "That sounds like fun."

It also sounds like a good motivator to stay in shape.

No Thanks, E.T.

2011-07-15T00:41:00.004-05:00

Funny, I don't think of myself as a guy steeped in vanity, but a dream I had a couple of nights ago has me questioning how well I know myself.

I was day hiking in the Trinity Alps when I came across a spaceship. A little purple man--not green, purple--invited me inside. He cut right to the chase.

"We have a mission for you."

"Me?"

"Yes, you."

Hm.

"We have devised a verbal campaign to save earthlings from destroying themselves and their planet, and we have chosen you to deliver our messages."

"Well, okay. But, y'know, I have a family, and I have a job." Maybe my family and my job didn't mean anything to those little purple bastards, but they would know in no uncertain terms that they were important to me.

"You would deliver our messages over the internet. All we ask is one hour per week."

"That sounds workable," I said. "Anything else about this assignment I should know?"

They looked at each other. I knew those little purple bastards were hiding something.

"Well, your messages will be in video form. Since image is important to earth people, we propose to modify your appearance somewhat."

"How so?"

"We wish to restore the dormant hair follicles on your cranium. You will no longer be in the throes of male pattern baldness."

"Cool," I said.

"And, you must grow your hair long, and wear it in dreadlocks. You should never be heard listening to any music save that of Bob Marley, and you should be seen eating quinoa with every meal."

"Dreadlocks?"

"Yes, dreadlocks."

"Will my hair still be gray?"

"Yes. The gray will lend credibility."

I weighed the pros and cons of their offer for a few moments. "So really, just an hour per week?"

"Yes. One hour per week."

"Okay. Sign me up."

Rhonda was able to stay home the next morning. I told her and Dylan about the dream.

"DREADLOCKS?" they asked in unison. Family stereo.

"Yep, dreadlocks. I'd be one stylin' middle aged dude."

"Dad?"

"Yeah, Dyl?"

"If that ever happens for real, and they say you have to wear dreadlocks, please turn them down."

"That kind of stings your old man, Dyl."

"Dad, the truth hurts. You should never be seen in public wearing dreadlocks."

Just wait until Halloween.

America's Braveheart?

2011-07-04T03:24:00.001-05:00

   "Young 'giant' Peter Francisco was the most renowned common soldier in the Continental Army — and possibly in the entire history of the U.S. Army." That's from an article in Military History magazine.
   He was a giant of a man for the time, standing six feet six inches, and weighing 260 pounds. In 1777, he joined the 10th Virginia Regiment at the age of sixteen, and over the next three years, his battlefield prowess gained him a near-mythical status among fellow soldiers. He carried a five-foot sword made under the authorization of General George Washington. Washington himself said that the American Revolution might well have been lost without the benefit of Francisco in key battles.
   Why isn't he better known? Well, one reason might be that he was not a member of the landed gentry. In fact, his origins are a bit of a mystery. Legend says that that he was brought to North America at the age of five. He was found sitting on a dock in what's now Hopewell, Virginia, wearing expensive clothing. He spoke only Portuguese. He was taken in by an uncle of Patrick Henry, Anthony Winston, and lived with and was tutored by the family until the start of the American Revolution.
   After the war, he married and had two children. He lost his wife in 1790, but later remarried and had four more children.
   He was probably born in 1760, and died in 1831. Perhaps his name will one day gain the recognition warranted by his superhuman feats.
   After all, without Peter Francisco, we might have grown up with fish and chips instead of hamburgers.

A Review from Buzz

2011-06-28T03:50:00.008-05:00

Have you ever used Yelp? It's a good way to discover what people say about restaurants and other businesses should you find yourself in a different city. Heck, I've discovered places in my own town thanks to Yelp.
The writing can get downright entertaining. In Redding, our star Yelp reviewer is a guy named Buzz. Buzz has over 200 reviews on Yelp, and he tells it like it is. I sent him a message a few days ago asking him if he did a blog, and if I could post one of his reviews on mine. Nope, he doesn't do a blog, and that's a shame. But, he gave me the okay to post this review.
So here's a Yelp review from Buzz, my very first, ahem, guest blogger. Caution: Buzz is rather blunt. His review concerns a place called the Palo Cedro Inn here in Shasta County, California.

***

Do you guys know how Game 5 of the NBA Finals turned out?

I'm asking because I went to PCI last night to watch the game -- our satellite dish was on the blink. I watched the second quarter in relative peace -- the only distraction was listening to the guy sitting a few stools to my left go on and on about how the world's supply of crude oil is actually infinite, and conservation is bullshit, because God replenishes it as we use it up. See, that's why the center of the earth is hot. It's God's way of cooking up more crude oil. There's actually so much oil that it's bubbling to the surface in Canada and the Dakotas, and the only reason there are shortages is because Democrats and environmentalists blah blah blah blah blah....

At halftime I'm eating my soup-and-salad dinner when a guy sits down next to me and proceeds to tell my all about his last five years in one long stream-of-consciousness epic saga. Included were details about a nasty divorce from a member of a prominent local hill clan that involved a prenuptial agreement regarding an $8 million estate, a back-stabbbing housemaid who committed perjury, a bitter custody fight, multiple car wrecks and DUIs, bulging discs, disability, Medicare, sexual molestation charges involving a minor.....

About every two minutes he says something like, "And that's all I got to say about that. I said enough already. You're trying to watch the basketball game. (He looks at the screen.) Hey, nobody touch the nigger! It's a foul if you touch that nigger. Ha ha ha." Then back to his life's story.

I'm staring a hole in the TV screen in the 3rd quarter, hoping the guy next to me is going to follow through on his promise to go talk to the owner, which is why he says he's there. A woman walks up and ask the bartender to change the channel.

This is the same bartender who knows I'm there to watch the basketball game, which I've been doing since I arrived, and I'm watching now with as much focused intensity as I can muster given that the guy next to me is still talking about how the girl involved in the molestation charge is a big fat liar, and he heard Glenn Beck say on the radio today that it's going to be a law that we all have to learn how to speak Spanish, and his only hope at getting the truth out about the molestation is the anchorman at Channel 24 News in Chico, and if you ever need a lawyer get one from Alturas 'cause they still make their living off the land over there, and the Grand Jury won't do shit about his ex-wife even though his lawyer told him they would.....

The bartender changes the channel.

Check, please.

Our Feet on Their Backs

2011-06-21T03:53:00.010-05:00

A few years ago, my friend Algernon D’Ammassa wrote about taking a leave of absence from his employer. They filled his position with a temp. She was a capable, energetic woman who quickly showed her value to the organization, and when Algernon returned to his position, his employer decided to keep her on. One condition of her permanent employment, though, was a credit and background check. Alas, the credit check revealed that the young woman had once declared bankruptcy. Just like that, she was out of the running and jobless.

More and more, it seems acceptable in our culture to blame others for their own misfortunes. If someone has been unemployed for a long period of time, he or she must be lazy or stupid or both. Compassion is for suckers.

Nowadays, job ads appear warning the jobless that they need not apply. Last year, Sony Ericsson decided to move its headquarters to an Atlanta suburb. The move would create 180 new jobs, but included in the job announcement was this: “No unemployed candidates will be considered at all.”

More such ads seem be surfacing. In the words of Mr. D’Ammassa: “We put our feet on the backs of those who try to get back up.”

Calabama

2011-06-15T09:55:00.008-05:00

My friend Steve Brewer has a new novel out, titled Calabama. I’ve read sixteen of Steve’s novels, and liked them all, but this one will probably rank among my favorites when time puts things in perspective.

I was a fan of Steve’s before we became friends. I met him a few years ago at a gathering of local authors, and bought a book from him, Bank Job. At the time, I hardly read fiction at all, tending toward nonfiction almost exclusively.

Bank Job got me reading fiction again, and opened my eyes to the crime fiction genre. My wife Rhonda minored in Theater Arts in college, and acted in several plays during and after college. She says, “Good acting is when you forget that they’re acting.” I find a parallel in Steve’s writing. With twenty-two years under his belt as a journalist before transitioning to a career as a self-employed author, he brings a journalist’s strengths to his fiction, an economical, cut-to-the-chase style that allows the story to be king. With Steve’s work, I’m reading a story, I’m not reading writing.

In an interview, author Eric Beetner said it best. He was asked, "Which author should be much better known?" He answered, "My go-to for this is always Steve Brewer. He's as good as Elmore Leonard with a fraction of the accolades."

On the website Mystery Fanfare today, Steve wrote about Calabama.

You need certain key ingredients to get going on a new novel -- a setting, a notion of the plot, a good opening line, a protagonist that speaks to you. I also like to have a title in mind before I start writing, though we all know they sometimes change.

Occasionally, the title is the spark that sets an idea on fire. That was certainly the case with my 18th crime novel, CALABAMA.

I first heard the term from a friend in Redding, California, where I lived from 2003 to 2010. Redding is an isolated city of ninety thousand people, way up north near Lake Shasta, and it's the setting for one of my other novels, BANK JOB.

Soon as I heard the word "Calabama," I knew I must write a novel to go under it. It was the perfect description for life in inland California.

When most people think of California, what comes to mind is Los Angeles or San Francisco or beach towns like Santa Cruz, where I live now. But the state's vast interior is rural and socially traditional and politically conservative and prone to pickup trucks. It resembles Arkansas (where I grew up), but with palm trees.

I've bucked that redneck mentality my whole life, so it was easy to create a character who'd do the same. Eric Newlin is a dope-smoking slacker who landed in Redding by accident. He's unhappily married, works for his father-in-law and dreams of escaping Calabama.

Eric survives a traffic accident, one of those near-misses that feel like an omen, and he decides his life is going to change. It does. It goes straight to hell. Jobless and broke, Eric gets mixed up in a kidnapping scheme with a local crimelord named Rydell Vance, and things go very wrong.

The novel's a hillbilly noir, full of violence and greed and backwoods bitterness, but leavened with dark humor.

Kind of like Calabama itself.

Alas, Steve and his wife Kelly moved from Redding to Santa Cruz several months ago. Santa Cruz is a lovely place, but good luck finding an all-night taxidermist in that town.

Calabama is available today on Kindle and Smashwords.

An End of the World in 1969

2011-06-06T23:50:00.001-05:00

When I was thirteen years old, in 1969, a local pastor in our area convinced most of his congregation to move from southern California to Tennessee. He’d had a vision that a monstrous earthquake would hit California, and that most of the state would end up underwater.

I think I remember that about three-quarters of his congregation left their jobs, homes, and lives in Oxnard behind. They pulled up stakes and moved to Tennessee. Some of the people were rather connected in the community, so it made front page of the newspaper.

A week after they arrived, the biggest earthquake to hit the Tennessee area in decades rumbled through. Could that be evidence that God has a sense of humor?

As I recall, the pastor had no comment.

Gomez, Sweet and Mighty

2011-05-30T22:34:00.005-05:00

It seems that blogs are often a repository for grief, especially for grief attached to the loss of a pet. People seem to accept as a given that a post about the death of a pet will find like-minded eyes. Me too. This is one of those posts.

If we lose a human loved one, we expect to garner sympathy far and wide, I think. But the loss of a pet seems to occupy a netherworld in the landscape of solace. If you sit up at a bar in a tavern, spilling your heart out about the death of your dog or cat, the guy or gal next to you may weep right along with you. Or, he or she might roll the eyes and think, “What’s wrong with this guy? It’s not like he lost a brother or sister.” That’s just the way it is. If you think of a pet as part of your family, you get it. If you think of a pet as just an animal, you don’t.

Rhonda found Gomez hiding in the shrubs near a restaurant in April, 2000. It was a colder than normal day for early spring, it was raining, and the little puppy was tiny and shivering. She tried to beckon him with food, but he was scared. That’s saying something, because Rhonda is like a magnet to dogs, cats, and kids.

Rhonda came home to tell me about the puppy she’d seen. She cried in the telling. She’d found him in a parking lot near a busy street, and she feared he would be killed before she could find him again.

But the next day, there he was, hiding in the same spot under the shrubbery. She’d brought a hamburger patty, and the little puppy came to her, hunger outstripping fear. She fed him bits of meat, talked to him, and petted him. Soon, he let her pick him up.

She called me on the way home. “I have him.”

I waited for her in the driveway. She drove up, lowered the window, and opened her coat. Inside, snuggled up against her, was the puppy.

I laughed. He was so cute, it hurt to look at him. And, after riding inside Rhonda’s coat for twenty minutes, warmed by her body heat, he didn’t look scared at all.

We put a found ad in the paper, and tacked up flyers around the neighborhood where Rhonda found him. No answers. After a week, we realized that we had a new addition to our family. We named him Gomez. He was obviously part Chihuahua, and he just looked like a Gomez.

I took him to the vet to get him checked out, and almost didn’t get him back. Everybody who worked there wanted to keep him. The vet said he was about four months old, and in good shape other than having a slight case of malnutrition. She guessed that he was indeed a Chihuahua mixed with something like a Miniature Pinscher. He weighed four and a half pounds.

For the first week he was home with us, it scared him to be petted. He would shrink back and blink his eyes. He obviously hadn't benefited from human affection. It took several days, but he did grow quite used to getting petted, especially in someone's lap.

Our son Dylan was born several weeks after Gomez joined our family. We’d heard horror stories about little dogs getting jealous over human babies, but Gomez was fascinated with our little human. If we took Dylan from one room to another, Gomez would follow, stationing himself where he could watch over the baby. You could imagine him saying, "He's my boy, and I have to watch him."

Gomez wasn’t an aggressive dog, but he surprised me one morning at dawn by tearing after a small female black bear getting into our trash cans. The bear ran off, and Gomez came prancing back, for the moment feeling like a Rottweiler trapped in a half-Chihuahua’s body.

The years went by, and Gomez seemed healthy, although he was overweight and had been that way since we had him fixed. It was a dark day when we learned that he had a heart condition. Still, for the last couple of years, he enjoyed a good quality of life.

Until yesterday, when he died.

He was a sweet, loyal dog, a great companion, and about as little trouble as a dog could be. It was really difficult trying to be strong for my son last night, especially when I felt eight years old again. But, I’m grateful that a certain funny little dog joined our family for his time on earth.

So, now I say goodbye to my son’s bodyguard, who liked nothing better than to snuggle up against one of his humans, except maybe barbecued chicken. I say goodbye to a pint-sized threat to black bears everywhere. I say goodbye to my little friend.

Gomez: January 2000 - May 2011

E-books Take Center Stage

2011-05-23T09:48:00.010-05:00

Recently, Amazon announced a milestone in the reading world: Since the beginning of 2011, e-books have outsold print books on the Amazon site. Yep, e-books are here to stay.

Here’s a timeline provided by Amazon.

July 1995: Amazon begins selling books

November 2007: Kindle and Kindle e-books introduced

July 2010: Kindle e-books outsell hardbacks

May 2011: Kindle e-books outsell hardbacks and paperbacks combined

In the press release, Amazon said that since April 2011, for every 100 hardcover or paperback copies, Amazon has sold 105 e-book copies. That doesn’t include free e-books, which include nearly every title of note published before 1923. From the beginning of 2011 until now, Amazon sold three times more e-books than during the same period last year.

I resisted joining the e-reader legions for a good while, but not because of the reasons I’ve most often heard from folks: “I like the feel, the heft, and the smell of books.” No, I resisted because I didn’t want to spend the money on a Kindle or other device, and because I could often find used copies of books for less than the Kindle version.

That’s not to say I didn’t read e-books. I had the free Kindle apps for my Mac and iPhone for a good while before I bought a Kindle device, and had read a few books on my computer or phone. But at the end of summer last year, I noticed a woman sitting across from me on an airliner. She had the new version of the Kindle, with the lower price of 139 bucks. She decided to take a nap, and handed over the Kindle so I could check it out. When I got home, I ordered one.

For me, it was a natural transition to e-readers. I travel a lot, for one thing. I like to have a half-dozen or so reference books with me all the time, and that just wasn’t practical with hardbacks or paperbacks when trying to get by with carry-ons. Also, although I’m no tech geek, my job requires me to work with electronic stuff, so I’m not technology-resistant, either.

Again, one thing that kept me from fully embracing e-books was the cost of the books. Sure, a New York Times bestseller priced at $9.99 beats the hardcover price by a bunch, but I’ve never been one to chase after the bestseller list, especially with fiction titles. It was common to find used hardcovers or paperbacks for less than the price of a e-book edition. But, in the year before I bought my Kindle, I noticed the emergence of “indie authors,” writers who essentially self-published through e-books. I’ve found some great books from indie authors priced at $2.99 and below. The notion that I could find used books cheaper than e-books held sway much less. Yep, you’ll find junk out there in the indie world, but I’ve also paid 24 bucks for a hardback and been disappointed.

E-books have been a boon to readers and authors. My friend, fellow sasquatch at large, and journalist turned novelist Steve Brewer has authored twenty books, some of them out of print. (Interesting guy: he’s written for a living since he was eighteen.) Having secured the rights to all of his published titles except one , he now has them available on Kindle and Smashwords (Smashwords covers most e-book formats besides Kindle). Because Steve has the rights to most of his titles, he prices them at $2.99 and below. (The one title for which he doesn't have the rights, Boost, is priced at $9.99 by the publisher in the Kindle version.)

Before e-books, authors such as Steve were at the mercy of publishers regarding older titles. If a publisher chose not to issue a reprint of a title, the author was out of luck. E-books have changed that: Mr. Brewer reports that his biggest selling e-book title is one of his older ones, End Run, first published in 2000, despite paperback and hardcover versions slowing "to a trickle" by 2011.

Steve Brewer serves as a good example of how e-books are good for readers and authors. You can buy End Run as an e-book for $2.99. As of today, paperback copies cost $14.00 on Amazon, and the hardcover will set you back $23.95. And get this: Steve tells me that he gets the same royalties per copy for an e-book priced at $2.99 as a hardcover priced at 24 bucks.

By the way, Steve has a new book coming out in June, Calabama. Steve was kind enough to let me read his nearly-final draft, and the novel is a dandy. It's set here in Shasta County, and concerns the travails of a transplant to the area who suddenly finds himself without a job, without a wife, and ensnared in the clutches of a local drug kingpin. Fun read.

So, are e-books all good and no bad? Well, no. For one thing, my first Kindle froze up. They’ve been reliable, but they’re not as reliable as paper. (Amazon was great; they overnighted a new one to me the next day, and paid for the shipping to return the broken one.) For another thing, e-books lend themselves to impulse purchase. I’m guessing there are 20 or 30 titles on my Kindle priced at $.99 to $2.99 that I may never read. I just had to have them because they were cheap. The cost of the device itself is still considerable: the cheapest Kindle is $120. Although some devices, including Kindle, allow lending, there are usually limits such as time constraints, and library lending for e-books seems to just now be getting off the ground.

If you love print books, you might fear that growth in e-book sales threaten the availability of paper books. So far, those fears seem unfounded. When Amazon announced that e-book sales had surpassed that of print books, it also announced that sales of paperbacks had increased in the same period. I think there is little danger that paper books will go the way of 8 track tapes and cassettes. More likely, the lasting legacy of e-readers and e-books will be that they led to more people connecting to a passion for reading. That’s especially good news for novelists, since in today’s United States, fewer men read novels than in decades past: only one out of four men read book-length fiction today.

I’ve owned a Kindle e-reader for less than a year, and it’s probably resulted in the doubling of my reading volume. Really, I suppose I’m pretty much the opposite of the I Like Paper Books set: I find the Kindle so convenient, and such a pleasure to use, that I resent having to go back to a “real” book. I’m with the E-book Nation to stay. I even bought an emergency radio that charges my Kindle with a hand crank. You know, in case of The Rapture, or total economic collapse. A guy can’t be too careful.

The Japanese Attack Southern California

2011-05-16T20:33:00.003-05:00

From the yeah, really department: In February 1942, the Japanese mounted the first mainland attack against the United States since the War of 1812, and the attack was likely prompted by prickly pear cactus spines stuck in a Japanese fellow's ass.

In the early months of World War II, ten Japanese submarines patrolled the west coast of the United States. In 1941 and 1942 they sunk about a dozen ships, sticking to targets at sea. But Kozo Nishino, the commander of I-17, a 350 foot long B-1 class submarine 70 feet longer than the largest German U-boat, decided to up the ante one evening in February 1942. He surfaced off the shore of Ellwood Oil Field, near Santa Barbara, California, with his crew of 101. For twenty minutes, starting at about 7:15 pm, the I-17 fired 15 to 20 shells at the facility.

After the attack, Captain Nishino reported to the Japanese command that he’d “left Santa Barbara in flames,” but the shelling was kind of a bust. The Japanese had the best shipboard night optics in the world at the time, but most of the shells fell either well short or well beyond the intended target. The attack caused about 500 dollars worth of damage to the oil facility pier, and there was only one injury reported. (That injury actually happened well after the attack, when a worker was injured while trying to defuse an unexploded shell.)

Nishino knew the area well. In the 1930s, he’d often captained a merchant tanker in and out of the Santa Barbara channel, sometimes loading crude oil at the Ellwood oil facility.

During one such visit in the late 30s, officials invited Nishino ashore for a welcome ceremony. While walking up the path to the ceremony location, he fell into a prickly pear cactus, and cactus spines were pulled from his butt while oil field workers looked on and laughed.

As legend goes (it’s a widely accepted story, but not without dispute), Captain Nishino never forgave the folks at the Ellwood facility for laughing at him, and would years later seize the opportunity to gain revenge from a Japanese submarine. Thus, the probability that the first mainland attack against the United States since the War of 1812 was provoked by a prickly pear cactus--and laughter.

The attack on Ellwood could be viewed as kind of a joke, especially since the jitters brought on by the attack almost certainly led to the so-called “Battle of Los Angeles” the next day. Decades later, the two events would inspire the movie “1941.”

But in the longer term, the hysteria provoked by the attack was no laughing matter. It led to greater censorship of the news, and increased pressure to confine Japanese-Americans and Japanese visitors in internment camps. Soon, 110,000 Japanese people--62% of them U.S. citizens--were forced to leave homes and businesses behind and were confined to internment camps.

My Son and Our Sun

2011-05-08T11:00:00.008-05:00

(In honor of Mother's Day, here's a re-post from October 2008.)

I write about my son Dylan often. I was a late-in-life dad when he came into the world, and eight years later, he's still a fascinating little creature.

Dylan is a good kid. More than that, he has the makings of a guy who will be a good person as an adult. He's not perfect. He can't eat anything without ten percent of it ending up on the floor. Sometimes it's like pulling teeth to get him to do his homework. Sometimes he knees me in the privates when we're wrestling. I think it's accidental.

But yeah, in my heart and mind, Dylan shines in many ways. Still, Uncle E's post today in which he mentioned Dylan surprised me, and left me with a big lump in my throat. There's something about hearing or reading good things about my son from someone else--especially when that someone else is as thoughtful and perceptive as Uncle E--that just makes my heart swell anew.

I don't mention my wife Rhonda as often as I do Dylan. That largely has to do with Rhonda's desire for privacy. She's fairly well known in our community, and she doesn't like the idea of her life being an open book. So, I respect her feelings, although the woman has had a fascinating life. Heck, someone should base a novel on her experiences.

The three of us went out boat camping on Lake Shasta on my last break at home before Dylan commenced going to school again. We had a wonderful time, but two days into the trip, Rhonda had pressing matters to attend to at her office, so Dylan and I dropped her off at the marina and headed back to camp. Dylan, at the age of eight, had spent a total of two nights away from Rhonda in his life. He was brave about the idea of two "dudes only" nights at the camp, but on the second morning without Mom, after we finished breakfast, I could tell that something was on his mind.

"Dad, if I tell you that I miss Mom, will it hurt your feelings?"

I chuckled. "Of course not. I've had a great time, but I miss your mom too."

Dylan said, "I've had a great time too, until now. Now, it seems boring without Mom. She's always so cheerful and funny; she always makes me feel like every day is a special day. She's like the sun."

She's like the sun. Dylan's words, and the look on his face, hit me with a wallop. Dylan offered a poetic essence of what I've always loved about Rhonda, from the day I first saw her and heard her talk in our high school cafeteria, thirty-six years ago.

She can show a tough-as-nails exterior, but inside lives a marshmallow heart. She has an irreverent, bawdy sense of humor, but a little girl's sense of wonder. She's one of the bravest, kindest, and most compassionate people I've ever known. Also, I like seeing her naked.

She's like the sun.

I'm one lucky dude.

Fidelity and iPhones

2011-05-02T06:59:00.002-05:00

I recently learned via a blog post that a female friend, one of the few blogger buddies I sometimes see in person, keeps her iPhone 4 in her bra while she's at work. On vibrate. I guess calling her while she's working is now out of the question. I'd feel like I was fooling around on my wife.

***

Funny what you can learn from Sitemeter. I never knew, until a few days ago, that there was an Alamo, California. It’s east of Oakland.

***

I woke early Saturday morning, so I left while wife and son were sleeping to do some grocery shopping. On the way, I stopped to have breakfast. While I was eating, the song “Sugar Sugar” came over the speakers. That song came out in September 1969, while I was in the eighth grade. Forty-one years later, it still makes me wanna hurl. Yep, it was the #1 hit song in 1969, and the very mention of it provokes a cringe.

I posted something to that effect on Facebook, and Bob Barbanes, a friend, former coworker, and former disk jockey, mentioned the name of the singer: Ron Dante. Turns out that ol’ Ron is still active, even recently appearing with the CBS Orchestra on the David Letterman show. That’s pretty cool.

But I still can’t stand “Sugar Sugar.”

Rain Patrols

2011-04-25T00:04:00.009-05:00

I'm nine, and I walk in the door soaking wet. No coat, no rain jacket. I've been walking in the rain. I'd loved walking in the rain for as long as I could remember. Rain seemed like a special occasion in southern California, and I wanted to feel it, to remember it, to celebrate.

My mom sighs and asks, "What were you thinking?"
"It was fun."
"Getting soaked is fun?"
"Well, yeah."

Mom shakes her head, but she's smiling just a little.

***

Dylan asks if we can go out "on patrol."
"It's raining," I say.
"It'll be fun."
I start to tell him that we'll wait for the rain to slow down. But then, I remember.

I grab a jacket and meet my son back at the front door. "Where's your jacket?"
"Don't need one," he says.
"C'mon. Get a jacket."
"Please, Dad?"

A memory. A nine year-old's memory.

We come back a half hour later. We're soaked. We're on the verge of shivering. Mom is waiting.

"Where are your jackets?"
"We left them behind," Dylan answers.
"What were you guys thinking?"

But she's smiling just a little, and while her words were "What were you guys thinking?", what we hear is "I love you both, even when you do stupid stuff."

She orders us to stand by the front door. She grabs a couple of towels, orders us to take off our shirts, towels off Dylan, towels off me. She disappears, and comes back with sweat pants and fresh t-shirts for both of us. We put on the dry duds, and retire to the sofa to watch "Dirty Jobs."

Rhonda comes out of the kitchen with hot chocolate. She looks at us, shakes her head, and utters, "boys."

I look at Dylan. He looks so happy.

Mary's "Conversations with Dad"

2011-04-19T10:43:00.007-05:00

I overheard Dylan talking to his friend Kiley on the phone the other day.

"Both of my grandfathers are gone, and it's really made me sad lately."

There are many good things about being an older parent. I think I'm much better at being a dad than I would have been in my twenties. But thinking about my dad and Rhonda's dad makes me sad too. They would have both loved being granddads, and Dylan would have loved being around them.

So, oh yes, there are minuses to being an older parent too.

***

I read this post from Mary this morning, and I liked it so much that I had to share.

Swinging from a Winter Vine

2011-03-22T10:48:00.003-05:00

My bride's friend Linda came to visit us from down San Luis Obisbo way. She and Rhonda have been good friends since they were both probation officers in Los Angeles in the eighties. Linda became a grandmother last year, and she'll be moving to be closer to her daughter, granddaughter, and son-in-law.

It was cold and windy, but Linda was game for visiting Turtle Bay Exploration Park here in Redding. The Sundial Bridge spanning the Sacramento River is one of our area's main attractions, and I often wonder why I don't walk across its span more often.

Geez, it's just so easy to take people and places and the other gifts of life for granted. I do that. I wish I didn't.

Linda stayed for the for a long weekend, and left yesterday. I picked Dylan up from school, and he was sad that she'd be gone when we got home. She's one of the warmest people I've ever met, and Dylan has always loved being around her.

We have the family we're born with, and the family we choose.

I had lunch with Dylan at his school yesterday. He liked having me sit there with his friends. He'll be in sixth grade next year, and the day could come when he rather hang out with just his friends. I thought of that yesterday, and it put a golden highlight on the moment.

A few nights ago, I dreamed that I went to feed the chickens, and our Barred Rock rooster struck up a conversation with me. I don't remember much of what we talked about, but I do remember that he sounded like Billy Idol.

Sad Endings

2011-02-25T14:11:00.008-06:00

I haven't been writing much. Sorry that a batch of sad news prompts me to join you today, but sadness has long been the best writing prompt I have.

My uncle Darrell, whom I wrote about here, lost his battle with brain cancer early this month. He was the first family member to show up at my parents' house the day my dad died. When I was a little guy, I thought Darrell was some kind of superhero. Dylan bonded to him as a baby more than any other extended family member, and I wasn't surprised. He chose not to have a funeral. That doesn't surprise me either. Our family will get their chance to remember him together, though: my uncle Sid--older brother to Darrell--and my aunt Bettye will celebrate their 50th wedding anniversary this summer.

We have a Mexican food place here in Redding called Burrito Bandito. Rhonda and I visited it right after they opened several years ago, and we liked it immediately. But, we lamented that it probably wouldn't make it because of its less than ideal location. But, not only have they "made it," they've succeeded due to great service and fresh, tasty food.

I got to be friends with a guy named Al who worked there. Since lunch hours were always crowded, I would go in before or after the work crowd. Al was a warm, engaging guy, the kind of guy who asked, "How you doing?" not as a mere salutation, but because he really wanted to know how you were doing.

I hadn't visited Burrito Bandito in a few months when I stopped by there last month. As I was waiting in line, I saw a photo of Al on the wall. On the top of the photo were the words, "We fondly remember."

Al fell from some height, hit his head, went into a coma in the hospital, and died several days later.

I've known Sherri since the sixth grade. I met her son Jeff and her daughter Jennifer when they were little. Jennifer was an adorable little girl, and Jeff was a bright, engaging little guy with an infectious smile.

This week, Jeff jumped to his death from the Cold Spring bridge, in the backcountry of Santa Barbara County. I've only communicated a couple of times with Sherri since Jeff's death. She's shipwrecked, of course. As for me, I'm having a lot of trouble reconciling my memories of that happy little kid with the young adult who became so overcome with darkness that he ended his own life.

Still, when I look at Jeff's Facebook page, it's clear that Jeff was a light in the lives of many, despite harboring his inner demons. It's also clear that Jeff will be remembered much more for the light he shared with others than the darkness that ultimately claimed him.

Right now, I'm pissed off at life. I should offer something better than that, but I won't. I'll get over it, and I'll be back.

Major General Smedley Butler

2011-01-04T11:13:00.009-06:00

Maybe you've never heard of Smedley Butler. He was born in 1881, and died in 1940. He served 34 years in the U.S. Marines, retired as a Major General, and is one of 19 Americans awarded the Medal of Honor twice.

By some reckonings, he may be one of the biggest heroes in the history of the United States.

When FDR won the presidency in 1932, smack in the middle of the Great Depression, he quickly started the ball rolling on his New Deal. Many Wall Street titans thus came to view him as a traitor to his own class. They dreamed up a plan to get rid of him.

They chose the highly-decorated Butler as their point man. Their idea was to have Butler lead a huge veterans' march on Washington, and subsequently pressure FDR to install Butler as the "Secretary of General Affairs." Eventually, as the plan went, FDR would hand over the power to run the country entirely to Butler. In essence, the United States would be run by a Wall Street-installed dictator.

It's easy to understand why the Wall Street titans chose Smedley Butler. As a seasoned combat veteran, he'd served the economic interests of the rich and powerful before: He'd admitted to rigging elections in Nicaragua, and led military forces in other parts of Latin America to keep countries on a path favorable to U.S. economic interests.

What they didn't know was that by the time they approached Smedley, he'd come to believe what could best be related by a quote oft-attributed to him: "War is a racket." (Later, in a speech, he said, "I spent 33 years being a high-class muscle man for Big Business, for Wall Street and the bankers.")

Agents of Wall Street approached Smedley with the offer of an $18,000 bribe, but he spilled the beans to Congress. He gave testimony behind closed doors, and a House committee confirmed the bribe offer. At about that time, the commander of the VFW, James Van Zandt, stated that "agents of Wall Street" had also approached him about taking part in putting a U.S. dictatorship in place.

The House committee's investigation went nowhere. The transcript of the interview with Smedley Butler was printed with the names of the accused Wall Street titans deleted.

General Butler went on to give talks against the futility of war, but he didn't get much press coverage for his efforts.

I tend to believe that General Butler's name should be as familiar to us as that of Paul Revere or George Washington, but I'd wager that few of us ever happened upon his name in a history textbook.

"The problem with history is, the folks who were there ain't talking. And the ones who weren't there, you can't shut 'em up." Tom Waits

My Best Enemy

2010-12-29T07:28:00.004-06:00

They moved into our neighborhood when I was eight, a couple and four kids. Eddie was the oldest, at seven, and I immediately took a dislike to him. He was living in the house where my best friend Keith had lived until his parents decided to move to another town. Therefore, I could not like him. It didn't help that his dog would poop while running down the sidewalk.

For a couple of years, we got in the occasional wrestling match, or would simply bristle at each other, but it was never anything serious. We both tired of having each other as enemies, and started saying "hey" to each other when we passed. We started getting along, but we really didn't have much to do with each other.

One day, though, Eddie saw me in the front yard, and he wanted to talk. He talked about what he wanted to do when he grew up. I remember how excited he was, how focused, how hopeful. What I don't remember is what he'd chosen for his future career.

The next day, I yelled out a "hey" at Eddie as he rode down the street. He rode like a wild man, zigging and zagging across the street, like he was daring cars to get in his way.

An hour later, Eddie was in a coma. A car had run into him, and he smacked his head on the pavement as he went down. We didn't wear helmets back then; that would have been weird.

Later that day, Eddie died. He was ten years old, the age of my son today.

He popped into my mind this morning. I wondered what he would be doing today, where he would be living, how many kids he would have.

But for some reason, I can't remember what he'd planned to do for a living when he grew up. Maybe it doesn't matter. After all, he never grew up. He never got the chance.

Still, it bothers me that I can't remember Eddie's chosen career field.

I'm going to stop now, and watch my son sleep.

Steve Brewer: Nest is never quite empty

2010-11-29T18:22:00.005-06:00

Steve Brewer posted this on his blog today. Geez, when I read it, I felt the need to go outside away from Dylan. As my friend Dave would say, "damn sinuses."

I was digging around in a file cabinet in my home office when I found a cowboy tucked into one corner of a drawer. He's quite the frontiersman, armed with a rifle, a pistol and a knife, and crouched in a kneeling position perfect for sniping.

Been a long time since our sons -- ages 21 and nearly 19 -- played with little plastic cowboys. Wonder how long that cowboy has been waiting in that drawer for someone to rescue him?

You can't tell it from my stellar cellphone photography, but the cowboy is pretty detailed, with windswept bandana, fringed shirt and the words, on his base, "Made in China."

I'm keeping him on my desk, a reminder that my sons are never as far away as they seem.

photo by Steve Brewer

Heavy Light Reading

2010-11-11T09:31:00.004-06:00

Do we really know someone we've only "met" online? Yes and no, I think. I think we know them on a different level, somehow. Not necessarily better or worse, just different.

I've never met Thom Gabrukeiwicz. He's a friend and former coworker of my good friend Ian, who presides over a fun blog titled Uncle E's Musical Nightmares. They both worked at our local paper in Redding, the Record Searchlight, but they both left--along with a bunch of other senior journalists and staff--with the downturn in the paper's fortunes. Thom strikes me as someone who would make a good friend, even though he'd thoroughly piss you off now and then.

In addition to his blog, Thom has a site named Three Word Wednesday. Once a week, he offers up three words as writing prompts. Folks create poetry with the words, or short stories, or "flash fiction." Thom presides over the site like a kindly uncle, and his own submissions show how much can be conveyed with few words.

Perhaps because I'm in aviation, where divorce seems as common as the common cold, Thom's post yesterday really got to me. For National Guard and Reservist folks who've been deployed to Iran or Afghanistan, the divorce rate is strikingly high. That's probably another reason why Thom's story wrapped me up: I've heard similar stories over the intercom. I hope you'll give it a look.

Thom worked as a journalist in the midwest until recently. On his deathbed, Thom's dad encouraged him to go to New York to pursue his love of writing fiction. I wish Thom loads of luck, and I hope he'll do his best to see to it that his first novel is released on Kindle.

What Goes Around

2010-11-08T14:52:00.008-06:00

I mentioned in a Facebook exchange with fitness writer Lou Schuler that I'd stopped watching VH-1 several years ago, after watching a string of "Behind the Music" episodes. "Behind the Music" often had a "where are they now?" theme, but heck, I'd never heard of most of the acts in the first place. And that was several years ago.

In response, Lou wrote, "It's funny to see my kids get into music that was new a decade or two before they were born. One of their Kidz Bop CDs has a cover version of "Time Warp," from the Rocky Horror Picture Show. They were absolutely shocked when I not only knew the words, but vaguely remembered the dance steps. I tried to explain that it was fun to go see it at midnight when I was in college, but I didn't get far. They refuse to believe any story that involves their dad being awake past 10 p.m."

In related news, Dylan is now referring to me as a "walking fashion crime." Geez.

Dylan's Seven Line Poem

2010-11-02T10:44:00.007-05:00

A couple of months ago, my wife, son, and I were lounging after a lazy Saturday morning breakfast. It was my first weekend at home after being away to Louisiana.

Rhonda said, "Hal, Dylan wrote a poem in school about you. You should read it." She handed it to me.

Dylan walked up and hugged me, looking somber, and said, "I love you, Dad."

I tend to get a little misty when he does that.

So I read Dylan's creation. His assignment in his fifth-grade home room was to compose a seven-line poem. Here it is, just as I read it.

Snow as white as a rabbit

It's been quite the habit

That I go sleighing on a Saturday night

I gave myself quite a fright

When I heard a deathly howl

And I realized it was my dad Hal

Getting whipped on the butt by an owl

Rhonda and Dylan were so pleased with themselves when they saw my reaction. Sheesh, what a set up.

One More Gift, Wrapped in Aggravation

2010-10-12T10:53:00.007-05:00

I've loved the Indian summers of October since I was a kid. Growing up in coastal southern California, it was often the best "summer" we had, since the marine layer would move in for much of the real summer months. I can remember going to the beach in July and not seeing the sun until mid-afternoon. The fog seemed to make a joke of summer in my growing up years.

No such thing as a marine layer up here in Shasta County. Some of our summer days get brutally hot, and many folks look forward to autumn. I know how they feel, but I always grieve a bit for the end of warm nights out on the deck, or out on the lake on a moonlit night, wearing shorts and t-shirts.

We've had a nice stretch of Indian summer here for the last few days, so a few nights ago, we took our forty-two year old patio boat out to Shasta Lake. We had a great time. The air was warm, but the water had cooled to just short of cold. Dylan and I both gasped when we jumped in, but we got used to it quickly.

I felt a little sad. The water told me that summer was over, even if the air didn't. The Indian summers have always been bittersweet for me.

We got back to the marina shortly before sundown. Rhonda walked up to back the Suburban down to the water, but soon came walking back. Dead battery.

There was nobody around to give us a jump, so I called Triple A. The phone person on the line said it would be about thirty minutes.

Two hours later, we still waited, but about the time I started betraying irritation, Rhonda said, "Yeah, but what a night to get stuck at the lake, don't you think?"

She was right. We watched a crescent moon set behind the mountains. Later, with little artificial light around, Rhonda pointed out various constellations, and we clearly saw the Milky Way overhead.

The tow truck driver showed up, finally. He apologized profusely, telling me that his company was supposed to have three drivers on duty, but he was the only one to show up that night.

I suppose he might have thought it strange had I thanked him for taking so long.

Dylan and Alice

Aggravation and Magic

2010-09-21T04:18:00.001-05:00

We were driving back from town, and Dylan and I were talking about horses. As we got out of the car, Rhonda said, "You guys sure are talking a lot."

"Oh no," I thought. But yeah, it was seven in the evening, and I was revved up.

We'd had dinner at a Japanese restaurant. Dylan loves it because of the "sushi boats" that float by, allowing the patron to pick from a wide selection of sushi and other Japanese food. After dinner, we stopped by a drive-through coffee place to get a couple of dessert coffee drinks. For Dylan and me, that is. Rhonda can't stand coffee, no matter how gussied up.

I ordered decaf versions. Dylan is ten, after all, and if I drink coffee much after noon or so, I can count on spending a good chunk of the night sleepless.

For some reason, we didn't get decaf versions of our coffees, and sheesh, those suckers were big. The guy at Dutch Brothers probably didn't hear the decaf part of my order over the music in his work area.

Rhonda went to bed around ten, and Dylan and I were still talking away. At midnight, we were still talking. That was when I started to feel really aggravated at the guy at Dutch Brothers. I was listening to Dylan, but silently calling the coffee guy a bunch of ill names.

I probably stewed at that guy for a good half hour. But then, the front porch light inside came on, and I realized that I needed to give up my rancor, and focus on the magic going on with my son.

We talked about his friends. We talked about horses. We talked about falconry. We talked about his hopes and fears for the school year. We talked about him getting back into Jiu Jitsu. We talked about our favorite music. We talked about what he would do when he grew up. We talked about the day he was born. We talked about my mom, his other grandma, the one he didn't remember because she died when he was thirteen months old. We talked about both of his grandfathers, who died many years before he was born. We talked about kindness, and toughness, and how they often belonged in the same room.

Finally, at two-thirty in the morning, I could see him start to wind down.

"Let's get you in bed," I said.

"Aw Dad, I'm not sleepy yet."

"We can keep talking."

"Will you stay with me until I fall asleep?"

"Yeah."

So I did. His speech started to slow, and he started to talk about a time we'd gone snorkeling, but he didn't make it through the sentence before drifting to sleep. I kissed his head, then went to our bedroom, and kissed Rhonda on the cheek. She giggled.

"What time is it?" she asked.

"You don't want to know."

"Oh brother," she said, before drifting back to sleep.

It was nearly four in the morning before I even thought about trying to sleep. I wondered if those coffees had something illegal in them.

I finally started to feel myself slip, as I thought about the three of us swimming through the ocean.

***

About three weeks later, we went to the same Japanese restaurant, and Dylan and I once again decided on dessert coffees at Dutch Brothers. As we pulled into the drive-through lane, I could see the same young guy hanging out of the window, handing coffees to the car in front of us.

"Dylan, it's the same guy who gave us caffeine poisoning last month."

"Oh brother," Dylan said.

The caffeine poisoner shouted out a greeting, and asked us what we wanted.

"Two decaf Carmelizers, one on ice, one blended," I said.

"So that's two Carmelizers, one on ice, one blended?"

Dylan and I shouted in unison, "DECAF!"

The poor guy nearly jumped off the floor. Probably because of too much caffeine.

Herding Cats

2010-09-15T12:09:00.004-05:00

I wrote this on Facebook this morning: Sheesh. During a crew change day at work, we're at the flight line at 5 AM, and we have a lot of tasks to knock off within an hour before a flight. Why then does it seem ten times more stressful just to get my wife and son out the door on a school day? I love those two people more than life itself, but I have an idea for a new TV reality show: "Extreme Home Cat Herding."

I was pretty aggravated this morning by the time my bride and our son drove away. It was partly just me, since I'm fighting a sinus infection, and not feeling my best, and give me enough time and I'll come up with other excuses.

Part of it comes from Rhonda. Although she's one of the very kindest and loving people I've ever known, she is NOT at her best in the morning. She and Dylan seldom follow a straight-line course to anything, and if I rousted them an hour earlier every morning, they would still get out the door with about two minutes to spare.

My goodbyes were kind of curt as they got into the car. But as I stood outside, and listened to the car drive down the driveway and up the hill, I found myself wishing for a do-over.

I walked into the house and slumped into a chair, and the thought crossed my mind: "What if that goodbye was the last I ever got to say to them?" A golf ball appeared in my throat.

I thought about lesser losses, too.

One day, Dylan will be on his own. The mornings of cooking breakfast, packing a lunch, and fretting over him getting to school on time will be over.

I thought about how aggravated I was this morning.

I thought about how the day will come when I have my first cup of coffee in the morning, remembering the mornings of trying to get my wife and son out the door on time. I think about how I'll chuckle, and maybe, get a tear on my eye.

Something dawned on me anew: The cat-herding ordeals will end. Too soon.

The Quran and Pastor Jones

2010-09-08T10:20:00.018-05:00

I'm sure you've heard of Terry Jones. He's the pastor of a small church in Gainesville, Florida. Come September 11, he plans to burn copies of the Quran in a bonfire. The White House, religious leaders, and General David Petraeus have asked him to back down.

In an email to the Associated Press, General Petraeus wrote that "images of the burning of a Quran would undoubtedly be used by extremists in Afghanistan—and around the world—to inflame public opinion and incite violence."

So far, Jones doesn't seem inclined to back down. I saw him on the news this morning, and when reminded that his actions could result in the deaths of more U.S. troops, his response was "that's not my problem."

I'd like to think that I understand where people like Terry Jones are coming from. After all, the battle against terrorism can be frustrating. Islamic extremist groups such as the Taliban are elusive and shadowy. When people desperately want to find a target, and that target proves exceedingly difficult to identify, the tendency--with some--is to identify a larger target. Thus, in the eyes of people like Terry Jones, Islam itself is the enemy.

A big target is oh-so-convenient. A big target quells frustration because there are many opportunities for engagement. Never mind that the target is largely a work of fiction.

I have quite a redneck lineage, and it shows at times like this. I find myself characterizing Terry Jones as an evil son of a bitch, a wannabe Hitler in the making. But the fact is that people like Pastor Jones are often the result of combining fear, ignorance, and pain in a fragile human vessel and shaking it until it bleeds hate. Terry Jones may indeed be evil personified, but chances are he's just another person harboring a wounded child within, a child who grew up with too little love. For people of that mold, hate can be strangely comforting.

But, I can only go so far with my half-baked compassion for Terry Jones. You see, I have a goodly number of friends and coworkers who serve in the National Guard or other military reserves, men and women who face their second, third, or fourth deployments to the Middle East. Terry Jones' refusal to act as a mature, reasonable human being could mean a greater chance that I'll never see some of them again.

That said, in no way am I suggesting that the right of free speech should be denied to Pastor Jones. The Constitution has been eroded too much already over the years, by both Republicans and Democrats.

So, as deplorable as I find the event planned by Terry Jones, I will defend his right to go forward.

Even as I imagine how gratifying it would be to kick him squarely in the balls.

He Gets it Off His Chest, 28 Years Later

2010-08-30T19:38:00.005-05:00

So my friend Ron has been with PHI for 31 years, like me. We worked together at PHI's Lake Charles base back in '81 and '82. I left the Gulf of Mexico to fly in California in '82, and Ron left to work overseas and at Emergency Medical Services bases. Twenty-eight years would go by before I would see him again.

Ron decided to come back to flying in the Gulf of Mexico, so one day, we found ourselves paired as a crew. Naturally, we had lots of catching up to do.

I suppose it was around the third day we were flying together that Ron brought up something that, evidently, had been bothering him for twenty-eight years.

Ron asked, "Remember when we had that barbecue at Sid's place, and you invited Elaine?"

"Yeah."

Elaine was one of our communications specialists. She was working in Cameron that week, south of Lake Charles, and I got the okay for her to ride on one of our helicopters that repositioned from Cameron to Lake Charles every afternoon.

Ron continued. "You remember that you were helping Sid get the food together, and you asked me to call Elaine to remind her to call you when she got in?"

"Yeah."

"Well, I called her. Well, I thought I called her. But I didn't call her. No, my fingers dialed my house. My daughter answered. For some reason, I didn't recognize her voice.

"I said, 'Hi. Is Elaine there?'

"I heard, 'DAD?'

"I blurted out, 'SHELLY?'

"But before I could say anything else, my daughter called out, 'MOM, DAD'S ON THE PHONE, AND HE'S ASKING FOR SOME WOMAN NAMED ELAINE.'

"When I got home later, I started to explain things to my wife, but she held up her hand and said, 'Don't even bother.'

"I said, 'Honey, you can call Hal, and he'll explain it to you.'

"She said, 'Yeah, I'm sure you and Hal have your stories straight by now.'"

Ron paused, and I couldn't tell if he was smiling or grimacing.

"She never let me explain what happened that day." He looked at me pointedly. "I thought you should know."

Geez, what could I say to that? But, in a moment, I thought of something.

"You know what, Ron?"

"What?"

I said, "If you had offered to help Sid with the food, you could have skipped all that relationship trauma."

Ron said, "Gee, thanks for the thoughtful feedback."

A Daughter at the Wall

2010-08-26T19:42:00.008-05:00

My flying partner for the week had flown a tour in Vietnam. Jerry happens to be one of our youngest Vietnam veterans, at fifty-nine. That's striking to me. The guys who flew in Vietnam have long been my mentors, both in the Army and with PHI, and there aren't many of them still flying with us who are under the age of sixty. What a strange thought.

But that's not what I showed up here to talk about. I came to talk about Jerry and me, two large middle-aged guys, sitting at a table in a restaurant in tears. And no, the tears weren't from laughter. The waitress approached us at one point, and, noticing our faces, backed away.

I mentioned to Jerry, when we first started eating, how my son still hugs me, and doesn't seem to mind when I kiss his head when dropping him off at school. I also mentioned that I've thought a lot lately about Dylan being ten years old, and about the autumn of his childhood, and the changes that will come.

Jerry talked about his daughter. "When she got to five years old," he said, "she decided that she was too big to be picked up in public. It seemed that one month she was asking me to pick her up all the time, and the next, she just stopped asking."

Jerry paused for a moment, and his mind seemed to go somewhere else, but he snapped back and continued.

"My wife, my daughter, and I were in Washington, D.C. At one point, my wife asked if I wanted to see the Vietnam Veterans Memorial. I declined. She didn't ask for an explanation, and I didn't offer one."

Jerry paused again. "The reason I didn't want to visit The Wall is a whole different story."

He went on. "At one point, we were on foot, and we realized that the fastest way to walk to our destination was past the wall. My wife told me that she would get the car so we could drive, but I told her, 'No, I can do this.' So I started walking along the wall, but I resisted looking at it."

"It was getting to me anyway. I felt it, even if I wasn't looking at it. Then came a tug at my coat. I looked down, and my daughter, who was seven at the time, asked me to pick her up. I was surprised, because it had been at least two years since she'd asked me to pick her up in public. So I did."

"I held her close, and she wrapped her arms around my neck and squeezed me."

"She put her mouth against my ear, and whispered, 'Daddy, I'm so glad your name isn't on that wall.'"

Victor Bloom, M.D.

2010-08-17T05:44:00.002-05:00

I got into my half-assed writing hobby by first writing Amazon reviews, starting in 1998. Yep, Amazon reviews. Founders of a website called PearlSoup contacted me and a number of folks about submitting stories for their site. Many of the early submitters there were Amazon reviewers noted by the founders. PearlSoup led to blogging, and dabbling with helicopter magazine articles and our local news website.

PearlSoup is where I "met" Victor. One of the more colorful characters on PearlSoup, Victor could make you mad, make you think, make you laugh.

Victor turns 79 today. He wrote something interesting on Facebook about his father. His dad was 60 when Victor was born. (And I thought I was a late-in-life dad.) Victor's father was born in Minsk in 1871, the year the Royal Albert Hall opened. It was also the year when H.M. Stanley allegedly uttered, "Dr. Livingstone, I presume?"

Victor was born in 1931. In 1931, Thomas Edison submitted his last patent application, Alka Seltzer was introduced, the "Star Spangled Banner" was named the official anthem of the U.S., and France announced that they couldn't afford to send a team to the 1932 Los Angeles Olympics.

Happy birthday, Dr. Bloom.

Attack of the Plug Bug

2010-08-04T16:27:00.003-05:00

I got back to the company quarters intending to take a quick shower, and venture out to find something to eat. Instead, I decided to catch up on emails. Sitting there in my uniform, I felt something inch down my back under my shirt.

Now, as far as I know, I don't have a bug phobia. But when I feel something crawling down my back where I can't see it, it creeps me out. I sprung out of the chair and frantically unbuttoned my shirt. I was halfway done when I thought, "Screw it," and pulled the shirt over my head. I could still feel the bug, and it was big! I thought that it must be a cockroach or a really big spider.

I reached down my back and caught the offender. I brought it in front of me. It was yellow. It was an earplug.

We keep earplugs on hand at the flight line. The pair I had were attached by a cord to each other. Normally, I would drape the cord around my neck with the plugs hanging down on my chest. But, during the course of the afternoon, the plugs worked themselves around to the point that one fell down my back as I sat down at the computer.

I'm glad nobody was around with a video camera as I darted around the room getting my shirt off. I can see the YouTube title now: "Who says middle-aged white guys can't dance?"

Voids

2010-06-25T14:57:00.005-05:00

I left a comment over at Debby's blog about angry people.

I wrote, Several years ago I was talking to one of our senior lead mechanics about one pilot who would throw a tantrum at the drop of a hat. I managed to get along with the guy, largely by steering the conversation toward his grandson. That would always lighten him up.

Anyway, the guy had come close to crossing a line with me. Close enough that I felt quite in touch with my redneck lineage. I was still miffed about the exchange, and mentioned that to our lead mechanic. He paused, and then said, "We grew up in the same town, y'know. I knew his father, and if you had ever met his father, that would explain a lot." Those words stuck with me.

Some people are assholes simply because they're assholes. But then, I believe many people cling to anger because they grew up with too little love in their lives. For them, anger can be strangely comforting. Anger can fill the empty places.

I've followed Debby's blog for a while now. I read it before she learned she had breast cancer, and followed her journey through chemo and recovery. Through it all, she never stopped writing.

She recently posted this: People have often asked how I do it. How I manage to post regularly, despite all the things going on in my life. The answer is easy. I get up early to do it. Each morning, I pad around in my bare feet and night gown making coffee. A morning without coffee would be, well, it would still be a morning, but infinitely worse. So I start my day with two cups of cappuccino from my own machine, and I bring my frothy cup into the living room, and I sit down at the computer. I take a few moments to click through the blogs, and then I quickly type up my post. It's part of my morning ritual. If I have to work or if things are especially hectic, I might not take the time to do it, but mostly I do take the time. As the coffee courses through my veins making me feel human, well, connecting with all of you, that makes me feel human too.

Steve Brewer is a novelist and humorist who stayed at home raising his sons while his wife worked as a managing editor of two different newspapers. He lives here in our northern California community of Redding. When I asked him how the heck he managed to publish seventeen books while holding down the fort as a stay-at-home dad, he answered, "I got up at three in the morning." Another writer friend, Alan Rider, is a stay-at-home dad when he isn't traveling for some writing gig, and his wife is also a career woman. When I asked him how he's done it, I pretty much got the same answer: "I get up early in the morning."

My writing output has declined in the last year, and I think it's largely because I no longer wake at four in the morning on my off days. Most of the time, I wake at the same time as the family. My couple of hours of solo time in the morning have largely evaporated. Why am I not waking "naturally" in the wee morning hours anymore? Am I getting abducted by aliens?

So there it is, doggone it. If I want to up my writing output, I'm gonna have to set a damn alarm clock on my off days. That just seems unnatural.

Marital Discourse from 1998

2010-06-06T08:38:00.006-05:00

We'd just watched news about Bill Clinton's impeachment.

Me: "Sweetie, I'm curious about something."
Rhonda: "What's that?"
Me: "Well, if you were to learn that some woman gave me oral sex, would you be as upset as if I had full-on sexual intercourse with her?"
Rhonda: "Is there something I need to know?"
Me: "Not unless you want to count the neighbor's dog." That pooch was a crotch-hound if ever I met one.

She rolled her eyes. She thought for a moment.

Rhonda: "Well, I think I'd be upset if I learned that some woman was tooting your horn, but I don't think I'd be as upset as if you were boinking her."

My bride, bless her heart, has so much trouble expressing herself.

She looked at me. I betrayed a mischievous little smile, and raised my eyebrows.

Rhonda: "You shouldn't take my answer as ****ing permission."

Sheesh I laughed hard. I think I almost passed out.

Mileage Games

2010-05-24T10:47:00.005-05:00

Okay, I admit it: I'm a frequent flyer slut. I regularly fly on United. Reach frequent flyer status with United, and you'll benefit from more legroom in the coach section, frequent upgrades to first class, and less worry about getting bumped off of a crowded, weather-delayed flight.

PHI's pilot union called for a strike in 2006. From September through the rest of that year, I wasn't flying to work. This put my exalted frequent flyer status at risk. The solution? Well, in December, United had a remarkably cheap fare to Honolulu. So, I flew to Honolulu from Sacramento. I took a taxi from the airport, and had dinner in town. I touched down in Sacramento fourteen hours after my departure. My frequent flyer status was safe for another twelve months.

My bride rolled her eyes at that one, and began referring to my sought-after mileage level as "sexual favor status." I told her that I once saw a movie at a bachelor party where that sort of stuff went on, but it had never happened to me in real life.

I feel guilty about that exchange, though. I didn't tell her the whole truth. The truth was that, although nothing physical went on, a flight attendant did once talk dirty to me. Yep. Down and dirty.

It was prior to take off, and I guess my situational awareness was lacking, because she leaned toward me and said, "Turn off your ****ing cell phone!"

Okay, I made that part up.

Geez, What a Month (or Two)

2010-05-17T10:11:00.005-05:00

We cruise through life so much of the time, propped up by routine. But sometimes the road gets rocky.

My friend Jeff lost his wife in early April. She'd had kidney problems, but had been released to go home, and died suddenly after getting back. Jeff seldom referred to her as "my wife." Instead, she was nearly always "Cathy." It's sometimes striking how much you can read from one word. When Jeff said the word "Cathy," what I heard was, "I love her so much." Cathy was only in her fifties. It makes me sad to think that they've been denied the time to grow old together.

My coworker Shaun is one of those guys who seems in rapture over being a dad. He's mentioned the incredible feeling of having his infant son fall asleep on his chest, and of watching the little guy discover life and the world. Now his wife wants a divorce, and Shaun lives away from his son.

My coworker Tim flew regularly to the Deepwater Horizon. He knew several of the folks who worked on the rig personally. It was "his rig" so to speak; he was most often tasked for the crew change flights in and out of there. I haven't asked him if he knew any of the eleven workers presumed killed in the explosion. But, I know that it must weigh on him, knowing that he's been responsible for their safety in the past, while they were passengers on his helicopter. At around the same time as the Deepwater Horizon explosion, Tim learned that he had some major blockage of coronary arteries, and underwent the stent procedure. He'll be grounded for a minimum of six months. Tim was awarded the Distinguished Flying Cross while serving as a helicopter pilot in Vietnam. I hope we'll see him back in the cockpit in a few months, and I hope that when he retires, it's on his terms.

Bob wrote about cars in a recent blog post. He mentioned how he's always loved driving and working on them. I've never been a big auto enthusiast, and my tastes have tended toward the practical (cheap). But, back in my Army days, I drove a fellow pilot's Corvette around when he'd had a bit too much of the happy sauce. Geez, the older Corvettes were fun to drive, and really comfortable for tall guys.

One day, when I lived in Austin in the early eighties, I found myself at a dealership haggling over the price of a new Corvette. It would have been quite a transition: Toyota Tercel to Corvette. The the price got down to something really attractive, because the dealer wanted to unload his remaining 'Vettes in the old body style to make room for the new, more European-looking model. I was really close to signing on the dotted line. But, I got cold feet at the end, for a reason probably best explained in an old joke. Surely you've heard it.

Q: What's the difference between a Corvette and a porcupine?

A: With a porcupine, the prick is on the outside.

A Day for Linking

2010-03-30T14:02:00.003-05:00

Just wanted to share some recent posts from other folks with y'all.

I love Debby's writing, whether she's relating her battle with breast cancer, or hurting her hip while dancing at a wedding.
Life's Funny Like That

My friend and former coworker Bob has a sense of "voice" in his writing that I envy. He's a kind and compassionate guy, but he doesn't really care if you think so. He lives in Florida, but he still has a good bit of the vinegary New Yorker in him. I liked this post because it reveals a bit about the life of a helicopter pilot who lives by the seasons, and how we sometimes don't realize how we've changed until well after the fact.
Helicopter Pilot

Inspiration needn't come from a grand source. It can come from the heart and the guts of a six year-old girl struggling to master the monkey bars. Read Andrew Heffernan's account of his daughter's triumph.
Male Pattern Fitness

Return

2010-03-28T12:49:00.002-05:00

I was away in Louisiana for longer than usual last time. Annual recurrent training, with long, intense days in the classroom and the simulator.

It always has an affect on Dylan when I'm away for longer than usual, and this time was no different. Rhonda went to bed early, and Dylan asked me to sit next to him while we watched "Iron Man."

I thought about how long it had been since we snuggled up together to watch a movie. He's a big kid now; he'll be ten this summer. It was a tighter fit in the easy chair than last time, but we wedged in there together. We made it half way through the movie before he feel asleep against my shoulder.

Geez, I remember being in my twenties and thirties and feeling envious of women friends because they could cry. "It must feel so good," I would think, knowing how difficult it was for me to find that kind of emotional release.

Wow, things sure changed after I became a dad. I think I cried more in the first three years of Dylan's life than I had in my entire adulthood. Mostly, I weeped out of joy, but as most parents know, that joy is infused with a beautiful sadness, a sadness that comes from knowing that our times with little ones will be too short, and that one day they will fly away.

Few parents really want the kids to stay forever. We know that taking wing is evidence of a successful upbringing. We don't want them lounging on the sofa, thirty and jobless, mad because all of the potato chips are gone. And yet, some of us still dread that day when our kids leave us to make lives for themselves.

I thought about that as I looked at my son's hairy little sleeping head resting on my shoulder. But really, his head isn't so little anymore, and that's one more reminder that one day he'll fly away.

Good God, I hope I'll be ready.

Gotta go. Damn sinuses.

One Nation, with No Damned Sense of Humor

2010-03-05T20:19:00.008-06:00

Thom G. and Bob Barbanes wrote about the JFK controller who let his nine year-old twins clear a few aircraft for takeoff.

Thom wrote, "Jebus but we've lost out way in this country. We're an angry nation. We've got everyone yelling at anyone." He continues, "There's a lot of people in this country that have lost their sense of humor. They're angry, ugly and unfunny."

I pretty much echo his sentiments. Okay, perhaps the dad suffered from a lapse in judgment. Sure. I don't know all the details of the incident, but I surmise that he let his kids play air traffic controllers during non-peak times. He told them what to say, and he was right there to correct them or take over. It wasn't as if the kids were on approach control, guiding multiple aircraft into the airport with minimum separation. The kids were clearing aircraft located on the ground for takeoff. C'mon.

We've become a country that celebrates punishing people. If the press makes a big deal out of someone's mistake, a big chunk of the public goes along with the implied we need to get that bastard sentiment.

I think the authorities should slap that air traffic controller's wrist, tell him not to do it again, and put him back to work. I think we should all hold on to a sense of humor, lest we begin to lose hold on our own sense of humanity.

I hope the controller goes back to work, and I hope his kids can quit worrying that they could have cost daddy his job.

I'm doubtful that will happen. I think too many people will want his head, because dammit, that's how we do things around here. "Forgive and forget" ain't so much in fashion nowadays.

And that's freakin' sad.

Little Man

2010-02-27T23:52:00.004-06:00

My son Dylan is nine and a half now. Like most parents, I wonder where the time has gone. He's a healthy little dude: He weighs a bit over 100 pounds, and he's a half inch shy of five feet tall.

He was a remarkably happy baby, and he's always been a good kid. He can be trying at times, yep. I tell friends that he's a lot like his mom, which is to say that he's sweet, but hard-headed.

Lately, I find that I've been raising my voice with him more often. He's been testing his limits, and pushing the envelope with regularity. I've had to more often fight against exasperation, and I've more often reminded myself to take a couple of breaths before saying anything.

One day last week, I walked into the school grounds to pick Dylan up at the end of the day. Dylan ran up to give me a hug, followed closely by one of his schoolmates. Dylan's little friend had a silly grin on his face, and he shouted, "Mr. Johnson, Dylan gave me five dollars!" I looked at Dylan, waiting for an explanation, but he said nothing.

Driving home, I reminded Dylan that he'd been given the five bucks to pay for a couple of days of school lunches. He said, "I know, Dad. But he's been talking about a toy he wants to buy, and he never has any money."

"So you went without lunch?" I asked.
"Well, not really."
"What do you mean, 'not really'?"
He paused. "One of the other kids gave me some crackers."

Dylan's little buddy comes from a broken home. Money is tight, I gather.

I was torn. Dylan gave that money away without permission. He'd intentionally disregarded our instructions to use it to pay for school lunches.

I rehearsed it in my mind. I'd praise him for being so selfless, for going without lunch so a little friend could buy a toy he'd wanted for weeks. But then, I'd gently scold him for failing to follow instructions. I'd remind him that the money was not his to give away. I'd give him a little lecture about responsibility.

We came to a stop light. I looked in the rear-view mirror, and met his eyes. His expression told me that he knew something was coming.

"Dylan?"
A little hesitation on his part. "Yeah, Dad?"
"You want to stop and get something to eat?"

What can I say? I went with my heart. I hope my heart was right.

Not Just a Game

2010-02-08T19:41:00.002-06:00

I took this photo earlier today. What you see is what remains of the IGA supermarket in Buras, Louisiana. There were two supermarkets in Buras, but Hurricane Katrina took them away. The folks down here in Buras, Boothville, and Venice still don't have a supermarket in the community. Instead, they must drive a half-hour north to Port Sulphur.

There are many vivid reminders of the devastation brought by Katrina to these people and their homes. They see them every day.

The Saints made it to the Super Bowl for the first time in their forty-two year history. The Aints ain't Aints anymore. That's one reason why, for folks in south Louisiana, the Super Bowl was much more than a game. But it wasn't the only reason, and I think it wasn't the most important reason.

I think for so many folks down here, the Super Bowl means that it's okay to hope again. God bless them.

A Tip of the Hat to Archie Manning

2010-02-05T12:33:00.003-06:00

For the first time in nineteen years, I'm genuinely interested in the outcome of the upcoming Super Bowl. If memory serves, the last time I watched a Super Bowl from beginning to end was in 1991. I was with my dad. Dad died later that year, in August.

I'd always found individual sports more compelling anyway. Track and field, tennis, ping pong, boxing, whatever. But watching games with Dad was always fun, and I always looked forward to them, whether as a kid, or later, as an alleged adult.

I grew up in southern California, but my favorite football team during my high school years and into my twenties? The New Orleans Saints. I'd evidently inherited my dad's trait of rooting for the underdog, and boy, were the Saints ever the perennial underdog.

The Saints were founded in 1967, and it would be twenty years before they had a winning season.

And then there was Archie Manning. Archie was an outstanding quarterback, but he just didn't have much of a team around him, and that was most evident with the Saints porous offensive line. Archie didn't have it much better in college, at Ole Miss. In 1969, he set an SEC record for total offense: 436 yards passing, 104 yard rushing. Archie's effort is still tied for the record today, and guess what? Ole Miss lost that game to Alabama.

Archie played for the Saints for ten seasons. Losing seasons. L.A. Rams defensive lineman Jack Youngblood felt bad for Archie, because Archie's offensive line left so often left him a sitting duck for players of Youngblood's caliber. Archie said, "I've got to say that Youngblood was nice enough to pick me up every time he knocked my butt off."

So now, for the first time in forty-two years, the New Orleans Saints are going to the Super Bowl. Archie's son Peyton will lead the Indianapolis Colts against the Saints. Something tells me that Archie will be pulling for Peyton. But if the Saints win, I suspect Archie will spare a smile or two.

I'll be traveling on Super Bowl Sunday. I'm not sure I'll catch the game. But I'll be thinking about Archie, and thinking about my dad.

Let's Get Out of Here Before They Call the Police

2010-02-01T09:33:00.005-06:00

So Dylan and I are walking through the indoor mall. He says something clever and smart-alecky at my expense. I'm proud of him, but of course he has to pay, so I get him in a headlock. I give him a noogie and a light kick to the butt.

He responds with a straight right to my side. Oomph. I've always let him hit me full force in the body when we spar, but sheesh, I'm wondering how much longer that can go on. I deliver a vicious combination to his head with my fingertips, and he counters with a looping left to the body.

We pause. We drift back together, still walking, and we hug.

I hear laughter behind us. An older lady is walking behind us, watching.

"Men," she says.

My Wild New Year's Eve

2010-01-01T10:13:00.003-06:00

One day my buddy Mick the Mad Irishman and I were flying together. We landed in Morgan City just before a line of rain moved over the heliport, and we sat in the helicopter waiting it out. We chatted about this and that when Mick asked a question.

"How often do you and Rhonda get a babysitter and go out to dinner or a movie?"

"Never," I answered.

"WHAT?"

"Never," I answered again.

Mick looked a little stricken. "You've never left him with a babysitter and gone out, not once?"

"Nope."

He looked dumbfounded, and said nothing for a moment.

Finally, he said, "That's f***ed up."

I merely chuckled at first. Mick has never, since I've known him, had any trouble offering his opinion on something he thinks is "f***ed up." In a few moments, though, I was laughing so hard I was in tears.

Mick offered, "It's not bloody funny, it's f***ing tragic, mate." That really got me going.

Now, Mick and his wife were and are devoted parents to their two daughters. In fact, you'd be hard-pressed to find a more devoted dad than Mick. But, Mick and his wife were in their early thirties when their first daughter arrived. They needed to get out now and then.

I explained to Mick that there's a been there done that thing with older parents, and that we didn't feel we were making any real sacrifice in forgoing "dates," since we'd had plenty of time to indulge in dinners and movies before Dylan's arrival.

Mick didn't buy it. "That's f***ed up," he said, summarizing his feelings on the matter.

Last night, I had a plan to have my cake and eat it too, with Rhonda's encouragement. I planned to dash into town and catch the early set of the Jim Dyar Band, and make it home to see in the new year with Rhonda and Dylan. Jim is a friend of a friend, and I've been wanting to catch him and his band for a good while now.

I never left home, though. Part of it was that I have a cold and it was rainy last night. The other part is that I'm away from the two people I love most too much anyway. I love live music, but I just couldn't find the motivation to go away for a couple of hours.

We told Dylan that he could stay up until midnight. But, Rhonda was asleep by 10:30, and Dylan fell asleep at 11:00, leaning against my shoulder as we watched the Twilight Zone marathon on SyFy.

When the new year arrived, I kissed his hairy little head and whispered, "Happy New Year, Punkin'." (He's now demanding that I desist calling him "Punkin" in public.) I carried him to bed, and looked at him for a few minutes, wondering how nine and a half years went by so fast.

I had a wonderful New Year's Eve. I hope yours was wonderful too.

Hearing from Two Mikes

2009-12-22T16:17:00.005-06:00

Mike of Ifs of Og fame emailed me again, and gave me the okay to share a bit of what's going on in his life.

Hal,

Shouldn't complain, but it's been one of those years, you know?

Just buried my Dad down south, sister-in-law died a couple months ago, wife had major surgery this week. Mom has early stage Alzheimers and fell her first day in Tennessee- Naturally it was during a snowstorm this past weekend, one of her biggest fears and a thing we promised would not happen before Christmas!

I should probably mention that I have now fully deconverted, which makes me feel like a source of disappointment to Christian friends everywhere, but at least I know I lost my faith honestly, that is, in the process of attempting to strengthen it.

Stress factors have been high, but 2010 promises better things.

Mike also hinted that he may be rejoining us in the blogging community in the months ahead. I sure hope so.

A couple of days after Mike's email, I got one from Michael McCrickard, aka Ice Mac Sea. (I wrote about Ice Mac Sea here.) I hadn't heard from Michael in a good while also, so it was really great to hear that he'll soon finish his second CD. He says it will be more acoustic than Measure for Measure, and he wrote, "The whole thing sounds better than I could have hoped for."

Hearing from the two Mikes has made my week, and after missing the last two Christmas mornings with my wife and son, it's looking like I'll get home Christmas Eve. It can't get much better than that.

In case I'm not back here before the day, I wish everyone a Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays.

Ifs of Og

2009-12-21T17:16:00.004-06:00

One of my favorite bloggers has long been Mike of Ifs of Og. A while back, Mike discontinued his blog, and we wondered what came of him.

Out of the blue, Mike answered an email from me today. He's still alive on this earth, which should come as no surprise, since it takes a live person to discontinue a blog.

I have no explanation to share with you as yet about Mike's withdrawal from blogging life. But, I'm glad he's still with us.

And, I hope he'll one day choose to share his writing online again, because I'm a selfish bastard.

A Dream About Dead Women and a Harley

2009-12-08T08:33:00.000-06:00

I had sort of a replay of the dream this piece was based on last night, minus the Jeopardy skit, so I decided to post it again.

I'm at the Rockfeller Center, sitting in the audience with Judy and Lisa, who were friends with my old girlfriend Terry. Terry and I were in the eighties, off and on. Terry and I are still friends, but Judy and Lisa are dead. They were party girls; either of them could light up a room. They both drank themselves to death in the nineties.

My favorite Saturday Night Live skit, "Celebrity Jeopardy," begins. Judy and Lisa, sitting each side of me, giggle in unison. They both wrap their arms around mine.

***

Alex Trebek (played by Will Ferrell): "Mr. Connery, go ahead."

Sean Connery (played by Darrell Hammand): "The day is mine! I'll take 'Famous Titties' for 400."

Alex Trebek (looking exasperated): "Titles, Famous Titles."

Sean Connery: "Damn!"

Alex Trebek: "And the answer is: 'This movie title is taken from the name of the book Gone With The Wind,' Mr. Connery."

Sean Connery: "Dolly Parton!"

Alex Trebek: "TITLES, Mr. Connery. Not TITTIES."

Sean Connery: "Not a fan of the ladies, are you Trebek?"

***

We laugh, the three of us. We laugh hard. Judy kisses me on the cheek. Lisa kisses me on the cheek. "We'll see you at The Wheel, okay? Don't wake up."

For a few moments, I'm outside of Hussong's Cantina in Ensenada. I'm in handcuffs, leaning up against an Ensenada Police Department patrol car. Hell, all I did was push my fellow gringo into the crowd so the little cop wouldn't split his head open. I look at the little cop. "We both already know how this ends, officer," I say. "The lieutenant shows up, listens to both our stories, then tells you to let me go." "Yeah, you're right," says the little cop. Then, just as it really happened that New Year's Eve in 1978, he leads me through the crowd waiting to get in the bar. The crowd boos when they see me in handcuffs. The cop continues to lead me through the crowd to the bar, where, with a flourish, he removes the handcuffs. The crowd cheers. The cop leans close, shakes my hand, and says, "Good seeing you again, amigo."

Yeah, I remember that weekend in Ensenada. The next day, I suffered through the worst hangover of my life.

But now, I'm walking into The Wheel. It was a biker bar up on Highway 33 above Ojai, and for the twelve years I owned a Harley--from the early eighties until the early nineties--it seemed like a second home. As I reach the door, I look back. I feel a pang as I see it: my 1980 FXS Low Rider, all black and chrome. I walk in, and there's Mary, the owner, an angel in a 300 pound body. She's already got a beer waiting for me. She died a few years ago from complications of diabetes. Sitting at a table, I see Judy and Lisa again. Sitting with them, I see Bill Greene. He died in the late eighties while on a camping trip. Everyone liked him, and everyone made fun of him because he rode a Yamaha. Robin is sitting there too, and she's looking stunning, because she's actually smiling. She died when she had an aneurysm and rode her Sportster into a telephone pole.

I hug Judy and Lisa again, shake Bill's hand, give Robin a kiss on the cheek. "I'm jealous that Judy and Lisa got to spend more time with you," she says, with a twinkle in her eye. That gets to me. As guy who grew up thinking of himself as a goofy-looking kid, I always feel surprised when a woman compliments me. Even in dreams.

Abruptly, I wake up. It's four in the morning, so I decide to get out of bed. I brew tea and get dressed. Remembering a mountain lion had been spotted in the area, I walk outside to check on the chickens and the llamas. Everything is okay. Then, as if on cue, I hear the rumble of a Harley on Bear Mountain Road, a mile or so away.

I close my eyes, standing there in the mild late-winter chill. I listen to that sound. I love where I live, I love my wife and son, and I'm grateful for my life in the here and now. But for a moment, as the Harley's muted roar fades into the darkness, I feel strangely homesick.

March 22, 2007

A Developing Scandal

2009-11-29T17:02:00.007-06:00

In Arkansas, a retired Army National Guard colonel is accused of keeping his dogs in horribly cramped conditions. The horror.

Evidence of blatant mistreatment: the poor dog is forced to share the recliner with Colonel Cooley.

The largest dog is forced to stand on the ground. How on earth has this gone on for so long?

Dream Replay

2009-11-20T03:30:00.002-06:00

Sometimes I'll have joyful little dreams about something in the past, usually involving family. I woke up smiling this morning.

The three of us were at Kids' Kingdom Park on a warm April day. Dylan was a couple of months shy of his second birthday, and he'd made friends with a couple of four year-old kids.

The two kids introduced themselves to Dylan.

"I'm Brian," one said.

"I'm David," the other said.

"I'm Baby," Dylan said.

Rhonda and I looked at each other. Rhonda smiled. "I guess we should start calling him 'Dylan' more often."

A Profound Post About Serial Commas

2009-11-15T22:07:00.003-06:00

Are you old enough to remember when the last comma in a series was omitted, mainly by newspapers? Geez, I'm glad that writing convention has mostly gone by the wayside. Even in elementary school, it just didn't seem right.

Consider this sentence: "I owe my love of music to my parents, Yo Yo Ma and Joan Jett."

I'm glad serial commas have held sway.

I feel much better now. It's been hard keeping my feelings on this issue under wraps.

Veterans Day

2009-11-11T09:40:00.005-06:00

It's Veterans Day today. I salute veterans everywhere, and I especially want to acknowledge my coworkers who've served in Vietnam, Iraq, Afghanistan, and elsewhere.

It's an especially somber Veterans Day today for me today.

My uncle Darrell is a veteran who served during the Vietnam War. When he learned that he would be drafted into the Army, he enlisted rather than wait for his time to report.

Darrell is the second youngest of my dad's seven siblings. He was always freakishly strong and athletic, so it didn't surprise the family much when Darrell was awarded recognition as the Battalion Outstanding Trainee in Basic Training--he broke the record for the obstacle course--and was singled out again in Advanced Infantry Training, when he was designated the Company Outstanding Trainee.

Darrell was one heck of a marksman before he went into the Army. In Basic Training, he maxed all of the firing ranges. Perfect score.

Darrell was a natural born fighting machine, and in 1966, things were heating up in Vietnam. So the Army, naturally, sent him to Germany, and made him a clerk.

Darrell did serve in Vietnam though. He was there on temporary duty for three weeks, behind a desk.

He served his time, got out of the Army, got a job, got married, and had two daughters.

I learned two days ago that my uncle Darrell has brain cancer. Without treatment, the doctors give him three to six months. With treatment, they give him a year. I don't know if he's made a decision yet.

So, I give a special salute to my uncle Darrell, the guy who never forgot that my dad, from the age of twelve, helped raise his younger siblings with whatever job he could find after school. He was the first family member to show up at my parents' house on the day my dad died. He stood at the door with tears in his eyes, and hugged me so hard that my feet left the floor.

I can remember thinking as a kid that Darrell was an incognito superhero. I haven't changed my mind.

I have to go now.

Two Kinds of Brains?

2009-10-23T16:40:00.004-05:00

A friend sent this Mark Gungor clip to me. Now I understand.

Wednesday October 14

2009-10-14T05:07:00.001-05:00

We made what may be our final boating jaunt for the season on Shasta Lake last Friday, with one of Dylan's schoolmates and her parents along for the ride. I was beautiful out on the lake, and warm, until the sun dipped below the horizon. Then it cooled, quickly, reminding us that summer is indeed over, and what we call "Indian Summer" is often but a teasing connection to our memories of a season recently past.

My online amigo Algernon and I have something in common: We both went through much of our lives thinking we'd never be fathers. I've enjoyed watching his journey into fatherhood, even if from afar. Here's one of his posts of Monday Morning Gabriel.

In the early eighties, I bought a copy of a Barron's Learn to Type book, borrowed my sister's old electric typewriter, and began pecking away for twenty minutes a day. I only need look at about a half dozen abandoned journals from my teens and twenties to remember that writing longhand was always a chore. If I hadn't taken up typing, I doubt I would ever have taken up writing as a hobby.

I usually don't even make notes in longhand to organize my thoughts before writing. I should, but I don't. I'd almost rather take a beating than write anything of length in longhand.

I'm guessing that in the days before word processing, it was common for folks to write drafts in longhand before typing a manuscript. I suppose nowadays, with the proliferation of blogs and other online product, it's more common to compose on the keyboard. That's why it struck me when I read this on the blog The Daily Coyote.

"Part of the reason I don’t write much on this blog is that I cannot compose on the computer. I wrote my entire book (both of them, actually) with pen and paper. I often write things longhand, things I want to share on this site, but simply never get around to transcribing them into the computer."

I'm curious. How many of you writers out there compose in longhand?

On Fire

2009-10-12T08:03:00.004-05:00

I think this is a good video to watch to start out the week.

Oh yeah: Jason is 5'6".

B.B. Has a Bad Day

2009-10-08T11:04:00.005-05:00

Most maintenance on PHI's offshore fleet is done at night. Makes sense, because the helicopters are flown mainly during the daytime. But, like anything mechanical, sometimes helicopters break. That's why most of our Gulf Coast bases have a couple of day mechanics. Often, the fix is simple, and in an hour or two, our heroes in charcoal uniforms can have an aircraft up and running again, producing revenue.

If you're going to be a day mechanic with an offshore helicopter company, it helps to be patient. It helps to be really patient. Look, I like most of the pilots I work with; we have a lot of great folks in our ranks. But sheesh, some pilots can be awfully opinionated, even when discussing aircraft problems with guys who hold a federal license for working on them.

Add to that dynamic the fact that so many of our pilots come from a military background, where the pilots are officers and the maintenance folks are enlisted. There are guys who just can't seem to dispense with that condescending "listen to the officer speak" bearing.

Yep, for the most part, I like my fellow aviators, but there are times when I wonder if Will Rogers ever met a helicopter pilot.

One of our day mechanics in Boothville is a Louisiana native by the name of B.B. Smith. Before he became a licensed helicopter mechanic, B.B. was, of all things, a jockey. I have a lot of respect for B.B., who epitomizes the qualities needed by a good day mechanic: He has a great talent for troubleshooting, he works well under pressure, and yes, he deals adeptly with the Big Bad Pilot Ego. He's also funny as heck. Folks tend to gather around B.B. just to hear one of his stories. He’s like a one-man “Redneck Comedy Hour.”

Boothville is a busy base, but problems with helicopters seem to run in spurts. Sheesh, sometimes we'll cruise along for days with very few maintenance problems. But then, a day will come along when you might think that one helicopter got the flu and gave it to several others.

Our day mechanics had a really busy week the last time I was at work, but one day in particular was just the day from hell. Our day guys were juggling multiple aircraft problems, and I remember thinking how awful it would be to be in their shoes. I spotted B.B. in the afternoon, after my second flight, and the look on his face spoke volumes. He’s always seemed perpetually cheerful, and I've never seen him go so long without a smile on his face. But, he managed to get through the day with his sanity, and without clobbering an obstreperous pilot with a large wrench, so thankfully, I'll see him again come my next hitch.

Here's B.B. ejecting an unwelcome young visitor from the hanger.

B.B and family.

B.B. posted this on Facebook. He wrote that it pretty much explained the way he felt his last week at work.

A Little About Not Much

2009-10-05T13:08:00.003-05:00

Geez, when I left home last time, it was still broiler weather in Redding, with the temps regularly topping 100 degrees. Shorts and t-shirts everywhere. Now, a few days after my arrival back home, I'm sitting in a coffee place watching people walk in wearing jackets and sweaters.

It's kind of weird having Dylan back in school. I should have tackled chores at home today, but with Rhonda at work and Dylan in school, the place seems so empty. (I hope the dogs won't feel hurt if they read this.)

My online amigo Thom G once posted a link to Grammar Girl. She's quite a story. Her name is Mignon Fogarty, and she started the "Grammar Girl" thing more or less as a hobby, creating podcasts on grammar and usage for iTunes. She was surprised to learn one day that her podcasts were the number two rated downloads on the site. She was further surprised another day when the folks from Oprah's show contacted her asking her to appear. Now she has a New York Times bestseller on the shelves, with another book on the way later this month. I was reading her book while flying home from Louisiana and learned something interesting: Most people under the age of thirty-five say "on accident," while most people over forty say "by accident." It seems a bit of a mystery how that language usage generation gap came about; a university professor even wrote a paper on the divide, but he didn't provide a firm answer.

You're likely aware that California has a law in effect allowing the possession of marijuana for medical purposes. I was surprised to learn here that in Redding, where Shasta County's D.A. seems to take a conservative/authoritarian stance (he slaps people with felonies for possession of methamphetamine for quantities far below what sentencing guidelines call for), we now have thirteen medical marijuana dispensaries.

Man, I'll bet sales of Pink Floyd and reggae music have boomed in our county.

One Day

2009-09-22T19:17:00.007-05:00

I was walking out to the flight line to preflight yesterday morning with my flying partner this week, Scott, who has the nickname "Catfish." This scene just stopped me cold, and I immediately regretted leaving my camera back at the quarters. I then remembered that my new cell phone had a better camera than the last, and snapped this photo. Sometimes, the light in coastal Louisiana has a magic about it.

Katie, the wife of a former coworker, asked if that was "my" helicopter. It wasn't. A guy named John and a guy named Raj were crewing it.

Here's Raj with one of his "fur kids," as my friend Pam would say. I copied this off his Facebook page, with his okay. Something tells me that Raj and his wife have friends who secretly wish they could die and come back as one of their dogs.

We broke off an approach to an offshore oil platform to see what this waterspout would do. It seemed to be taking a path to the platform, but after we circled for ten minutes or so, it veered away and dissipated.

This was the sky on our flight back to the base, following our "visit" with the waterspout.

This and That

2009-09-12T14:47:00.005-05:00

This morning was a first for me: I went to listen to a writer talk about writing. Steve Brewer ranks among the best known of our Shasta County authors. He's written 16 books, and the first novel of his Bubba Mabry series of crime mystery novels, Lonely Street, was made into a movie, and recently released on DVD. Although he's written for a living since the age of eighteen, Steve's talk focused on how writing a screenplay for the first time prompted him to look at the process of creating fiction with fresh eyes. It was a fun talk; Steve is funny in person as well as in writing.

My online buddy Thom G lost his dad to lung cancer. My thoughts and prayers are with Thom and his family. Thom writes some remarkable "flash fiction." You might check him out here.

My online friend Debby, who has already been through a battle with breast cancer, may have cancer again. My thoughts and prayers are with her, too. She's a remarkable writer and a remarkable lady.

Dylan has been sick with a fever, but he's rebounding now. A couple of mornings ago, when he was still feeling rotten, he sat on my lap while we watched a movie together. It was the first time in a good while that he's done that, and I had to put out a little effort not to get teary. Gosh, time passes, doesn't it? Oh yeah: the sentimentality washing over me was only part of the reason I felt choked up. Also, the circulation to one of my legs was getting cut off. Sheesh, my nine year-old "little boy" weighs 100 pounds now. I'm wondering how much longer I'll have the guts to let him sock me in the body full-force when we do our "sparring."

Sometimes I get a little wistful about Dylan's baby time, and I'll wish I could go back to hold him as an infant again. But, if I had the opportunity to go back in time, I wouldn't take it. I'd miss the little smarty-pants I know now too much.

First Cousin Once Removed

2009-09-10T11:30:00.002-05:00

I had planned to attend a funeral today in Las Vegas. I booked an airline ticket, a hotel room, packed a bag. But Dylan has been sick, and Rhonda came down with the same bug the day before yesterday. So, I'm staying home.

Jonathon was twenty years old. I hadn't seen his mom since I was a teenager and she was a small child. Jonathon is the grandson of Gary, the several-years-younger brother of my dad. Gary used to take me shooting when I was a kid. I'm six-four and some change, and I look up at Gary, who claims he's six-seven but appears at least an inch taller.

My dad was one of eight kids, my mom one of six. I have a lot of cousins, especially considering that most of my cousins have kids, those "first cousins once removed." I think of the days when both sets of grandparents were alive. We'd have big family gatherings and I'd catch up with the lives of my first and second cousins. We'd watch the adults laugh, and some of the younger aunts and uncles would play with us.

My extended family is spread around the country nowadays, as is the case with so many families. Only weddings or funerals prompt family gatherings of any size.

I never met my cousin Jonathon, the son of my cousin Leigh Ann, who was so doggone cute as a little kid that it hurt to look at her. I only know him by what I've heard and read.

He was a child who always loved working with his hands, be it making music, creating art, or building something. He was a quiet guy who didn't seek the limelight, and a loyal friend. He seemed one of those people who could put friends in a better mood with his presence. He seemed one of those people who left more in this life than he took.

I never met Jonathon, but I'll never forget him. I wish I could stand close to his grandfather and his parents and his siblings today as he's laid to rest, but I can't. But, there are other ways to say goodbye. There are other ways to remember. I'll remember Jonathon, my twenty year-old cousin who lost his life in a car accident, and I'll do my best to celebrate his life.

What's in a Name?

2009-09-08T15:43:00.004-05:00

We lost my dad in '91, and my mom in 2001, when Dylan was fifteen months old.

I think a lot about Mom and Dad. They weren't perfect, but I admire what they offered as parents, especially considering their growing-up years.

Now again, my mom wasn't perfect, but I think I was in the front rows when they handed out mothers. My mom was kind, patient, fair-minded, compassionate, and she had one of the most infectious laughs you'd ever hear.

She was hard-headed as heck, though. Good thing, or she would have been too good to be true.

About a year after Dad died, I stopped by one morning to have coffee with Mom.

I asked, "Mom, how did you and Dad decide on my name?"

Hal is my nickname. Harold is my given name.

Mom didn't hesitate. My sweet, kind, loving, almost too good to be true mom didn't hesitate.

She answered, "I never did like your name."
I said, "Huh?"
She repeated, "I never did like your name. Your dad marched in after you were born and announced that he wanted to name you 'Harold,' and I was in no shape to argue."

Stop laughing. It's not funny. Really. Stop laughing.

Checking In

2009-08-09T20:56:00.001-05:00

I love summer. Dylan is out of school, Rhonda can often schedule days off, and we've been lucky to enjoy a good number of family outings and activities. But sheesh, it seems like my exercise program and my writing go down the tubes when Dylan is out of school. I guess I just don't juggle the extra activities with exercise and writing so well. My better half would say, "Of course not: you're a man."

Thanks to slow going in getting my medical paperwork to and from the FAA, I was home for the entire month of July. In fact, I was home for five consecutive weeks. It was wonderful to have the extra time at home with Dylan out of school, and Rhonda, Dylan and I topped off my extended stay at home with a fun camping trip at Whiskeytown Lake.

I met a fellow Redding blogger I've been following for a good while. Annie writes the blog Don't Make Me Yell at You, and happens to work in the same office as the Aviation Medical Examiner designated by the FAA for our area. I was tipped off that Annie might work there when she mentioned that she could see the Dairy Queen from her office. So, I shot her a message on Facebook and asked her to say hi if she had a chance. I also asked her not to walk into the exam room while I was in my underwear, since my fragile male ego might be shattered by her laughter. It was great meeting her, and only partly because I was fully clothed.

So that makes six bloggers on my blogroll that I've met or know personally: Annie, Uncle E, Bob Barbanes, Doris, Steve Brewer, and Phil Fountain. At this rate, I should meet everyone on my blogroll by 2050 or so. That should work out fine, since I'm planning to die at the age of ninety-five, when I'll croak from injuries sustained during my second career as a motorcycle daredevil.

After meeting Annie, and getting the little piece of paper from the doctor stating I was medically cleared to fly for another year, I headed for the airport to fly out to Louisiana. I thought I'd be simply finishing my scheduled hitch, and returning home after three days. Alas, that was not to be. The scheduling department asked me to stay to begin training for a position I've applied for with my employer, and that meant nine days away from home instead of three.

Rhonda, Dylan and I went upstairs to the restaurant to have lunch before my departure. I looked at Dylan. Aw hell. We'd made a bunch of plans for when I came home, and I hated to disappoint him.

"I have some bad news, but I have some good news too," I said.

Rhonda sighed. Dylan sighed.

"I have to be away for nine days, not three."

Dylan looked crestfallen. It hurt to look at him.

Dylan: "What's the good news?"

"Well, I'll be getting a little raise out of the deal."

Immediately, he straightened up, and a big smile lit upon his face.

He said, "That news has Nintendo DS written all over it!"

I love that little smartass.

An Old Friend and San Miguel Dark

2009-07-12T04:03:00.007-05:00

I was thinking of people I've known during my career as a helicopter pilot, and memories of Wally popped up. When I met Wally, he was flying a Sikorsky S-58T helicopter on a firefighting contract out of Hunter-Liggett Army Airfield in California. I was the OIC (officer in charge) of my unit's then-small detachment there. I was a young warrant officer then, but I got the job because the unit was short of captains.

Wally was a retired Marine. He may have had a bushy gray beard, but by George, he was still a Marine. If you've worked with Marines before, you know that there is no such thing as an ex-Marine.

Wally had been one of a select few enlisted aviators in the Marines. He later became a warrant officer, and retired as a captain. He flew a tour in Korea, and three in Vietnam.

Wally had lots of advice about flying, women, and life. Wally had lots of stories about flying, women, and life. One woman had stolen his heart, and it was evident that the lost love of his life had stamped his soul more than the four combat tours he'd survived, or the three divorces he'd endured. He would never tell me her name.

Wally had a favorite beer: San Miguel Dark. A couple of days ago, I noticed that Trader Joe's had San Miguel Dark on its shelves. I took a six pack home. I had a couple that night, and thought of Wally, the colorful Marine with a wounded heart. I met him in the summer of 1978. I wonder if he's still walking this earth.

If not, I hope he's once again with his love, and I hope she likes San Miguel Dark.

Larry Curtis Again

2009-06-13T21:00:00.001-05:00

So what happens when a guitar-playing helicopter pilot has the audacity to perform on YouTube one of the most beloved and well-covered songs ever? Lots of kudos, and about 36,000 views so far.

Larry Curtis does "Whiskey Train"

2009-06-07T17:04:00.001-05:00

PHI pilot Larry Curtis covers my favorite Procol Harum song, "Whiskey Train."

Crap?

2009-06-04T22:15:00.003-05:00

My flying partner for the last week, Kendall Dunn, is new with PHI. He's been a National Guard helicopter pilot for several years, though. He grew up on the West Bank of New Orleans until high school, when his family moved to Mississippi. He played football for the University of Southern Mississippi.

He has one funny kid. Meet Kendall Jr., age three and a half.

Dylan and Alice

2009-05-22T12:23:00.005-05:00

Once upon a time, we had three dogs. We had Lucky, a Vizsla/Rhodesian Ridgeback mix; Wanky (Rhonda named him), a Daschund/Wire Terrier mix; and Gomez, a Chihuahua/Miniature Pinscher mix.

Lucky was a big girl, weighing seventy-five pounds. She died two weeks before Dylan was born. Like many animal lovers, it pummels me when I lose a pet, and I go through a period of thinking stuff like, "I'll never get another dog (cat, llama, chicken)." That's natural; pet lovers want to avoid going through the emotional grinder of losing a pet again. But sooner or later, a sort of amnesia takes over, and many of us change our minds. I was starting to change my mind when Wanky died three years ago.

Dylan had been telling us for a few months that he wanted a puppy for his ninth birthday. Rhonda felt the time was ripe, so we gave Dylan a book on dog breeds. It didn't take him long to narrow the field down to a couple of lifestock guardian breeds. (He's preferred everything big since he was a baby.) He started agonizing over whether he wanted an Anatolian Shepherd or an Akbash.

I was away at work when Rhonda called me excitedly. She'd found a breeder in Cottonwood who bred a cross of Akbashes and Anatolians. Dylan would no longer have to agonize, and that appealed to me because I've never been particularly taken with purebreds. I'm a mutt; I like mutts.

We wanted to wait for Dylan's birthday in June, but the breeder told us that the litter had been nearly devoid of human contact. He said he'd be glad to hold the dog for us, but he recommended that we start the socialization process soon if we wanted the dog to be a pet instead of only a guardian.

So, Rhonda and Dylan drove to Cottonwood. Dylan picked out a female. He named her "Alice" about five minutes after they left the breeder's property.

I got home a few hours after Alice's arrival at our place. I noticed that she seemed confused about being petted. Sure enough, she'd had almost no human contact. She freaked out the first couple of times I picked her up.

Alice is now well on the way to being a socialized puppy. She's decided she likes being petted, and she doesn't mind being carried now either. I'll let you know how that goes when she's fully grown.

She's nine weeks old in these pics.

Other People: Greg Neer

2009-05-03T18:04:00.009-05:00

When I began my career as an offshore helicopter pilot in 1979, I was told that about ninety-eight percent of our pilots came from a military background. Well, things have changed a lot. First, it got harder to meet the flight time requirements for a civilian job after serving a few years in the military. As the helicopters used by the military got more expensive to operate, flight times went down. At about the same time, a visionary man by the name of Frank Robinson designed the Robinson R-22. The R-22 had lower operating costs then any other existing production helicopter, and it created a more feasible path for those who chose the civilian route to a helicopter rating. I think it's safe to say that had the R-22 not arrived on the scene, the helicopter pilot shortage the industry has endured in the last several years would have been more severe.

In 2000, the starting pay for a helicopter pilot in the Gulf of Mexico was about $24,000 a year, matching the starting pay for a bus driver in Indianapolis. There were two problems with that. One, the bulk of bus driver applicants weren't spending $60,000 or more to get a bus driver's license, and two, the cost of living in the Gulf Coast region was considerably higher.

In 2001, things changed. Pilots for the two largest Gulf Coast operators voted in a union. Also, supply and demand influenced the operators to sweeten the pot for new applicants. The synergy between those two factors saw starting pay go up significantly.

With better starting pay came a change in the typical offshore helicopter pilot applicant. The usual story was, "I went through military flight school, spent x years in the service, and got out to find a civilian job." We were, in a sense, a rather homogeneous bunch. With more civilian-trained pilots came folks who'd had prior careers before getting their helicopter ratings. Thus, we've seen folks who've been lawyers, truck drivers, business owners, nannies, CPA's, world-class mountain climbers, and chiropractors. For me, it's been fascinating to hear the stories of people who had lives before helicopters.

Despite the old joke, "Please don't tell my mom I'm a helicopter pilot; she thinks I'm a piano player in a brothel," I don't think we've had any former brothel employees. I'm not sure about that, though.

So, today marks the start of what I plan to offer now and then: stories from other people. Just within the ranks of PHI, there are loads of folks with more interesting lives than mine. That's one reason I decided to start a fiction blog: I can take stories about my life and do the embellish/exaggerate fandango without feeling like a damn liar. I think.

Greg Neer, during his time as a tour pilot in the Grand Canyon.

Meet Greg Neer. Greg is in his third month with PHI. He's flown helicopters since 2003, and has flown them for a living since 2006. Before that, he made his living as a musician.

Me: Greg, welcome to my blog, and please remember to watch your damned language in case children are reading.

Greg: I’ll do my best…

Me: So Greg, how long did you make your living as a musician before making the career change to flying helicopters?

Greg: I began performing professionally after leaving Indiana University in 1986. I’m fortunate to say that I enjoyed consistent employment in the music industry throughout my career before pursuing flying full time in August 2006.

Me: Which instrument did you play?

Greg: God’s instrument…the trumpet!

Me: Wow. I've heard it takes much more frequent practice to stay proficient on the trumpet than say, guitar or drums. True?

Greg: While I would never want to be accused of diminishing the effort and dedication needed to remain proficient on any instrument, playing the trumpet is very physically demanding, requiring a daily routine of exercises structured to improve tone quality, range, endurance, flexibility, etc. So to answer your question, I believe a trumpet player’s performance would suffer more from a lack of practice than some other instruments.

Me: Where did you work during your musical career?

Greg: The bulk of my career was spent in two places…aboard cruise ships on the high seas for eight years; and an eleven year stint on the famed strip in Las Vegas.

Me: Wow, not exactly an ordinary life. So Greg, I have to ask on behalf of my single dude coworkers: Did you meet lotsa chicks?

Greg: I gather this is the part where I have to watch my language. Well, everybody knows that the main reason people choose a career in music is to score chicks right? I mean, we love the music but let’s face it…the benefits aren’t bad. Seriously, there are some incredibly interesting people in the entertainment industry. I enjoyed single life on the cruise ships for quite awhile before eventually settling down with a British dancer. But as is the case in most shipboard romances, the marriage was short lived. However, the story has a happy ending, as I met a wonderful woman while in Vegas and we’ve been happily married for 5 years now.

Me: What lead you to a musical career? Was that your dream as a kid?

Greg: I guess it was my Mother who provided the inspiration and introduced me to music at an early age. She was a music educator for a short time and exposed us to many different styles of music growing up. My foundation began with piano lessons which proved to be a blessing as it developed an understanding of music theory I likely wouldn’t have achieved as quickly otherwise. Believe it or not, by the eighth grade I had already decided to pursue a career in music.

Me: Who are some of your favorite trumpet players?

Greg: I love Doc Severinson’s rich sound, the high note mastery of Maynard Ferguson, the genius of Miles Davis, and the perfection of Maurice Andre.

Me: How long has the trumpet been around?

Greg: The trumpet is a very old instrument dating back to ancient times (2000 B.C.). The development of the modern version we recognize today dates back to the 1300’s, and is still evolving as trumpet builders continue to modify its design in search of the perfect horn.

Me: Who are some notables you’ve played with?

Greg: I have had the good fortune to perform with Stevie Wonder, Luther Vandross, LeAnn Rimes, Elton John, Gloria Estefan, The Temptations, The Four Tops, Lee Greenwood, Frankie Vallie, Wayne Newton, Clint Holmes, and many other acts performing in the main showrooms of Las Vegas.

Me: Lots of folks dream of a career in music. What made you decide to make such a big change in your life, and switch to flying?

Greg: Flying has also always been a passion of mine since I was a young boy, begging my neighbor to give me a ride in his Cessna. Establishing myself in Vegas afforded me the time and resources to finally pursue the dream of flying. I wanted to avoid asking myself one day why I never chased down that dream, so I found a flight school and got to work.

Me: I've known other musicians with PHI who've kept up the occasional gigs while on time off. One mechanic who's a jazz pianist comes to mind. How about you?

Greg: I haven’t pursued playing professionally on my off time largely due to my own perfectionist behavior. I couldn’t possibly maintain the level of playing I once achieved with my current schedule, therefore I’ve chosen not to perform. I don’t feel that I’d get the same satisfaction and enjoyment out of the experience if I’m not playing my best. Someday I will find a balance and return to playing on some level.

Me: You've been flying helicopters since 2003, full time since 2006. So far, are you glad you made such a major change in your life?

Greg: I am very happy with my decision. I had a great career in music but always wanted to experience flying too. While still in Vegas, I was able to realize both dreams flying Grand Canyon tours by day, and performing music by night. Although music has taken a back seat for now, I truly enjoy the many exciting experiences and new friends I’ve gained through aviation. I would do it all over again.

Me: Greg, I don't know whether to be thankful or resentful. I could be thankful because you've given me something really interesting to write about, but I could be resentful because you make my background seem pretty dang boring. But hey, I'll take the high road and offer my thanks for sharing your story. Thanks very much, Greg.

Greg: Your background is anything but boring in my opinion. Compared to seasoned pilots like you, I will always feel like the “FNG” (Oops…I mean, “the new guy”). There’s so much to be gained from your experiences of which I hope to learn more about in the future. For now, thanks for allowing me to share some of mine.

Stuck in the Tread of the Wheel of Justice

2009-04-27T17:50:00.005-05:00

I'm thinking about a criminal trial that happened a few years ago, here in Shasta County.

A woman was accused of altering her child support checks. Her first court-appointed attorney yelled at her that her only choice was to plead guilty. She sought the advice of another attorney. Her new attorney believed her story. She had a polygraph administered, and the client passed convincingly. The attorney hired one of the top handwriting analysts in California to determine whether the alterations had been done by the client. She determined that the alterations almost certainly weren't done by the accused, and probably were done by the ex-husband, who was unhappy with the child custody arrangement.

The attorney presented the polygraph results and the handwriting analysis to the D.A.'s office. She was dismayed to learn that the D.A.'s office had every intention of going forward with the prosecution of her client, even though the D.A.'s office had used the same handwriting analyst to prosecute cases. The case went to trial.

The jury came back with a "not guilty" verdict after thirty-five minutes in deliberation. The judge stated, on the record, that he was surprised that the jury had taken more than five minutes.

The Deputy D.A. was unmoved. "Your client is guilty," he hissed at the defense attorney. Our tax dollars at work.

Still, it all came to a happy ending, right? No, not really. The accused woman was a teacher. Simply being accused of a felony is enough to have a teacher's credential stripped away in California, and a "not guilty" verdict isn't enough to prompt the restoration of the credential. No, the accused must be found "factually innocent" of charges to resume his or her livelihood.

As far as I know, the woman was never declared factually innocent, and is thus still banished from her chosen career.

Today on the website A News Cafe, there was an article about the former CEO of our local Haven Humane Society, who is accused of taking money from the animal shelter. I wrote a comment: I hope the guy gets a fair trial. I often think that publicity can create some really rocky detours on the path to justice.

Perhaps in response to my comment, another reader wrote: . . . It’s about time that Mr. Ryan faces the charges against him. The wheels of justice move way too slow in metting out a sentence against the accused.

That sentiment disturbed me, because it provides one more example of how many in our nation feel that the notion of innocent until proven guilty is just a pesky impediment to slamming people in jail. I thought about responding to Mr. Law and Order, but thought better of it. My gut feeling is that nothing I could write would sway him. I feel reasonably certain that the wheel of justice will always turn too slowly for his liking.

Sadly, he's only likely to be swayed should he find himself or a loved one caught in the tread.

Night on Shasta Lake

2009-04-24T07:38:00.004-05:00

I was a day later than usual getting home from Louisiana, due to water survival training. Rhonda and Dylan were chomping at the bit to go camping on Shasta Lake, so the day after my return, we loaded up our forty year-old pontoon boat and headed for Greens Creek camp, a boat-in only camp located up the McCloud arm of the lake.

The plan was to spend one night. The lake was just beautiful. The big "bathtub ring" is still there due to the low water level, but at least many of the inlets have water in them again. The temps reached a record for the date, in the high nineties, and Dylan and I spent quite a bit of time in the water. But sheesh, it's still April, after all, and the water was COLD. I seriously doubt our family will ever live in a nudist colony, but if that ever happened, I'd sure hate to encounter water that cold. That would be embarrassing. "Hey, why is Hal wearing that towel?"

Dylan was bummed when it came time to break camp. "Can't we get up early, and go home in the morning?" Rhonda and I looked at each other. We'd done the early morning commute-by-boat thing before, when Dylan and I had dropped Mom off to go to work. We'd have to leave at dawn, but we could do it.

That night, Rhonda woke me. "I think there's a bear outside the tent." I listened, but heard nothing, at first. After a few minutes, I heard the footfalls of whatever it was moving away, back up the mountain.

Luckily, black bears tend to be decidedly less aggressive than grizzlies. In fact, they're usually big chickens, and they don't like confrontation. One ranger told me that about fifty people a year are injured by black bears in California, but the injuries are usually minor, and they usually happen when people try to do dumb things like hand-feed them. Once in a great while, you'll hear or read of a fatal black bear attack, but the perpetrators tend to be large animals from deep in the woods, and have had little or no contact with humans.

Still, it is a little unnerving to hear a bear nosing around the tent.

It was chilly and gorgeous the next morning as we made the hour commute to the marina. Rhonda, Dylan, and Gomez the bear-fighting (if we were to let him) half Chihuahua huddled together under a blanket, smiling at the beauty going by. At least I think Gomez was smiling.

I got Dylan to school with minutes to spare. Two of 'em. That afternoon, we trailered the boat again to the lake, and set off to Greens Creek to retrieve our camping stuff.

Now, my wife is a smart, educated woman. But she tends to be unrealistic about how much time it takes to do things. Dylan is pretty much the same way, but hey, he's eight years old. First off, we were later getting to the campground than I'd hoped. Then Dylan wanted to go swimming. I didn't want to disappoint him, so I joined him in the cold lake.

Afterward, I suggested that we cook dinner and eat it on the boat while heading back to the marina. Rhonda and Dylan looked wounded at such a suggestion. I looked at the lowering sun, and I looked at the clouds forming to the west, and thought about what an overcast condition would do to the ambient light after sunset.

Still, I thought we had a chance to make it back before total darkness wrapped us. I was wrong. Halfway back to the marina, I had to slow down, because I could no longer see obstacles in the water, and with recent torrential rains, lots of tree branches and small logs floated about. I hit the switch for the headlights, since no other boats were in sight.

The headlights didn't work. Quick troubleshooting did not lead to a fix. I had a mask and snorkel on the boat, but without a waterproof headlamp, finding a loose wire running between the pontoons wasn't likely.

We slowed to a crawl across the water, with Rhonda holding two flashlights to spot obstacles. At that moment, I was not happy with myself for leaving the rechargeable spotlight in the garage. I was also not happy with myself for leaving the hand-held GPS in the car. Boy Scouts all over America would be ashamed for me.

Thankfully, Dylan fell asleep. With the overcast, it got harder to navigate by landmarks. Rhonda occasionally called out "left" or "right" so we'd miss floating wood. It was getting stressful, and Rhonda and I were both getting tired.

Finally, I could barely make out the Jones Valley inlet. We continued to motor toward the marina, at speed slower than a walk. Slower, even, than my walk.

Rhonda did a heck of a job maneuvering the boat trailer down the ramp in the darkness. I put Dylan and Gomez in the car, and we headed for home. Rhonda and I laughed at ourselves, feeling relieved that we were making it home. I felt pretty stupid for not keeping track of time, and for forgetting a couple of key items, but I laughed anyway. It had taken us forty-five minutes to boat to Greens Creek, and three hours to boat back to the marina.

It's about a three hundred foot walk from where we park the boat to our front door. I carried Dylan down the driveway, realizing that carrying a hundred-pound kid down a sloped driveway amounted to a pretty fair workout. Dylan was out. When Dylan is out, he's out. I lowered him to his bed, covered him, and kissed his forehead. His eyes didn't open, but he murmured, "The bed feels good, Daddy." I smiled. Most of the time now, I'm "Dad," but the occasional "Daddy" still slips out.

Dylan was right. The bed felt really good.

Coincidence?

2009-04-24T06:37:00.003-05:00

Brian is a former coworker, now employed by a different operator on an Emergency Medical Services (EMS) contract. His wife Katie is a fine writer with her own blog. Read this.

An Emotional Elixir Song

2009-04-12T21:03:00.001-05:00

I admit that I'm feeling a little blue. It's Easter, and I'm missing Easter dinner with my family. But, I talked to them, and they're having a good time. It helps to know that. Songs like this one help too: Eric Clapton performing a tasty version of a Bob Dylan song.

A Tale of Two Johnnies

2009-04-03T19:57:00.005-05:00

Work for the same employer for going on three decades, and you'll go through some rather distinct passages. I think about the beginning of my career, when I was the youngest in my Army flight school class. Later, I was the youngest pilot stationed at Fort Ord, California. In fact, for a time in '76 and '77, I was the only pilot on the post who couldn't legally buy a beer off-base.

But things have, duh, changed. The first time it hit me that I was getting to a mature stage of my career was several years ago. I was talking to one of our new pilots, a guy named Tim, from New Zealand. He asked, "When did you hire on with PHI?" I answered, "In 1979." "What month?" "September," I answered. An evil little smile lit upon Tim's face. "What's so amusing?" Tim chuckled, and replied, "I was born a month after you hired on with PHI."

Whoa. And to think, I used to like that little effer.

Another passage came with new blood in our training department. Three years ago, I took my first checkride with a company instructor who happened to be younger than me. The dude didn't even have gray hair. The nerve. I thought about buying gray hair coloring for him.

The corker came when I saw a name on the crew lineup one day. The name "Johnny Cope" leaped out at me, and I assumed that a guy I'd met soon after I hired on had returned from an EMS job to the Gulf. I called out into the pilot lounge: "Hey, does anyone know if Johnny Cope is out flying?" A fairly young-looking guy piped up, "That would be me." "Wow. I knew a Johnny Cope when I first hired on." The young-looking guy, who I later learned was a retired Army pilot, answered "He's my dad."

Whoa. How did all this happen when I'm not yet eligible for the Denny's senior discount?

Sample Exchanges

2009-03-30T11:03:00.003-05:00

A few days ago.

Me: "Dylan, do you ever feel like I still treat you like a little kid?

Dylan: "Yeah Dad, like all the time. Please keep that in mind in the future."

A couple of days ago, while I was reading a magazine.

Dylan: "DAD!"

Me: "Whoa! Is everything okay?"

Dylan: "You tell me. I've been talking to you for the last five minutes and you haven't even noticed. I was wondering if I should call 9-1-1."

This morning, while Dylan was hugging Rhonda goodbye.

Me: "I love the way Dylan's hair has my texture and Mom's color."

Dylan: "Dad, before you can have texture, you have to have hair."

Parenting is so much simpler before they start talking.

A Wedding

2009-03-26T10:21:00.001-05:00

I'd finished flying for the day, and after dropping off the paperwork in the admin assistant's bin, I turned on my cell phone. I heard a message beep. "Hi Hal, it's Tina. I have news for you: I'm getting married! Ty and I are leaving Alaska in a few days and heading for Ventura. I know it's short notice, but I would love for you to attend."

I'd first met Tina and her mom, Terry, in the mid-eighties, outside of a biker bar named The Wheel, in the mountains above Ojai, California. Tina was a year old, and you would have thought every woman and every one-percenter in the place was an aunt or uncle.

Terry and I started dating a year later, and Tina sort of put us together. I'd arrived at a fish and chips place in Isla Vista with another woman on the back of the Harley, and Terry was there with another guy, Tina in tow. I sat next to Tina, and as it turned out, the little blond two year-old was more fun to talk to than my date. Tina was eating french fries drenched in tartar sauce, and no one wanted to share them with her. Except me. I really didn't like french fries with tartar sauce, but the little tyke was so doggone cute that I had to accept. When it came time to leave, Terry held Tina up to me, and she held my face in her hands while she kissed my cheek. I rode away with my date behind me, wondering if I'd stopped being a real man: I'd arrived feeling fixated on my date's fabulous ass, and I left feeling as if a two year-old had stolen a chunk of my heart.

For four years, Terry and I had an on-again, off-again relationship. When we parted for good, Terry was understandably angry, but after a few months, we agreed that it would be good if I stayed involved in Tina's life. Terry's bitterness waned, we became friends, and I often came by to take Tina for an outing.

But, things changed when I got married and moved to northern California. Instead of dropping by to take Tina to a movie, it was the occasional meeting for dinner with Tina and Terry. I'd reunited with the love of my life, and often, the rest of the world just seemed on the back burner.

When the years rolled by, and I realized that Tina was graduating from high school, I regretted that I hadn't made a better effort to stay in contact with her. I wondered if she felt I'd abandoned her. Still, I wasn't her biological father, so no one seemed to point fingers. If I was concerned about avoiding blame, I could count myself in the clear, except for what my heart spoke.

The wedding date was set while I was due to be away in Louisiana. I was surprised when my vacation request was approved, and happy. One Saturday morning, I kissed Rhonda and Dylan goodbye, and began the 550 mile drive from Redding to Ventura.

That night, I left the motel and headed for the wedding. I was nervous as hell.

I walked to the door, and a young man greated me. Tall, athletic-looking guy with old-soul eyes. "Is this the wedding site for Ty and Tina?" "You're in the right place," he said, "I'm Ty, the groom." He shook my hand.

"You're Ty?" I silently berated myself: no, Dipshit, he's lying to you. He chuckled. "That's me. What's your name?" "I'm Hal." "You're Hal?" He grabbed my hand again and grinned. "I'm so glad you could make it. Tina will be so excited."

Ty pointed me in the right direction. I walked upstairs, feeling a little numb.

"Okay," I told myself. "When it comes time to give your toast, you'll probably feel emotional. Just stick with the words and everything will be fine." I've done a little public speaking here and there over the years, and I'd always managed to get through those occasions without locking up. And heck, it was a small wedding, with only twenty-two others present. I’d rehearsed it in my mind enough to feel confident: I'd come across as urbane yet unaffected, witty yet imbued with reverence. For me, anyway. Everything was fine until I started talking.

Yep, I started talking, and it all went to hell. Tears filled my eyes, and it felt like a golf ball had wedged itself in my throat. And all I’d managed to get out at that point was, “Tina and I . . .”

I needed a gulp of champagne. Hell, I needed a bottle of champagne. I threw back my glass. The champagne missed my stomach. The champagne went into my lungs. Oh crap. I ran out of the room and suffered a coughing fit in the hallway. I couldn't stop coughing. I felt like I might barf on the wall. There was silence in the room behind me. Twenty-two people waited for a tall middle-aged doofus to finish coughing and finish the damn toast.

I walked back into the room. The bride and groom wore understanding looks, but some of the folks were looking a wee bit uncomfortable. Crap.

I took a few deep breaths. I wanted someone to hand me that damn bottle of champagne. “First of all,” I began, “I’d recommend that you all avoid inhaling champagne.” Everyone laughed. Good. I was gaining a little momentum. But then I looked at the bride again, looking so lovely in the wedding dress she’d brought back from Instanbul. The golf ball returned to my throat, big time.

I felt no choice but to plow forward. If I waited for the golf ball to go away, we might be there all night. I tried to look about the room, and I began again. “Tina and I first bonded one day when she was two years old. I was one of a few adults sitting at a table in a fish and chips place . . .”

Aw shit. The golf ball was swelling into a soft ball. I could hardly breathe, much less speak. I took several breaths before I could even think about speaking again. So much for urbane and witty.

“She discovered that one adult there would allow her to hand feed him French fries coated with tarter sauce. That adult was me.”

More breaths.

“For several years, I was a regular part of her life. In recent years, we haven’t had much contact, because I suck at keeping in touch.”

I felt in danger of deconstructing into a blubbering idiot at any moment. I took more deep breaths. “I can’t say much more, except that I’ve always looked at Tina as the daughter of my heart. Ty and Tina, congratulations.”

I felt like a first-class numbnuts, but a few people came up to me afterward to tell me how much they enjoyed my toast. I guess folks find it quite touching when a tall middle-aged guy makes a blubbering ass of himself.

The reception and dinner afterward was wonderful. I got the chance to reconnect with Tina's grandparents, with Terry's brothers, and I had a little time to get to know Ty a little better. Tina hugged me several times over the evening, and thanked me for coming, and I had to fight back tears every time. I felt that I'd done quite enough blubbering during the toast. The second time she hugged me that evening, a vision came over me. It was 1986, and I was carrying the three year-old Tina through the supermarket, explaining the products up on the shelves. It was 1986, and she fell asleep on my shoulder, and I walked around that supermarket for an hour until she woke up.

She thanked me. The thing is, I’m the one who’s thankful. That wedding connected me to an important part of my past, and renewed the hope that I that I wasn’t just some chickenshit bandit who'd preyed upon two hearts. What I gave wasn’t enough, of course. When you love someone, especially a child, can you ever give enough? No. But that wedding told me that I could at least fold up one particular circus of regret living in my heart, and banish it to the back forty. It told me that just maybe, the thought that sometimes pierced me, they would have been better off never knowing me, was blessedly off the mark. What I left wasn’t enough, but it was enough that I still have a place in the hearts of two women who were once a big part of my life. What I left wasn’t enough, but now, I have a renewed hope that I left more than I took.

Deep Tissue Massage

2009-03-16T10:58:00.002-05:00

January Swaps with March

2009-03-06T12:54:00.012-06:00

My previous post had some pics along the stretch of Highway 299 from Redding to Eureka. I repeated the trip a few days ago. Since we sometimes fly in and out of ports, we offshore helicopter pilots are now required to carry a Transportation Worker Indentification Credential, a "TWIC card." It requires not one, but two trips to the closest TWIC office to complete the process. The second trip is required to actually pick up the card; the feds won't mail it. Thus, 135 bucks, 640 miles of driving, and I now have a federal I.D. card, issued by the TSA, that according to the TSA, cannot be used as as a means of identification when going through TSA-staffed airport security. Did you get that? Ah yes, our tax dollars at work.

Enough of that. I took a few pics again while driving 299. When I drove to Eureka in late January, conditions were spring-like, with snow only seen on the tops of peaks. It was a little different this time.

Here's a shot taken from a vista point in late January.

The same vista point in early March. It's common to see such a scene from here in January, but not so much in March.

The ghost town of Helena, California. It's only 1/4 mile off off 299. According to this web page, Helena was settled around 1849 by French-Canadian prospectors from Oregon. The community, at its peak, had many acres of orchards, two hotels, a butcher shop, a brewery, a blacksmith, and a sawmill.

The butcher shop, maybe?

I saw a lot of snow during my trip, but I didn't have to drive through any until almost home. Here, I'm on the section of 299 passing by Whiskeytown Lake. Snow here in March is really unusual.

To the Coast

2009-02-23T04:06:00.002-06:00

A few weeks ago, during some unseasonably warm weather, I made a day trip from my home near Redding to the Eureka, California area. Eureka is on the northern California coast. Redding is at the top of the long interior valley that bisects much of the state north to south.

On the way out of Weaverville, the county seat of Trinity County. Weaverville has a population of 3,500, and is the biggest community in a county of 13,000. In Trinity County, you'll find no freeways, no stop lights, no parking meters. It was one of the original counties in California.

On the coast near Samoa, California. No hurricanes, no tornadoes. But . . .

That really is a dog, not a lion.

An honest to goodness cattle ranch house, right on the coast. You won't see many of these in southern California.

Most of my trip to the coast was in the dark, so I didn't get many photos. Leaving the coast, and climbing back up Highway 299, I look back toward the west. The Pacific is out there, over that ridgeline.

A roadside memorial. That's the Trinity River below. Highway 299 is a beautiful drive, but it can be treacherous.

The general store at Burnt Ranch, population 325.

You don't see these everyday anymore. Good thing it's there, since much of 299 has no cell phone coverage.

The Straw House, near the community of Big Bar. Sure enough, the building is insulated with rice straw, and it has . . .

a great view of the Trinity River from the deck.

Almost home, I pass through Shasta County's former county seat, Shasta. Folks who live here call it "Old Shasta," since nearby can be found the towns of Shasta Lake and Mount Shasta. About 3,500 people lived there from the 1850's until around 1880, when the Central Pacific Railroad bypassed Shasta in favor of Redding. The town wound down to a quasi-ghost town, and it's now a state historic park.

In Shasta, you'll find the oldest Masonic Lodge in California, still in use.

Remnants of what was once a thriving commercial district in Shasta.

It's a "Life's Funny Like That" Party!

2009-02-18T16:39:00.001-06:00

Debby's final chemo session will be tomorrow. Yee haw! I know you're looking forward to getting back to a more normal routine, Debby. Enjoy your new beginning, but . . .

Don't forget to give yourself some down time!

Our friend from across the planet, Bush Babe, came up with the idea of throwing a virtual party to celebrate the completion of Debby's chemo treatments. Since Bush Babe's blog is serving as party central for this shindig, please stop by and leave a comment. Thanks, BB.

I discovered Debby's blog early last year, and I quickly found myself drawn to her writing and her takes on life. She could be touching, and she could be howling funny. But then, things took a dramatic turn for Debby in September of last year: she learned she had breast cancer.

I was sticken by the news. I found myself hoping that Debby would prevail in her battle, and that someday we'd see her blogging regularly again. But a "funny" thing happened. Debby never stopped. She kept writing. She kept sharing her life. She shared her lows, she shared her hopes, and she managed to keep a grip on her sense of humor. She continued to show us that she's a remarkable writer. She shared her journey with us, and I for one feel the richer for it.

Thank you Debby, and God bless you.

Sky King

2009-02-15T15:30:00.001-06:00

My Army flight school buddy Doug Johnson sent this YouTube video to me. The song was written and performed by PHI's most famous ex-employee ('cept Bob Barbanes), Kris Kristofferson.

I Got My Ass Kicked by a Woman

2009-01-30T11:50:00.000-06:00

After a bit less than five years of service, I left the Army in 1979, and began my career as a civilian offshore helicopter pilot. For three years, I lived in Texas.

I discovered a local watering hole with a great country-rock band. The place became my second home--in those days, I wasn't much into sitting in a living room reading a book. I became friends with the bouncer, a huge bear of a man by the name of Curty. There were a few times that I, along with a couple of other of the larger regulars, would back Curty up when he had to throw someone out. Not that he needed help. Curty had studied Aikido while living in Japan, and he moved his 280 pounds around like a gymnast. Most of the time, though, Curty simply talked people down before the situations turned volcanic.

After a couple of months, Curty started asking me to fill in for him at the door. He wanted to spend more time with his girlfriend. I'd become friends with the owner, too, and I refused to take money, instead working for a beer tab. I still feel a little guilty about taking advantage of him that way.

I didn't think of myself as Billy Bob Bad Ass. That's never been one of my problems. But, when I left the Army, I also left a relationship with a woman who'd tired of the fact that I'd been a poster boy for fear of commitment. I'd become mildly self-destructive. I didn't care, and belligerent bar patrons would usually read that as, "he's a bad ass."

One night the owner told me to eject a woman tucked back in the corner. She was on a "I hate men" rant, and had just thrown her drink on a guy sitting at the next table. I couldn't see her from my station, and when I rounded the corner, I stopped dead in my tracks: hate just poured from the woman. She couldn't have weighed more than 110 pounds, but I was afraid.

I took a deep breath, and walked to the woman's table. "Ma'am, I'm afraid you'll have to leave." She gave me a look, a look I half-expected her to follow with the spewing of pea soup. "Go f*ck yourself, asshole." "That's not physically possible, ma'am, at least not for me." Another look that could melt stone. "GET THE F*CK AWAY FROM ME!" Oh boy. "Ma'am, I'm not going anywhere. You have to leave, now." She stood up, and I felt momentarily relieved. Until, that is, she grabbed a drink at the next table and threw it in my face. I think it was a bourbon and coke. I don't even like bourbon and coke. I grabbed her by the upper arm, and that's when things really went to hell.

In a flash, she kneed me in the family jewels, raked her fingernails across my face, and punched me in the nose. Oh man, was I ever in trouble. She started throwing punches, and not just wild roundhouse type stuff: no, she was throwing combinations. A straight right connected with my Adam's apple. Great. Not only were my nuts screaming at me, and not only could I not see because of the punch to the nose: now, I couldn't breathe either.

I was in serious danger of falling to the floor. The little 110 pound woman was thrashing my ass. I still couldn't hit her, though. If my dad had found out I'd hit a woman, no matter the circumstances, he would have driven from California to kick my ass again.

I could feel blood dribbling down my face from my right eyelid--thank God I'd managed to close that eye before her fingernail ripped across it--but as her punches started to slow, I could see somewhat out of my left eye. I lunged and grabbed her by the the hair, and twirled her around. With her back to me, I could have choked her out, but that would also mean my dad driving from California to kick my ass. Instead, I got her in a full-nelson hold. That didn't work. She started back-kicking the shit out of my shins. I placed her feet on the floor, and transitioned to an old-fashioned bear hug. I squeezed for all I was worth, and started hobbling toward the exit. "OPEN THE F*CKING DOOR," I bellowed to a customer. I half-shoved, half-threw her out the door, slamed it shut, and locked it. She stood outside, pounding on the door, screaming stuff like "LET ME BACK IN, YOU F*CKING BASTARDS!" The owner called the police, but by the time they got there, the she-devil had departed. After the owner and I gave our accounts to the officer, I started laughing. I was laughing so hard that I sank to the floor on my butt. A 110 pound woman had just kicked my ass.

The owner walked up, stuck out his hand, and helped me to my feet. "Sit at the bar for a while," he said. He went back behind the bar and up to me. "She got you in the nuts, didn't she?" "Oh yeah," I answered. He poured me a double shot of tequila. "That'll help," he said. Sure enough, a few minutes after downing that double shot, the boys below quit complaining so much.

I never saw her in that bar again, thank God. But, one day I was in the produce section, when I felt a tap on my elbow.

When I turned around, it was her. I jumped back. I was looking at zucchinis when she approached, and I held one on front of me. I can't recall what I was thinking, but maybe I was thinking that since she obviously hated all men, something with a phallic appearance would ward her off, akin to the way a cross keeps a vampire at bay.

She laughed. The bitch had kicked my ass with a retired cop, an ex-NFL player, and a former Golden Gloves boxer in the audience, and the the evil wench was laughing.

"Could I buy you a cup of coffee?" Sheesh, if Jeffery Dahmer invited you to a freakin' barbecue, would you go? The woman had come damn near blinding me, while assaulting Mr. Happy's twin cousins, and she was asking me out for coffee.

I met her for coffee. (I already mentioned that I was mildly self-destructive in those days.) "I'm sorry about that night," she began. She told me the rest of the story. She'd gone home early from work, feeling sick. She walked in on her husband and her best friend, in bed. They were making so much noise that they didn't even hear her until she started screaming at them. She'd called in sick for the rest of the week, and embarked upon a drinking binge. Thus, our little encounter.

"Have you had martial arts training?" I asked, thinking about those combinations she'd thrown. "My dad was an amateur boxer," she answered, "and I was a tomboy." Thanks a lot, Dad.

We ended up stretching coffee into lunch, and we had a great time. The Evil Wench who'd kicked my ass was nowhere in evidence. Instead, a charming, funny, attractive woman sat before me.

We exchanged phone numbers, and touched bases a couple of times. A few months went by, and she called. "I have some news for you," she began. A guy she'd had a crush on through junior high and the beginning of high school had moved back into town. His family had moved away during their freshman year, leaving her heartbroken. He was divorced, and they started dating. After two months, they decided to get married. He had a young daughter from his marriage, and the Formerly Evil Wench loved her.

I've always kind of sucked at keeping in touch. (I've found that if I avoid getting attached to people, I don't miss them as much. Lame, but effective.) I only talked to her one more time, and they'd set a date. She told me that her soon-to-be stepdaughter was ecstatic about having a new mom. She invited me to the wedding, but I was to be away at work in the Gulf of Mexico. Being me, I never called her again.

I still think about her, though. So do my nuts, and not in a good way.

Intruders

2009-01-26T12:27:00.000-06:00

It was a lazy weekend day, and I was watching a movie with Dylan. Rhonda burst in: "Hal, two dogs have the llamas cornered!" I jumped into my shoes and grabbed a BB rifle to scare them away. I handed the BB rifle to Dylan, then unlocked a .22 rifle in case the BB rifle didn't work.

I thought about leaving Dylan in the house with Rhonda, but he's very protective of our animals, and besides, the day will come when he might have to deal with such a situation himself. We ran up to the barn and found the llamas huddled together. Looking across the brook to the far driveway, we could see the two dogs beating a retreat.

The llamas were agitated, and Felipe, the oldest, was actually trembling. We patrolled the area, Dylan gripping the BB gun with a fierce scowl on his face. No sign of the dogs.

We had trouble with predators during the first few years we lived here. Although we're only twenty-five minutes from town, we're in the foothills, living in nature. Raccoons have killed chickens, a pet turkey, and one of our cats. A black bear killed our two pygmy goats, and returned a few months later to attack one of our llamas. Mountain lions have been seen in our "neighborhood," and two or three times a week, we'll hear coyotes howling and yipping at night.

For the last few years, though, animal troubles have been few. More people have built houses, so there's more traffic, and I suppose the predators have made themselves more scarce. But with the visit by our dog intruders, I was reminded of something I learned soon after we brought our llamas home in '94: more llamas are killed in the United States by domestic dogs than any other animal.

I was relieved that I didn't have to shoot one or both of our canine intruders. I've never killed a dog, and I'll rather skip that experience.

Returning

2009-01-17T22:27:00.000-06:00

I took the first half of my hitch off on vacation. I went to a wedding down in southern California, putting twelve hundred miles on the rental car in two days. The wedding is a post in itself, and that'll come later.

I'll soon make my first helicopter flight since hearing of the deaths of two coworkers in an S-76 crash: Tom Ballenger, 63, and Vyarl Martin, 46. Vyarl was an acquaintance. I'd flown with him a couple of times, and we sometimes talked about guitar heroes. I once mentioned to him that I was thinking about taking up the bass guitar, and when I'd see him, the first thing out of his mouth would usually be, "Did you buy that bass yet?" He was an avid guitarist himself. He was a retired U.S. Navy Lieutenant Commander. He smiled a lot.

Tom had been with PHI for well over thirty years. He wasn't a close friend, but he was more than an acquaintance. He could come across as a bit of a grump until you got beyond his shell, when he proved to be an engaging, funny guy. His laugh reminded me a little of a pirate.

They're gone now. I won't be seeing those guys anymore. I won't hear Tom's pirate laugh, and I won't hear Vyarl ask me when the hell I'm going to get off my ass and buy a bass guitar.

I feel off-center, and I have a childlike wish to just get on an airplane and go right back home to my wife and son. But I won't, because I'm a helicopter pilot, and because I've been through this before.

A while back, Bob Barbanes wrote a post titled "Hating the Helicopter Industry," and right now, his words explain the way I feel better than mine.

Gallant Gentleman

2009-01-11T11:55:00.000-06:00

I wrote here about a camping trip to Lassen National Park in September. We camped next to Uncle E, his wife Sharyn, and their two adorable daughters.

Uncle E wrote a comment to that post: "I’m surprised you didn’t talk about my youngest falling into the lake (as she’s wont to do) and your chivalrous son offering my shivering little princess his shirt. What an absolute gentleman."

Sharyn sent some photos of the trip. Here's one of young Dylan and "his" two young ladies. Having already offered his shirt, he's shown here protecting his female charges from any further danger lurking in the wild.

Dylan really is one sweet, kind eight year-old, although lately, when I ask him for a hug--instead of just grabbing him--his response is to headbutt me in the abdomen. I'm glad he didn't start that when he was a foot shorter.

One Flight Home

2009-01-06T07:32:00.000-06:00

Bob Barbanes posted a comment to my "Merry Christmas" post: I know you always do, but fly extra safely today - and every day until the end of this hitch. You know what I'm saying.

And y'know, even though I've been flying for a living since the age of eighteen, this last hitch at work was a challenge. Distraction seemed to nibble on my ass as Christmas day approached, and that's pretty much what Bob was mentioning: in the flying game, distraction can get you hurt, or cost your employer a bunch of money, or at the very least, lead to acute professional embarrassment. I was glad to head home for more than just the usual reasons. Even after over thirty-three years, I had to remind myself to stay focused, and it had been more of a challenge than normal.

The United flight took off from New Orleans on my first leg homeward. As usual, I fell asleep soon after takeoff, and slept through most of the flight westbound.

Late in the flight, the captain announced that we could see Phoenix out the right side of the aircraft. Only then did I lower my window blind and look outside. The visibility at 36,000 feet was awesome: looking north, I could easily see 200 miles. At least. The air was so clear, it was nearly surreal.

I spotted Phoenix, and looked to the northeast, where I saw Lake Roosevelt, the Tonto Basin, and further north, one of the most beautiful areas of Arizona, the Mogollon Rim. I thought of my parents. They had a vacation home in the high desert setting of Tonto Basin. I felt sad for a bit, wishing that I still had my parents with me. My Dad died nine years before Dylan was born, while my Mom passed when he was just fifteen months old. But there were happy memories too, memories of hanging out with my parents on the patio, with a fire blazing in the outdoor fireplace, marveling at the sunsets over the mountains. I smiled.

I dozed again for a bit, until the captain announced that Palm Springs could be seen out the left side of the aircraft. Peering across the aisle, I couldn't see the city itself, but I could see Mount San Jacinto looming above. I remembered a backpacking trip I took to the San Jacinto mountains in 1979, shortly before I left the Army. I'd climbed up the aptly named Devil's Slide Trail from the town of Idlewild, spent a night in a campground below the peak, and climbed to the top of San Jacinto Peak the next day. When I write that I "climbed" it, it gives the wrong impression, since a trail leads nearly to the top of the peak; only about two hundred feet of hands and feet boulder scrambling is required at the very top. I watched the sunset from just under eleven thousand feet, then retired to my campsite, nestled in a little clearing between boulders about a hundred vertical feet below the peak. I bedded down in the open, with the stars for a roof.

I think I opened my eyes around one in the morning. A sound, distant. What was that? The stars were gone. Another rumble. I put on my boots, grabbed a flashlight, and scrambled in the darkness to the top of the peak. Off to the northeast, a light show of towering thunderheads illuminated by lighting, but the rumble of thunder no longer sounded so distant. I scurried back to my campsite, frantically stuffed everything into the backpack, and headed downhill.

A stone emergency shelter had been built below the peak in the 1930's, and I was hoping that in my rush, I wouldn't run past it. I turned left, and found the trail. I had run past it, since the trail ended at the shelter. I moved uphill, panting as much out of fear as the exertion of running uphill at nearly 11,000 feet. The approaching lightning was lighting up the trail so much that I almost didn't need the flashlight, and delay between the flashes and the thunder grew shorter.

I found the shelter about two minutes before the rain hit. Three minutes after that, all hell broke loose. The lighting seemed to target the stone hut: FLASH-BOOM FLASH-BOOM. I wondered if something was on fire in the hut, but then I realized what that burning-wire smell was: ozone. At one point, I put my fingers in my ears to block the boom of the thunder, wondering if God was mad at me.

I looked out the window to the north and spotted Mount San Gorgonio, across the desert valley from the San Jacinto peak, and smiled as I remembered the awe I felt that night, as the thunderstorm illuminated San Gorgonio before seeming to swallow it whole.

Approaching L.A., I spotted the Hollywood sign, and smiled as I thought of visits to Dylan's godfather, and how our little man had eaten up the L.A. Natural History Museum, the La Brea Tar Pits, and the L.A. Zoo.

Sitting in the terminal in L.A., I watched as a man and his teenage son sat across from me in the gate waiting area. They looked comfortable sitting together, and that made me smile. The kid was tall and lanky, with longish hair, and stealing glances at the two of them, I thought of what Dylan would look like at that age, and I smiled. There are no guarantees, but I expect that Dylan and I will be comfortable sitting together when he's that old. Expectations can be a good thing.

The mom walked up, rejoining the husband and son briefly. She then walked to get in line to talk to the gate agent. I decided I wanted coffee, and I passed close by the woman. I met her eye. "How old is your son?" She smiled. "He's seventeen." "I was watching your husband and son, and it struck me that one day, yes, my eight year-old will be his age." She chuckled, and said, "When he was five, I wanted to keep him that age forever, but I've kind of changed my mind." Her eyes had a mischievous twinkle to them, so I ventured, "He's a good-looking kid. You guys did well." She chuckled again. "Thanks." "It doesn't look like the mailman was involved, either." The kid looked so much like Dad, it was almost comical. She laughed, louder. "No, the mailman had a vasectomy," she offered. We both laughed, and I wished her a good trip home.

I caught the regional jet for Sacramento, where I picked up a rental car, and began the 160 mile drive home. Soon, I'd be reunited with the two people I loved most, and our Christmas after Christmas would begin.

I'm Here

2009-01-04T23:33:00.000-06:00

I can be a real idiot at times.

There was a fatal accident involving a helicopter operated by my employer today.

A couple of hours ago, Bob Barbanes sent me an email with the subject heading of "Are You There?" Only then did it occur to me that some folks could be wondering if I could have been one of the pilots in that helicopter. The accident has been reported on some national news outlets, so I'll be sending out a bunch of emails tonight to inform friends that I'm still on this earth.

This is one of those times that it really sucks to be a pilot.

I knew both of the pilots personally, and my heart and prayers go out to their families.

On Being Away and Single

2008-12-28T07:59:00.000-06:00

Sure, it's hard for guys with families to be away on the holidays, but it's too easy to lose sight of the fact that being away is difficult for single folks, too.

In the last several years, the average age of our pilot staff--now at about 660 pilots--has gone down a bunch. Ten years ago, the guy or gal holding the median spot on the seniority list had about ten years with the company. Now, that person has just a bit over three years with the company. PHI employs the most twenty-something pilots than since the years following the Vietnam War.

For a single guy or gal, being away from home, in a way, must be even harder than for a married guy. I feel connected to my home through my wife and son. I talk to them every day, and it gives me comfort to know that they'll be waiting for me when I go home.

Often, our single pilots have no one waiting at home, not even a dog or cat. (The critters don't like going without food for a week or two.) Their social networks are usually comprised of other single people, and often, contact with them ceases when the pilot is away. Being single as an offshore helicopter pilot carries its own burdens.

That's why I was happy to learn that my friend and coworker Eugene, who also had to work on Christmas Day, got a pleasant surprise from his girlfriend Ivy: she flew in from California to spend Christmas with him. It couldn't have happened to a nicer guy.

Eugene and Ivy

Merry Christmas

2008-12-25T04:33:00.000-06:00

Merry Christmas to everyone. Just so you'll know, Dylan is bummed that I won't be home today, but his sorrow is greatly mitigated by knowing that he'll have another Christmas day when I get home, and thus, more presents.

As for me, I'm simply thankful for all of the blessings in my life.

May your day be wonderful. If you're gonna have some eggnog, have one for me.

Bouncing Back

2008-12-22T06:14:00.000-06:00

I decided at the end of the workday yesterday to drive to the West Bank area of New Orleans to buy groceries and stuff. It takes a bit over an hour to drive up there from PHI's Boothville, Louisiana base. I spent that hour in one damn sour mood. I always get the blues for a while when the short days of winter impose themselves, and the thought of being away from Rhonda and Dylan come Christmas Day didn't help.

I'd planned to grab a sandwich for dinner before going on to a supermarket, but I instead decided to treat myself to a "real" dinner at an Italian restaurant. I sat down with Chad Waterbury's new book and tried to avoid giving off the aura of a shaved sasquatch with hemorrhoids and a toothache.

Several tables over, four couples sat together. One of them had a baby girl, maybe a year old. Everyone was fawning over the little one, taking turns holding her. She was smiling and giggling and eating up being made to feel so special. It made me smile.

Later, the hostess seated a couple who appeared to be well into their seventies. They sat at a table big enough for six. They chose to sit together, on the same side of the table. They held hands while they waited for their food. It made me smile.

I drove back to Boothville in a much better mood.

Sketchy Attendance

2008-12-13T18:52:00.000-06:00

I may not be posting much for a bit. My laptop is belly-up. Friendly advice: if you must drop your laptop, try to avoid doing so while it's running.

Remembering Calvin & Hobbes

2008-12-07T08:00:00.000-06:00

For seventeen years, my employer had a helicopter base at the Santa Barbara airport, less than an hour from where I was born and raised. I was lucky enough to work out of there for those seventeen years.

One day in the mid-eighties, I stepped out of the ops building for some air. I spotted a woman and a little boy, perhaps three years old, on the other side of the fence. They were watching one of our helicopters land to the parking ramp.

The passengers, eleven men who'd just spent a week offshore on an oil platform, disembarked and walked across the ramp. I walked to the gate, and told the woman and son that they could enter the ramp area. They did. Then the little guy saw his dad, a mountain of a guy with a big grin on his face. The little boy sprinted to his dad, joy pouring from him. Dad scooped him up, covered him with kisses, and held him close.

It hit me with a wallop. It was such a beautiful scene that it hurt. Tears welled in my eyes, and I walked away from the group to watch from afar.

I'd always enjoyed the company of friends' kids, but I was utterly convinced that I never wanted to become a father. I harbored all those standard "state of the world" reasons, yeah, but what it really came down to was a fear of loss: becoming a father seemed tantamount to putting your heart out there and daring the world to stomp on it. I just didn't think I could handle the risk that came with loving someone that much.

Coincidently or not, I discovered Calvin & Hobbes that Sunday in the newspaper funnies. I never read the funnies, but at the prompting of my friend and coworker Roger, I read the strip about the six-year-old boy and his imaginary, or not so imaginary, friend. Thus began my love affair with Calvin and his tiger. That little comic strip reawakened my appreciation for the magic of childhood, and planted the seeds of doubt in my mind and heart as to the "I don't want to be a father" thing.

Calvin & Hobbes had a ten year run, ending in 1995. I still miss it. I almost never look at the funnies anymore, unless it's with my son.

My son Dylan was born in 2000. Sometimes he reminds me of Calvin. He'll be getting a Calvin & Hobbes book for Christmas.

Sometimes I still wonder if I've put my heart out there and dared the world to stomp on it.

But that's okay. Give joy a chance, and most of the time, it'll thump the crap out of fear.

Cool Helicopter Photos

2008-12-03T22:48:00.000-06:00

Some folks have an eye for photography. They don't just take pictures; they create art via a camera lens. My friend and occasional flying partner Eugene Chua is a guy blessed with such an eye. He's also a damn fine pilot, and a fun guy to have around the workplace.

So, he's a talented photographer, a damn fine pilot, and a fun guy to boot. Eugene obviously has more than his fair share of attributes, and that's starting to irritate the heck out of me.

The photos above are taken in a Sikorsky S-76C++. It carries two pilots, up to twelve passengers, and cruises at up to 170 miles per hour. It's the mainstay of PHI's offshore fleet.

You should really check out more of Eugene's photography on his website.

Hard Times Come Again No More

2008-12-01T06:19:00.000-06:00

If you liked listening to Alison Krause sing "Slumber My Darling" on the Appalachian Journey performance, you'll likely enjoy James Taylor singing Stephen Foster's "Hard Times Come Again No More," also from the Appalachian Journey broadcast.

A Stephen Foster Song

2008-11-29T07:12:00.000-06:00

I have a few music recordings in my collection that I don't listen to often, yet they're the ones I go to when I'm not in the mood to listen to music. Make sense? I don't blame ya.

Yo Yo Ma, Edgar Meyer, and Mark O'Connor recorded Appalachia Waltz in just three days in 1995. I bought it, and I quickly became one of my "desert island" CD's. Then the three released Appalachian Journey in 2000, and I thought they topped themselves.

Here, Alison Krause joins the three to sing Stephen Foster's "Slumber My Darling" during a live performance of Appalachian Journey, first broadcast on PBS.

Thanksgiving

2008-11-27T11:59:00.000-06:00

It's a funny thing about being away on a holiday associated with gatherings of loved ones. Yeah, I wish I were home. I wish that I could later drive Rhonda and Dylan to my sister-in-law's house, where the family dinner will be held. I wish I could watch Dylan interact with his only surviving grandparent, Rhonda's mom. Yep, I wish I could be there.

But the funny thing about being away is how a tinge of heartache can put an accent on that for which I feel thankful. The homesickness brings forth a heightened capacity to cherish, and it shines a spotlight on what's really important.

Today, I'm thankful that I make my living doing what I dreamed about as a kid. Today, I'm thankful for my health. Today, I'm thankful for my friends. Today, I'm thankful for those coworkers who make being away just a little more bearable.

Most of all, I'm thankful for my wife and son, who together give my life its sunlight. Soon, I'll hold them both again, and I'll feel thankful for that, too.

Happy Thanksgiving, my friends.

Can't We All Just Get Along?

2008-11-19T06:15:00.000-06:00

Lasting

2008-11-16T15:31:00.000-06:00

Yesterday, I learned that a couple I knew when I lived in southern California is getting divorced. Even though I haven't kept in touch with them, even though it's been fifteen years since I've seen them, the news still shocked and dismayed me. Their marriage appeared bulletproof, and it seemed written in the stars that they'd adore each other forever. I wonder about the welfare of their son, who's now a teenager.

As in life, there are no guarantees in relationships. We have hope for ourselves and for others, and we cling to faith that we'll live happily ever after. It doesn't always happen.

I don't know what happened with my southern California friends. All that comes to me is that harmony in a relationship sometimes goes away, even while the love stays.

Singer-songwriter Hal Ketchum wrote lyrics that really struck me when I first heard them, and they still resonate every time I hear the song "Lonely Old Me."

Even love that is meant to be
is a garden that needs tending.

Even love that is for all time
cannot promise a happy ending.

On Annie's blog today, I clicked on one of her blog links to a Redding-area blogger by the name of Keith Stahr. Keith had a quote on his profile from novelist Tom Robbins that resonated much the same as "Lonely Old Me."

"When two people meet and fall in love, there's a sudden rush of magic. Magic is just naturally present then. We tend to feed on that gratuitous magic without striving to make any more. One day we wake up and find that the magic is gone. We hustle to get it back, but by then it's usually too late, we've used it up. What we have to do is work like hell at making additional magic right from the start. It's hard work, but if we can remember to do it, we greatly improve our chances of making love stay."

Maybe the message in those words hardly presents the whole answer. Is there a whole answer?

I dunno. If I figure that one out, I'll get back to you.

Remember Halloween?

2008-11-13T13:09:00.000-06:00

Debby asked if I had any Halloween pics. I did, but I misplaced my card reader and the camera cable. Well, better late than never, I guess.

I found Dylan's werewolf costume a little disturbing, and I hope he'll want to be something else next year. He found Rhonda's appearance disturbing, and he doesn't want her to repeat it next year. Rhonda found my ghoul makeup disturbing, and she wants me to do something else next year.

We were one doggone disturbed family this Halloween.

Rhonda and I believe that parents should join in with the Halloween spirit, but should maintain a degree of parental decorum around the kids.

I asked Rhonda if she'd keep the wig around for, er, later. I asked her two or three times. She kept acting as if she didn't hear me.

Dang.