Working on Christmas Day

So here I am, on Christmas day. I'm at work, over two thousand miles from home. I'm an offshore helicopter pilot, and the oil fields out in the Gulf of Mexico operate around the clock, 365 days a year. Holidays don't shut down the oil fields. Only hurricanes do that.

The thing is, I was originally scheduled to be home for Christmas this year. I work for PHI, Inc., (formerly Petroleum Helicopters, Inc.), and for the last several years, I've been a "pool pilot." PHI has fourteen bases stretched along the coast of the Gulf of Mexico, from Theodore, Alabama to Rockport, Texas, and we pool pilots move from one base to another according to where we're needed.

Most of our pilots are "on a job": they're assigned to fly for a particular oil company. Although the pilots are employed by PHI, some pilots will fly for several years for one customer. Before PHI's base in Santa Barbara, California closed down, I was a case in point. I flew for one particular oil company for seventeen years. I saw the kids of some of my passengers grow up.

Anyway, a few months ago, an opening came up for a particular oil company. I decided to throw my name in the hat, because this particular company is very safety conscious. They're willing to put their money where their mouths are for safety, and they treat pilots flying for them as if they're part of their team, not just hired hands. I've enjoyed the variety of the pool, but I wanted to get assigned to this company.

But then, I learned that said assignment would involve a schedule change. I'd miss being at home for Christmas this year. I decided flying for that company wasn't important enough to make the switch if Rhonda and Dylan would be upset about it. When Rhonda talked to him about it, Dylan was upset over the idea of me being away on Christmas; I've been home for Christmas every year since he was born.

But then, Dylan came to change his mind. I think a big part of it was when Rhonda told him that he would have two Christmas days: one on the actual date, and another when I got home a few days later. And then, one night while away at work, I talked to him on the phone. I explained to him why I wanted to take the position: it involved flying for an oil company that was very safety-conscious, and it would be in a town with a few places to eat, along with a gym. "You could go to the gym after work?", Dylan asked. "Yep, I sure could, Punkin'."

I guess Dylan has heard enough of Rhonda and I talking about the benefits of exercise to be a believer. He once told me, "Daddy, please keep working out, so you can still wrestle with me when I'm twenty." (The kid slays me sometimes.)

Over the phone, I heard Dylan take a deep breath. "Dylan," I said, "this isn't that important to me. If you think me being gone on Christmas day will upset you, then I won't change things." Another deep breath from Dylan, then "Well, Daddy, I'm seven now. I can deal with it." (Have I mentioned that the kid slays me sometimes?)

So, here I am, over two thousand miles from home, working on Christmas day. Our first and only flight scheduled this morning was delayed by bad weather offshore, so we sat around for a couple of hours. I gave myself permission to feel sorry for myself for having to be away from my wife and son on Christmas.

And, I did feel sorry for myself, for a little while. But, it's a strange thing, being away from home and loved ones. Yep, it sucks. Yep, it hurts. The hurt, though, is a bittersweet thing. In the midst of homesickness and yearning for the warmth of time with my family, there is a certain clarity that seems particularly present when away from the day-to-day routine of family life. And, with that clarity comes an intensity of sentiment. Dear God, I love my wife and little boy. I love our home, our silly little dog, and our pesky cat, who often wakes me at three in the morning, demanding food.

I'm thankful for my old friends, who've stayed friends despite how I often suck at staying in touch. I'm thankful for my health.

I'm thankful for a way I make my living. It involves the heartache of being away. It involves frustrations that those outside looking in can't appreciate. It involves the small but real risk that I may leave a widow and a son without a father. But it also involves moments of sheer joy, and the feeling of privilege that comes with the realization that, after nearly thirty-three years, I still have the chance to experience magic in my job.

I'm thankful for the magic that is the Christmas season. It's a magic that commercialism, political correctness, and my own homesickness can't dispel.

Merry Christmas to you all, and may God smile upon you in the coming year.

Rippin' Off Roland: Songs That'll Keep Me in the Car

In his latest blog entry, Roland wrote, "I'll bet everyone has a song or two that keeps them from getting out of the car. If you can park it in the driveway, you wait it out, but if you know the people inside will wonder what you're waiting for, you might take on extra lap around the block."

It got me thinking about those songs that have really grabbed me. Yep, those songs that'll keep me in the car until I'm finished. (Dylan usually joins me in groovin' to the tune, but Rhonda will often roll her eyes and run into the house. Then Dylan yells, "TURN IT UP!")

Actually, if you ask me next week, half of this list might change. It isn't that my tastes change so much, it's just that what springs to mind will likely rotate around. One of the small perennial frustrations of my life is the tendency to hear some great song from the past on the radio, and think, "Oh yeah, I'm gonna download that or buy the CD." But, when I'm sitting in front of the computer, will I remember to order it from Amazon or the iTunes store? Naw. I could blame it on middle age, but the fact is that I've always been that way. That's one reason, for the last twenty years or so, that I've planned to always carry a notebook around with me. When a song or a thought comes to me, I could jot it down before it percolates away from my conscious memory. Thing is, I've bought lots of little notebooks for that purpose over the years. I always forget to carry them along. If I ever become a well-known author, maybe I can sell all of my blank little notebooks on Ebay.

Anyway, here's my first list of "Songs That'll Keep Me Sitting in the Car."

"Cinnamon Girl" by Neil Young. Especially the live version from Rust Never Sleeps.
"Highland Wedding" by Steve Morse.
"Gulf Coast Highway" by Nanci Griffith.
"Willin'" by Little Feat. Especially the live version from Down Upon the Suwannee River.
"Erotomania" by Dream Theater.
"Moonlight Mile" by the Rolling Stones. Video here is from a movie of the same name.
"One After 909" by the Beatles. Video here is from Let It Be, of course.
"UFO Tofu" by Bella Fleck and the Flecktones.
"You Shook Me All Night Long" by AC/DC.
"Copperhead Road" by Steve Earle.
"Ride Captain Ride" by Blues Image.
"Jamming" by Bob Marley.
"A Long December" by Counting Crows.
"Goodbye Stranger" by Supertramp.
"The Road and the Sky" by Jackson Browne.
"Hank Senior Moment" by John Gorka.
"Black" by Pearl Jam.
"Hot Rod Lincoln" by Commander Cody and His Lost Planet Airmen.
"Leprechaun Promenade" by the Dixie Dregs.
"Wasted Time" by the Eagles.
"Don't Think Twice, It's Alright" by Eric Clapton.
"Stay With Me" by Faces.
"If I Had a Boat" by Lyle Lovett.
"Past the Point of Rescue" by Hal Ketchum.
"I'll Stop Loving You" by Mike Reid.

And that's all I have to say about that. For now.

The Parking Lot Incident, Case Closed

Back in April, I wrote here about an incident at Dylan's school. To recap, Rhonda arrived at Dylan's school, and saw a man in a new BMW come to a halt behind a parked pickup. He then jumped out of his car and ran to the pickup. He jumped into the cab, knocking his son prone, then got atop him. He began pummeling the helpless kid. Rhonda ran down the stairs to the parking lot to confront the man, screaming "STOP IT! STOP IT!" The father backed out of the cab and glared at Rhonda. "He's my son. I'll do what I want." "You're committing a crime!" Rhonda yelled. After another brief exchange in which Rhonda refused to back down (don't mess with an Italian woman protecting a kid) the man jumped into his BMW and sped away.

A couple of weeks ago, Rhonda got a subpoena in the mail. It was for the man's misdemeanor trial for assault and battery. Rhonda was to testify in court as to what she saw that day.

The trial never happened. The D.A.'s office offered the father "D.A.'s Probation." What that means is that if Dear Daddy keeps his nose clean for six months, the case will be dismissed. He'll have no record. It will be as if the beating never happened.

I would have assumed that the father would have at least been required to attend anger management and/or parenting classes. Nope. Dear Daddy won't be burdened by any such requirements.

I know that he owns a yogurt shop in town, and I've heard that he owns two or three other businesses as well. I suppose that he's rather, er, connected.

Our D.A.'s office is quick to stick anyone busted for drugs with a felony, even if the only person hurt is the drug user. In the case of methamphetamine, the D.A. himself has decided that any amount of methamphetamine found on person or property will result in felony charges being filed.

Now, methamphetamine is nasty crap. But, it bothers me that certain chemical residues scattered about the bottom of someone's dresser drawer will saddle that someone with a felony, while a father can beat the stuffing out of a fourteen year-old kid and hardly get so much as a slap on the wrist.

Here, as in so many places, it seems that how a person is treated once accused of a crime has much to do with socioeconomic standing. I often wonder if, more and more, justice in these United States is more a commodity than a right.

Meanwhile, we continue to sock people away in prison who are guilty of nothing but possessing certain chemical substances. It doesn't seem to matter than the majority of them are only hurting themselves. No, that doesn't matter. The powers-that-be are mad at drug abusers because they keep using drugs after being told not to do so. Thus, the priority seems to put people in prison because "we're" mad at them, not because we're afraid of them.

I think we should save prison for people who scare us.

But then, in Shasta County, the powers-that-be seem not so afraid--or mad--at fathers who beat the crap out of their own sons in public. Especially, perhaps, if those fathers drive new BMW's.

Just a Little Rant About Donnie and Marie

So, the patriarch of the Osmond family died, I hear. Some news outlets--many those oriented toward entertainment--are treating his death as quite the tragedy. Sheesh, what bullshit. The guy was the better part of a century old. He had eighty grandchildren and great grandchildren. Where's the tragedy?

An old girlfriend lost her dad when she was six. That's a tragedy. My wife lost her dad a week before she graduated from college. That's a tragedy. My dad died several years before his only grandchild was born. That's a tragedy.

I suppose it's a bit like tilting at windmills to rant about how those who manage to stay visible in our popular culture seem to expect the rest of us to accept that their losses are more profound than those of we "everyday" people. They can kiss my ass. When Dale Earnhardt died in a racing accident, it made me sick to hear people whine and go on about it. Sure, it was a shame, and a real loss to his family, friends, and fans. I get it. But hey, Earnhardt accepted the risk he took, and he was compensated handsomely for it. He died a rich man. Days before he died, six National Guard troops died in a helicopter crash in Hawaii. Most folks who got all weepy about Earnhardt, it seems, didn't give a flying fornication about those young men and women, and a couple of them were taking on the risks inherent with serving their country while qualified for food stamps.

If you want to pour your heart out to someone facing a personal tragedy, I'd suggest just looking about your own community. Donnie and Marie have plenty of hangers-on to commiserate with.

As for Donnie and Marie, I'm sure they feel real pain over the passing of their father. Still, it makes me a little ill to see them do their crying act on TV, all the while with dry eyes. I wish they'd just go away for a while, and treat their father's passing with dignity. I think that would be the decent thing to do. Using their father's death as a lame springboard to revive long-flagging careers is just plain low-class.