So close, but so far away ...

One of the nice things about living in North Carolina is our proximity to sporting venues, both college and professional.  Since moving here and enduring that asinine period of time known as "COVID" we have managed to go to several Durham Bulls baseball games, two college football games (Wake Forest vs. Army, and NC State vs. Syracuse), two hockey games (Carolina Hurricanes) and a couple of baseball games for a local minor, minor league team called The Carolina Mudcats and a NC State vs. Duke basketball game (NC State killed 'em in front of a sold-out PNC arena).  And I guess if I wanted to stretch out some, I could probably go to any of 3 or 4 professional golf events in this area too.

Another nice thing is that we have been able to continue the MAN TRIP golfing extravaganzas  all this time, and I think this year's trip will be the 16th year for it. Everyone must like it -- they keep coming back.  Heck, I know some guys who's marriages didn't last 16 years!  But then, this is golf, not married life.

So here it is, the end of January.  The grass here is green, but needs to be weeded and fed.  Plans have to be made as to what new items will be added to the yard landscaping.  Vacation plans have to be drawn up and agendas need reviewing (you know -- gotta get all those doctors scheduled and visited). So what is missing?

Well, here's two things I can think of right off the top -- the Cincinnati Reds and maybe homecoming at Ohio University.  Might have to see if we can fit a "road trip" in to catch those two things this coming fall.

Oh yeah, I haven't even gotten to the grand kids and their activities we have gotten to see and be part of.  Why just last night, Quinn (our oldest grandson) received his First Class Scouting badge.  That was really neat to see and be there for. Anything he does now in Scouts will take him past my level of achievement in our scouting troop back in Zanesville.

We've got some pretty exciting stuff lined up for them this year -- hang gliding lessons for Quinn, and an old-fashioned train ride for Heath.  

I guess I've been neglecting the blog for a while (has it really been since August?) and have been fooling around in FB land. I have been called to task by some of my olf friends and blog followers, so I guess I had better get back to it.  I might mess around in both arenas for a while, but the blog is my first love so we'll see what happens. Stay tuned.

So these are just a few pictures of some of the things we've been doing  and some of the upcoming entries I will be writing about. Until then...

“I do not want to get to the end of my life and find that I just lived the length of it. I want to have lived the width of it as well.” (Diane Ackerman)

 

Hooah

Coping with the Corona ...

This just struck me -- does the title for this article sound like a Barry Manolo song (Coping ..... with the corona ...... blah, blah).  All kinds of things pop into your mind when you're bored.  Oh, well, on to the article.

I see on Facebook all kinds of things that people are doing to pass the days during this self-confinement time.  So, what is happening around here.  Well, some of the things are first, even for non-pandemic times.

First.  For those of us who have pushed on through 65 and have been classified as "your high-risk types" (I have generally been considered a high  risk type for a long while, dating back through the Army to my mother-in-law, to several of my high school teachers, etc.) there are designated shopping times at the local grocery stores.  The only trouble is these hours are really early -- especially for card-carrying retirees who have sworn, as my friend Dave often says, not to stir before the crack of 9:00. So, OK, this sounds like a good safety measure, but that assumes that the shelves have been restocked the night before.  It certainly doesn't do any good to go into a store with empty shelves, but that is what we did this week. Up at 5:00 and getting ready to move out.  Just on a whim, I looked out back at the chickens to see if they were up, and they weren't.  At least the sun is fixin' to come up at that time this far east.  We looked at it as a challenge and thought this would probably be one of the many firsts we would encounter in our new adopted state of North Carolina.

Second.  You can tell who the guys (and gals for that matter)  are who have pretty much stayed at home during the pandemic and have not seen their barber for a while.  So that is what I saw in the mirror the other morning.  My head had the 30 days overdue funk going on.  So I asked my wife if she would give a go at trimming me around the ears and in the back neckline.  Armed with a pair of scissors and a trimmer, she gave it a really good go.  This is the first time my wife has ever trimmed my hair -- Samson, eat your heart out.  I think this will get me through the stay at home time.  Certainly wouldn't pass inspection though.

Third.  One of the first things that came about with the shut-downs was  the closing of schools.  The timing is tough for all concerned, but some pretty interesting things came out of it.  One involved my grand daughter and the pre-school class she is part of.  As much as some of the kids would say the closing of schools is the greatest thing that ever happened, there are a lot more who now say they miss their friends and the school.  So the pre-school put together a conference call (maybe a Zoom thing) with the teacher and some of the students.  What a neat thing to do  ... especially when my grand daughter is only 5.  Technology has certainly had an impact on young people.  My youngest grandson Facetimed us the other day.  He had an assignment to call his grand parents and ask them what it was like when they were young and what we did back then.

How much more fun can you have than a conference call with your buds while you are holding the Easter Bunny.

I told my wife that these kids don't have anything on us with this computerized conference stuff.  Back in our day, conference calls were called "party line."

Hooah

You gotta be old to have 50 of anything...

Well, this month marked a milestone for Pam and me.  Both of us attended our 50th high school class reunions.  It was kinda a funny around here when I told my neighbors and my golf buddies that we were doing that -- they got a kick out of us saying it was our 50th.  Well, except for the neighbors, the rest of them had better check their calendars because their 50th will be coming up sooner than they think.  I know ours did.  When they would rag on me about getting old, I told them that we couldn't be getting old -- they still play our music (60s music) on the radio.

Pam's high school class was 438 or so students.  She went to the big high school in Zanesville.  My graduating class was somewhere around 90 brave souls.  And in case you're wondering, Pam was in the top 10% of her class, while I on the other hand had not realized any of my potential yet.  I told one of the members of my class that at West Point, there is a tradition that the lowest graduating cadet is paid a dollar by all the rest of the cadets at graduation (an old tradition).  I said that if that was a tradition at my high school, I probably could have made a car payment with my dollars.  Oh, well.  I guess it's not where you start that counts.

Pam's reunion dinner was held at the country club in Zanesville.  It was very nice and they had a little over a hundred class members there.  It was really good for us to get to talk to a lot of the old friends from those days.  They had lost a few to the Vietnam war, and others to cancers and other illnesses.  But those who were there looked to be in pretty good shape overall.

My reunion dinner was held at a classmate's house.  She and her husband have a big old two-story house that was built in the 1860s and sits above the Muskingum River.  It was really cool.  I expected U.S. Grant to come walking out of the kitchen at any time.  The dinner was catered and we ate on their lawn. It was very nice and the torches and old house set quite a nice mood for the evening.  Of our 90-some classmates, we have lost a little over 20 to various things -- war, cancer, other illnesses.  A couple of them had had strokes since the last reunion, but they got around real well and it was fun talking with them.  One of them, Gene, who was my best man at our wedding, is still farming and still hunts on his property.

The reunions also served as another opportunity for both of us to do other things.  Pam was able to visit some friends and go to breakfast with one of her old girl friends.  I was also able to get in 18 holes with my old Sergeant Major at the golf course we played as golf team members in high school.  When we paid our greens fees, the guy there asked if I had ever played here before.  I gave him a laugh when I told him that the last time I played this course was 50 years ago.

One thing that came out of both reunions was the idea that these reunions should be held a little more often now that we all are getting on in years.  I know the ones who still live in Zanesville are always running into others of the class and they see the ones they want to see regularly.  It's the ones who have moved away who would probably get the most out of that idea.  Those who went to my school (Rosecrans) have the parish picnic each year where there is an alumni tent for such gatherings.  We could go to that if we wanted.  I am not so sure there is anything like that for Pam's classes.  Perhaps something at the football homecoming,  maybe. 

Every parting gives a foretaste of death; every reunion a hint of the resurrection. (A. Schopenhauer)

Hooah

Every parting gives a foretaste of death, every reunion a hint of the resurrection. Arthur Schopenhauer
Read more at: http://www.brainyquote.com/quotes/keywords/reunion.html

Every parting gives a foretaste of death, every reunion a hint of the resurrection. Arthur Schopenhauer
Read more at: http://www.brainyquote.com/quotes/keywords/reunion.html

Hard to believe it's been that long...

About a month ago, one of my high school classmates contacted me regarding our high school class's upcoming 50th reunion scheduled for later this summer.  I would suspect that for those of you who have also lived long enough to experience this, it is pretty hard to believe that we would qualify for a 50th anything, let alone a high school graduation.  That means our late 60s are all over us like an early morning fog -- hopefully not anything serious enough to be really a hazard, but more of a nuisance that keeps you from your early tee time .

My wife, who is scheduled for her 50th this summer, is also facing the prospect of relying very heavily on those little sticky name tags to keep us from being embarrassed at how we could possibly forget the names of so many of our friends from the past -- friends with whom we shared so many monumentally earth-shaking secrets, sealed with a pinky swear.

So I know that's gonna happen.  Doesn't mean I have to like it, but it's gonna happen. Sometimes I can't even remember the names of people I met just yesterday.  And if the truth be known, the guy who invented those little sticky name tags was probably facing his 50th high school reunion when he came up with this great idea.

So, setting that inevitable embarrassment aside for now, there are a couple of other things I thought about, things that could also be interesting.  I used to play athletics back in school.  Even though I received several varsity letters back then, I was not really very good at any of them. 

I played football, starting out as an offensive guard.  But, at 5"10"/145#, this didn't look very promising.  During my sophomore year, I discovered I could catch the ball reasonably well if it was thrown somewhere in the vicinity of my hands.  So I was moved to the end of the line (don't know if that was the coach's way of telling me that I was going from the center of the action to the end of the line, which was only one step from the bench).  And while I was there, I became a defensive end too.  The defensive position wasn't too bad --  just hold my position and don't let anyone around me.  Didn't have to run too far and I could get in the way of a running back until the linebackers would get there to bail me out.  Fulfilling my duties as a receiver turned out to be more of a challenge.  I was not fast, and didn't know how to get into the open very well.  When I would run a pattern, if the wind was blowing really hard, I spent a lot of time running in one spot (remember -- 5'10"/145#).  But I did have some good moments and our team was really short on numbers and everyone else was pretty much the same size as me (except the two big tackles we had) so I got to play quite a bit.

I also played baseball and golf.  Well, sorta, because at our high school, we only had 5 guys who knew anything about golf, and all of them also played baseball.  Back in those days, baseball and golf were both spring sports, so it was worked out that these five guys would play baseball on Tuesday and Thursday and Saturday, and play golf on Monday, Wednesday, and maybe on Friday.  Not a lot of time for any practices once the seasons started, so our golf swings really looked like batting practice, and the scores were usually around bogey levels.

But none of this is in any way important now, except that we were on a team, with our classmates, having fun, and developing relationships that are still alive today.  I hate to admit that I don't see many or any of them except for the reunions.  Some have died.  And I don't think any of us would still come in at our old playing weight. 

Having spent 30 years of my life as an educator, I am certainly glad that our old high school teachers won't be allowed out of the "home" to come see what a collection we turned out to be.  I, for one, certainly wouldn't want to be the cause of any heart failures once they learned how I (or others, too) turned out. Unless they had a lot more insight into us than I suspect, I am sure they never would have guessed our outcomes.  I would hope, if they were to come for the evening, they would be gracious enough to give us credit for slugging it out over the years, fighting the good fight,  Each in our own way, each with our own demons, and with a lot of help from others, we made something of ourselves.  In some small measure, each might be a credible reflection on their efforts.  One thing I learned over the years is not to be too hard on oneself.  There are plenty of people in line waiting to do that for you. 

I have one small suggestion that I might bring up to our "committee" when we get together this summer -- Let's have our 60th reunion next year.  I know Sam Hall would be saying right now that that boy didn't learn his counting in my class, but here's the logic.  We have lost a few along the way getting to this 50th reunion.  The next big one would be 10 years from now and who knows how many we would lose by then.  So -- they're our reunions, we can call them anything we want.  We can call the one two years from now the 70th if we want.  Might be kinda nice to say I made it to my 70th high school reunion.

Oh yeah, one other thing that reunions are known for -- finding out if others in the class were successful in life.  I think I will carry a little card with me to the reunion, one that outlines all of the successes one can be proud of in life (other than a good marriage, good children and grandchildren and good health).  We'll measure from here:

SUCCESS:
...at age 4, SUCCESS is not peeing your pants.

...at age 12, SUCCESS is having friends.

...at age 16, SUCCESS is having a driver's license.

...at age 35, SUCCESS is having money.

...at age 50, SUCCESS is having money.

...at age 70, SUCCESS is having a driver's license.

...at age 75, SUCCESS is having friends.

...at age 80, SUCCESS is not peeing your pants.

Should be a fun time.  I'm actually looking forward to it. And when the evening is over, I hope my classmates read the backside of the card...

May the road rise to meet you,
May the wind be always at your back,
May the sun shine warm upon your face,
The rains fall soft upon your fields and,
Until we meet again,
May God hold you in the palm of His hand.

Hooah

A blast from the past...

Last night we had the opportunity to go see the production of The Jersey Boys in Fort Wayne, IN.  This was a Christmas gift from Doug and Danika.  The show was staged at the Embassy Theater, in the downtown area, a place we had never been before and which was quite a nice place.  I really like these old, restored theaters, because they remind me of the Aw Faw Palace once owned by Saddam Hussein.  It was very ornate, very colorful with huge columns along the walls and beautiful ceilings and chandeliers.  The city of Fort Wayne has quite a gem in this, and it is as nice as any I have seen anywhere around the country.

The story of Frankie Valli  and the Four Seasons was good, and knocked around some cobwebs for memories that I had of the things that took place in the 60s and 70s.  I recalled some of the things depicted in the show, and learned some new things -- especially the money issues and the road romances.  Didn't know much about that.  the guys playing the Four Seasons were good in their roles and put forth a very convincing show.

What a great Christmas present. We certainly appreciated it and thank Doug and Danika very much for it.

How's this for a "Selfie" in front of the Embassy Theater?

Oh, yeah, one more thing.  There sure were a lot of people there our age.  As as the guys sang and danced, I looked around and saw lots of people lip syncing and tapping their feet to the music.  I would bet that probably 90% of those in attendance grew up listening to Frankie Valli's music (that's "Valli with an I" as he said in the show), both with and after the Four Seasons, knew all the words to the songs, and probably drove the kinds of cars depicted in the performance.  Even the ones that got "all the way to 8 miles to the gallon."

This was billed as a nostalgic trip down memory lane, and it was. It brought back memories of high school dances, football, and Northside Beach.  It revived memories of cruising up and down Maple Avenue and doing crazy things that might get us arrested today.  Yes, it was nostalgic, I don't deny it and am not ashamed to admit that I missed some of those days and am glad to have lived through them.

Nostalgia -- the lump in your throat, the tear in your eye and the tug at your heart -- doesn't happen when all your memories are bad or dark.  They reflect the happy, carefree, perhaps a bit dangerous times of youth.  And as I have said before, without those nostalgic memories to keep you warm, your winter years can be pretty cold.

Nostalgia is a file that removes the rough edges from the good old days. (Doug Larson)

Hooah

It was my turn to get the mail...

My dad was a pretty handy fellow. Having come back from WWII, he was like most of the others of the Greatest Generation -- he wanted to get on with life, with living. He had a pretty good job and did what he could to make ends meet and give us a good life. Growing up, we moved a lot, going from house to house. Dad had a couple of them built and he would do lots of the work himself, especially when it came to fitting out the basements with rec rooms, workshops and the like. It used to be a joke in the family that he would get one done and tear it out only to rebuild it again a bit differently. He was usually good for two rebuilds per house and then he would get the itch to build a whole new house and move (See "Your Parents
Don't Live Here Anymore...").

Well, our first brand new house was built in a thick woods near the bottom of a holler - just at the base of a very big hill. In the winters he burned up more than one transmission in the car trying to get up that hill as the county plow/salt truck wouldn't usually make it around there for our house for about two or three days. It seems snow was a lot deeper back there back then.

Anyhow, getting back to my handy dad. He welded up a triangular go cart dealie-jigger for my brother and me. No girls need apply to drive it. We would run that thing down that hill, careening like wild boys to the bottom and then put it into a side-slide that threw gravel and cinders (remember the deep snows?) all over the place. We tipped over a few times, but having come to a dusty, dirty halt, we asked: "Is that all there is?" Not to be left wanting, we put up a ramp made out of cement blocks and an old wooden door. Boy could that thing fly. It's a good thing mom didn't see us try those first two or three attempts at "tricycle-shaped dealie-jigger flying" -- she was getting gray enough as it was. There would be plenty more of that for her from our teen-age adventures.

So what about the mail? Well, as you can guess, there wasn't all that much to do back there so as brothers would often do, we fought with each other. Being the smaller, slower of the two, I was usually on the receiving end. Now my mother, being the very intelligent lady that she was, would give us individual chores and rewards to keep us apart. One of those tasks was to go to the end of the driveway and get the mail. We took turns (no girls need apply) and this was a pretty good deal. Well, it was one of those days. My brother kept hogging the coaster and he ended up breaking a wheel. Now he was on my bike and mom wasn't paying any attention to my protests. We were in the garage, just about ready to get into it, when down the hill came the mail man -- I was on foot and he was on my bike -- AND IT WAS MY TURN to get the mail. Well, I took off running and he was not too far behind me on the bike. I was determined to get my turn in, so I yanked on the rope that pulled down the garage door and took off. All of a sudden, I heard this big CRACK. I was smiling from ear to ear. Success. My brother had run into the half-way-down garage door and cracked his head on it. I broke out in a rather pleased-with-myself walk, but peeked back over my shoulder to make sure my bike was OK and he wasn't running after me with a ball bat or something. Nope. He was holding his head (which really was bleeding) and mom was just standing there, eyes wide, too stunned to say anything.

My brother got lots smarter after that, and I got whacked when dad got home. Don't think it was his best shot though. He might have held up a bit because his #2 son started to grow up a bit that day.

When it's your turn, it's your turn!!

“Peace has its victories, but it takes a brave man to win them.” (Emerson)

Hooah

A funny thing happened on our cattle drive...

I don't know what made me think of it, maybe yesterday's snow and sunshine, but a memory from my teenage years just popped into my brain. Thought I better capture it while I could.

It was early spring in the country outside of Zanesville. Sunshine and warm spring days came begrudgingly to the hills and hollers of that area. Some fields and woods would come alive with wildflowers and budding trees, while others would still have ice on the creeks and snow on the banks. That was what we grew up with, and it made us really appreciate spring when it finally took hold.

Early spring often meant that it was time to address a whole new set of chores. The farmers in our area looked forward to the promise of another year, and the kids looked forward to something other than cleaning out the barn-- more exciting times driving farm machinery, riding horses, and thinking about next year's tunnel system in the hay mow. I wonder if any civil engineers or architects got their start doing this. One particular assignment brought a rather unusual experience for three young buckeroos from the wild northern territories of Zanesville.

My best friend at that time, Gene (who later was the best man at our wedding), had a farm that was primarily hills and contained three large hog barns. They raised some cattle, but didn't really have the right amount of pasture land to permit grazing and still have land to raise hay and some corn. So, Gene's dad rented pasture land on the farm that was located next to theirs. Our job each year was to move the cattle from the feed lot on their farm to the pasture land. It was a pretty nice spring day so they decided that it was time to make the move.

We saddled up the horses and began to move the cattle out. The first part didn't go too badly. We drove those doggies up the closest thing to a small mountain in that area, and got ready to start the hard part -- driving about 45 cold, inquisitive cows through a strip mine and woods to the other farm. Normally this wouldn't be too bad, but we were really only into the moderately warm days and the cold lingered in the woods. The cattle were hesitant because the thin ice easily broke under their weight, and the banks were slippery and muddy. We were getting close to our destination, starting to feel like the cowboys of old nearing the end of their drives when I took a route down a pleasant looking gully-- you know "the road less traveled by...". The dogs started barking and raising a fuss. I thought maybe they had a rabbit going or something and then I saw it -- a body lying face down in the still frozen creek. The man appeared to be dead for quite a while, but since he was still obviously frozen there was little decomposition. We marked the spot, finished the cattle drive and then called the sheriff. We had to hook a wagon up to the tractor and help them retrieve the body. The sheriff said the man was an escapee from the county jail. We also found a hand gun on him.

This was quite an experience for a couple of young teenagers from a small town. It registered with our parents, each in a different manner -- mothers in the way mothers usually do, and fathers in a manly sort of way. The most interesting reaction was the one we got the next day at school at our lunch table as we recounted the details . Of course we embellished the details of the body, its condition and our HEROIC actions. Funny, we got lots of food from the other guys at the lunch table -- some of which was abandoned and some as offerings to our bravery and heroism.

That was in the early 1960s. Things like that didn't happen very often, especially in small town Ohio. Probably wouldn't even get a raised eyebrow today as nightly news stations compete quite enthusiastically to out-crime, out-dramatize each other. I don't know if this experience influenced me in any way in later life, but at least it didn't lead me down a path of crime with my trusty horse, riding through the countryside terrorizing people and robbing banks. I just continued on with my typical small-town Ohio teenage years.

Raising teenagers is like nailing Jell-o to a tree.

Hooah

Your parents don't live here anymore...

I know everyone has heard stories of parents sending their wicked children out to play and then moving while the kids were outside. There are also stories about babies being kidnapped by gypsies and sold, or being cooked in ovens in gingerbread houses and such. Well, I've got one that tops all of that, and it's a true story, t' boot.

I left for basic training on a Greyhound bus one sunny, Good Friday afternoon with my parents and wife seeing me off. Dad talked about the time when he and his brothers left for WWII, much like this only it was a train that carried them to their destiny. I told them I would be fine and when I finished A.I.T. (Advanced Individual Training -- i.e. Military Police school) I would call to tell them what flight I was on and when to meet me. They assured me they would meet me when I was done.

However, we finished the graduation ceremony early that fine day in late July and having learned how the army can screw things up, I decided to vamoose and see if I could get an earlier flight back to Ohio. If I weren't able to get an earlier flight, I at least wanted to get off post, knowing that out of sight meant out of mind as far as drill sergeants were concerned. I was very well schooled in the old army adage that it's better that privates are not seen or heard and I was quite happy to demonstrate my grasp of that concept.

I called Pam and told her of my plan to get back to Ohio that night rather than the next day or so. She thought that would be great and we would surprise everyone back here.

Well, I got back and we drove out to see my folks that night. I pulled in the driveway, went up to the front door and knocked. Strange, but I didn't hear the dogs. I knocked again, and the light went on in the house -- strange, I don't remember a light over in that part of the living room. Then the door opened. There was a strange lady at the door...what the heck!! I asked her who she was and she repeated the question back to me. I informed her that I was Mike and I lived here. She said she didn't care who I was and I didn't live there. And she really wasn't all that impressed by my uniform and my newly sewn-on PFC stripes!! Was she related to my drill sergeant?

Well, the conversation went on and we finally reached an understanding. She informed me that they had bought the house from my parents who had just moved up the road a bit. Can you believe that!! Well, we found their new house and was there a lot of laughing that night. I'm sure the lady at their old house wondered what the heck was really going on. Pam knew they were building a new house and would move soon, but she wanted them to surprise me with the news so she didn't say anything. Obviously she didn't know they had done it so quickly.

Later on in life, I would take mom and dad to lunch and later, after dad died, just mom. According to my sister, it seems I only did this when I had to tell her I was being mobilized and going off somewhere. My sister told me she wasn't going to go to lunch with us anymore unless I changed my routine and didn't do it just to say good-bye. Maybe so, but we would certainly have a good laugh about them moving that time. While they would tell me that they wouldn't do that again, I couldn't promise them that I wouldn't do this to them again.

Other things may change us, but we start and end with family.

"Families are like fudge ... mostly sweet, with a few nuts."

Hooah

My early flying roots...

I think I might have mentioned in one of my earlier writings that I have a Private Pilot's license. I'm one of those low and slow guys (i.e. I fly/flew a Cessna 172 SkyHawk, which is a high-wing airplane usually associated with training schools). Nothing fancy, no retractable landing gear, no high performance engine and a cruising speed of about 120 or so, depending on winds aloft.

The earliest inclination that I wanted to fly came when I would visit my grandmother and her husband (early 1950s). They managed an airport (grass strip) in Zanesville, he took care of the planes and she managed the little restaurant. How about those really cool pilot sun glasses I had back then. My first chick magnets.

Those were the days of real flying -- unencumbered by so many government regulations and terrorist worries. The typical pilot was usually a WWII vet who either flew during the war or wished he had. Training usually consisted of only a few hours and then a solo in a plane that would probably bounce off most things it would hit if the landing was less than desirable. Most of the guys (and they were usually all guys) did their own maintenance and insurance wasn't something real pilots knew of or worried about. Not at all like today.

My wife bought me my first lesson -- it was a Christmas present. What a great present. I'll bet none of your wives has ever done anything like that for you!! Well, after a year of lessons, a flight physical from a half-blind/half-deaf doc, a written test, a flying test, and a sizable expenditure of cash I was able to legally rent an airplane and fly just about anywhere I wanted or was brave/rich enough to go.

Having a ticket to explore the skyways and our countryside is really fun and you haven't seen a bird or a tree or cows in the fields until you have seen them from above. It has been said that there are really only two true emotions in a plane: boredom and shear terror. Having said that, however, I found that I especially liked to go up and commune with the birds on Sunday mornings. I felt like I was close to God up there by myself. What a Great co-pilot.

But going by myself wasn't the only thing I did. I also took students up for a ride who did something extra special at school as a kind of reward for their efforts. Most of the neighbors' kids who wanted to go and could get one of their parents to go with them also got to see their house and probably their grandma's & grandpa's house from the air. They were also treated to seeing the roof of Wal-Mart, Lake Loramie, the Villages of Anna, Kettlersville and McCartyville, a corn maze or two and other irresistible highlights.

I also flew a few times on Uncle Sam's nickel when I had to go someplace for Army business. I would get the plane and fly to Wisconsin or some town that had one of our MP units deploying for the war. That was quite an experience as well as an efficient use of time and tax payers money. I've got a good story about landing at an airport shortly after 9/11 while on Army business wearing my BDUs -- but that will be for a later time.

A heart attack, stupid FAA regulations, gas prices and military deployments have all conspired to keep me on the ground for the past three years, but I still have the fire. Keep your ears up -- that next small plane you see or hear could be me.

When once you have tasted flight, you will forever walk the earth with your eyes turned skyward, for there you have been, and there you will always long to return.

Hooah