CASSIDY's CAT

We moved to another neighborhood. We bought a plot and built a house because our neighbors seemed to solve their problems by buying another noisy , aggressive dog. Our neighbors were friends and they lived on either side of us. They both solved their problems the same way, by buying another mutt. Every time any one of us went into the back yard the dogs on either side of us came alive and began trying to eat holes through the chain link fence. One jumped over it once but I started shooting it with my pellet gun, much to the consternation of the owner. She was oblivious to anything that was happening in the world that didn't concern her mutts. They were hardy souls too. I tossed enough poison hamburger into her yard to kill Napoleon's Army, but it didn't phase them. Once I tossed a ball of frozen hamburger laced with a suicide portion of darvon. One of her dobermans lay asleep in the yard for three days but eventually woke up and wandered back into her house. She was brazen. She bought geese and chickens and a Rooster. I quite enjoyed the rooster crowing at 4am. I'm a morning person. The neighbors not so much apparently. Calls to the city authorities about exceeding the 3 dog limit were fruitless. They are all animal lovers , but the rooster must have been the straw for someone within earshot.

One day the neighbor appeared at our door with a small kitten. It seems, she explained that a feral cat had had a litter in her yard and then discovered the dogs, who were kept in the house overnight. The mother abandoned them and the one she was holding was the only survivor. Six year old Cassidy took the kitten. She nursed it, bonded with it, mothered it back to health. When we went on overnight trips to amusement parks or camping spots Cassidy would take pictures of the kitten and stand them up on the tables or around her sleeping bag. The kitten responded and followed Cassidy everywhere. Cassidy was the only mother she had ever known. When Cassidy came to me trying to decide on a name , I suggested Zorro. The kitten was black and white. She had a black mask and a little black on her chin reminiscent of a goatee. Cassidy liked the name. Zorro it was. We had other cats on the property. I had two outdoor cats that I had for years. Cassidy's sister had a cat, but Cassidy's only attentions were for Zorro. When she was studying or doing homework Zorro waited patiently nearby. To my observance Zorro was never a pest. Never a glutton for attention, but simply satisfied with being in Cassidy's presence, and Cassidy seemed to feel the same. I had assigned Cassidy the task, along with her sister, of assuming the responsibilities of pet ownership. Namely cleaning out the cat box daily. They took turns. I never had to remind her nor did I ever hear her complain. Truly, she loved Zorro and I have never seen a bond between human and animal such as theirs since. I was happy for her for enjoying something precious that I had never had in my life with human or animal. Her love for Zorro was based in genuine friendship. Truly I've never seen anything like it. Cassidy had been teaching me lessons since I watched her slide out of her mother, right on time, to the minute. Here was an exceptional individual. She always looked forward to school, raced to do her homework, never distracted from her duties, cried when she got her first 'B'. I felt a special connection to this most genuine of individuals. Her sister was jealous of her. Maybe it was by my actions, showing unconscious favoritism, noticed only by her. How is a parent to see these things? Occurrences from my childhood , my parents had no recollection of. What is important and shaped my life did not have the same priorities to them. This is natural. Parents have different priorities than their children. Our family was plagued by a sour parental relationship. To my mind I tried my best for all of them but laid helpless before a pretentions wife, who as soon as she got control filed for divorce without regard to anyone's priorites but her own. I digress but I think that the divorce and the death of Zorro had a profound negative effect on Cassidy's opinion of her father.

“Dad, Zorro has a lump in her stomach.”

I examined her and told Cassidy that we would watch it and that it was probably nothing but to wait and see if it got larger. It did.

The two outside cats supplemented their diet by catching bluejays. They were quite good at it. At the time and having learned from this experience. Catfood is catfood. So I always fed them the cheapest catfood I could buy at Walmart. Now the papers are full of stories about cheap and villainous products sold to the American Market by China. Catfood was on the list and was killing scores of pets across the U.S. In a number of ways. Investigating the scandal, the food and Drug Administration's discovered dried cat and dog food made from putrid meat, chicken beaks, feathers, feet and other nefarious ingredients such as ground up rodents. There are regulations, but what are their enforcement priorities before an outcry of the citizenry asking why their pets are all of a sudden dying from malnutrition, cancer, and other diseases. The simultaneous nationwide pet deaths made the papers and woke up the rubber stamping bureaucrats. Zorro was one of the statistics. I felt terrible for my ignorance and naive trust of major name brands in catfood.

When Zorro's lump got so big she was dragging it around behind her we took her to the vet who had previously informed us that there was no hope and she would have to be put to sleep. We spent about a half hour in the operating room, Cassidy, her mother and older sister and me waiting for Cassidy to call in the Vet. I'm afraid I grew impatient and made a terrible error in finally saying “C’mon Cassidy. Let’s get it over with.” I wonder if right then she blamed Zorro's death on me. After the Vet administered the shot she started crying and cried all the way home. I buried Zorro in the back yard under Cassidy's bedroom window. We bought a grave marker. I felt helpless. I don't think Cassidy ever forgave me and the memories of those days weigh heavily on my conscious. Mea Culpa Cassidy. I have no excuse other than I'm only human and despite all that has happened or your perception of what happened , you will always hold a special place in my heart. I love you very much and miss you terribly.

Love, Dad.

 

 

HIKE!

In 1969 at Dickenson St.

While pursuing my education at San Diego State I lived in a small duplex in a remote canyon by the hospital. I forget which hospital but as I was puttering around outside one day I saw a man and his son pulling a sail boat from a garage just down the street. Having not a lot to do that day I meandered down and asked them about their boat. “It’s a Lightening. She’s skittish in the water but fast.”  Having done a little sailing in the San Diego State sailing club I inquired further and finally he said: “We’re going sailing today on San Diego Bay. Want to come?” I jumped at the chance for a day on the water, a welcome break from the rigors of working full time and attending college. We launched the boat from a ramp on Shelter Island and sailed in a light breeze out into the bay.

The sails of a number of other boats were visible in the distance. As we drew closer I remember remarking to myself how similar they looked to the one we were on. I inquired again and the captain said that they were all Lightenings and today we were joining the Regatta for a race. It was going to get intense, he explained, because the designer of the class was sailing in the race. I never knew how competitive people can be trying to make the slowest vehicle on the planet go fast. I was soon to learn. We sailed around in circles near the starting line waiting for the sound of the start gun. “ Everyone on a boat has a job.” Explained the skipper. “Jonnie’s job here is to trim the jib, change sails and work the dagger board, mine is to trim the main sail and steer the boat.” He looked intently at me as if anticipating my next inquiry.

 “What’s my job?”  I asked innocently. Had I a hint of the terror to come I would have jumped overboard and swum back to the dock.  “Your job is to hike. You see those straps there? You place your feet under them and lean out over the gunwale on which ever side I tell you.” Ok. I thought. That doesn’t sound too complicated. “Starboard side hike is what I will say when you need to hike on the right side of the boat, and port side hike when I want you to hike over the left gunwale, and try to stay out of Jonnie’s way as he is working the dagger board.  The boom in the distance sounded and I wondered at the sight of each boat simultaneously aligning as if members of a school of fish, running toward the starting line. “We’re running down wind but will soon tach to the first marker, that white buoy way out there, see it? “  Relaxing on the gunwale, ever prepared to participate with my first hike, I stared across the water to see the bouy.” Oh yeah. I see it.”  “Ok when we round the bouy Jonnie will put the daggerboard down and you hike on the starboard side so you are already in position.” As we rounded the bouy I was shocked by the intensity of his yelling. “HIKE!.HIKE! NOW you fool! HIKE.” I jerked my head to look at him and the expression on his face was really mean glaring at me and scanning the position of the nearest boat. Attila the Hun would have been envious. I’m sure I saw a hint of green slime dripping from his lower lip. “HIKE! Further! You’re not leaning out far enough! Hike further dammit!”

 After another hour of intense hiking Attila says: “Jonnie. Break out those sandwiches.” Jonnie secures the genoa sheet to the cleat, broke out sandwiches and cokes from the cooler. “Finally! A break”. I thought to myself. As I started to reposition from the hike. “WE’RE STILL IN THE RACE OR HAVEN’T YOU NOTICED! HIKE!” I’m hiking and they’re eating lunch, him fanging into his lunch ferociously like a puma on a kill.  Another hour of really intense pain saw the finish line. We placed 3^rd. I was never so relieved to see the end of something and swore that my sailboat racing days were over. Attila’s demeanor on the way to the dock transmogrified from Mr. Hyde back to Dr. Jekel. “Hey. That was a great race. Lets do it again. I’ll look you up the next race. Ok?” He spoke in a gentle and empathic voice. He was all of a sudden normal again. “Ok. We came in third but that was your first hiking experience in a Lightening. Next time I’m sure we will do better now that you know how to hike. “

 “Oh sure, I thought. All my fault we didn’t win the race. For crap sake! Yeah sure” I nodded. “Today was a free day but most of the time I’m really busy working full time and going to school, and then there is my volunteer work at the hospital. “ My mind was racing for more excuses but the expression on his face signaled that I didn’t possess the blood of a Lightening Sailor. After we put the boat back into the garage Jonnie , who was about 12, told me privately that his father really was a nice guy and he just gets carried away sometimes when he is sailing. I really admired the kid for sticking up for his father, but told him not to expect to see me anywhere around any more Lightening Regattas, Lightening Sailors or even tv shows of sailboat races any time in the foreseeable future. The fear of meeting another still challenges a good night’s sleep.

 

The Bullies, and then there was Steve.

I left Frankfurt, Germany in 1959 after my junior year in high school. Leaving was traumatic in a way that only mixed feelings can be. I had a circle of friends I ran around with, more my choice than theirs. Only a few of us participated in any school activities. Most of our time was spent daring one another, trying to dress and act like James Dean,  and running the streets, and of course, drinking beer. It was only 11 years after the fall of the Reich, the end of WWII, VE Day. If you could get your hand above the bar they would beer you. No age limits.  There were still lots of burned out buildings in Giessen, which made the little town, Pop’s first duty station over there,  adventuresome and interesting. I spent my first six months there before Pop got transferred to Frankfurt. His transfer was a relief in a way because I had arrived with a cache of never before heard Elvis records and had slowly worn out my welcome from there. Among my most embarrassing moments was when my friend Jim and his girlfriend and I were walking home from the teen club one night and noticed a local German kid following us. He was pretty big and as his pace quickened, so did ours until finally Jim stopped, turned and challenged him. The kid put up his dukes and seeing Jim advance to meet him, I took his girlfriend aside as they tangled. Jim got the best of him and the kid wandered off holding his bloody nose. Jim was a really great guy who liked laughing a lot and I never expected to see him swing into action like that. I just never thought he was that kind of guy. What a surprise.

What was also a surprise was his girlfriend turning to me later and telling me what a coward I was for letting Jim get into a fight without helping him. Fair fight and two against one aside, she did impress me with the possibility of me being a coward. At 14 and having had my share of scuffles by that time and the memory that I had once bullied a kid in the 5th Grade, shamed me with the possibility that she was correct. The affirmation that I was a coward, or that a pretty girl had called me one, at such an impressionable age, is a memory vivid to this day. Word of that got around, and the fact that I didn’t jump in and help Jim, did little to contribute to my popularity with the kids in Giessen.  That experience changed my behavior for the worse. After that I was mostly ostracized, Jim, typical of him, remained my only friend, so I was glad to see the last of Giessen. Among the lessons from that experience was the fact that, rather than facing my problems, I looked forward to just leaving. The flip side is that she helped me decide, maybe subconsciously, never to be either a bully or a coward, but the problem of flight rather than fight remained and then there was Klaus.

One of the kids who lived in Giessen and attended Frankfurt High was the son of a German lady who had married a GI. His name was Klaus. He was big for his age and was one of the reasons I welcomed the sight of Giessen in the rearview mirror of our ’53 Ford Station Wagon when Pop got transferred to Frankfurt because Klaus starting bullying me. I spent a lot of time figuring out how to avoid him which was really difficult sometimes, especially on the hour long bus ride we took each weekday to Frankfurt High.  It was easier to avoid Klaus since I was no longer riding the bus, but there were moments passing in the hall between classes where we sometimes met and he never passed up a chance to show his dominance. Word then got around that I was afraid of Klaus. That all changed by accident one day in a crowded hallway. I found myself walking right behind Klaus. As soon as he realized I was there he stopped short, but before he turned around I shoved him, more of a knee-jerk reaction than anything aggressive.  He tripped and fell into a number of girls walking in front of him. I’ll never forget the look in his eyes as he lay there on his back, vengeful at first, surrounded by giggling girls, then softening as he looked at me standing over him, fists clenched, ready for what I thought was the inevitable. “After school!” he yelled as he got up and I faced him waiting for him to throw a punch. “You meet me after school and I’ll finish you!” By this time there was a crowd of kids giving us space eagerly anticipating a fight. He then surprised me by storming off down the hallway with the crowd of teenagers staring at me. “Fight! Fight” They yelled, and of course the word spread throughout the school. The realization that I was going to have to fight Klaus after school and the challenging stares of those present gave me no chance of backing out. Reluctantly I showed up at the designated place, surrounded by kids, determined that my back was against the wall, with no way out, and that win or lose, I was going to stand my ground and give it my best.  Klaus never showed. That was the end of Klaus bullying me, and the truth finally dawning on me that there was only one way to handle a bully and the realization was that bullying was a cowardly act. That dawning reinforced itself a few months later by an incident that took place in wood shop.

Wood shop teacher thought the way to handle a class of James Dean wannabees was to never pass up the opportunity to show us how tough he was. He yelled, threatened and bullied his classes. Then one day he made the mistake of threatening Steve Parrish. Steve was a local tough guy who through his best James Dean demeanor, never had to fight. He was sort of an early day Fonzie.  He ran with some of the toughest kids in the school and earned their respect by talking a good James Dean line and threatening to cut their nuts off. To my knowledge he never bullied anyone, but we gave him a wide space. He had a complete act, even to his stitched in creases and cut off belt loops of his Levis with the sash where belt loops used to be folded down and his form-fitting tee shirt with a pack of Lucky Strikes wound up in the sleeve. His tough guy talk kept him out of anyone daring to challenge him. Wood shop teech got all of our attention in shop one day by banging his fist on the desk and pointing at Steve after Steve said something he didn’t like. “I’ll see you in the yard after school Punk”. He yelled. Predictably, the word spread fast and after school the entire campus of kids stood out in the parking lot in a large ring around non other than Steve, acting cool…waiting. Teech never showed. He couldn’t. His play backfired. Him actually fighting with a student would have cost him his job. Maybe Steve knew this. It never crossed our minds. We’ll never know, but that was the end of Teech’s bullying his class; our class anyway, and cemented Steve’s reputation as King of the Hill, never to be fucked with. After we left Germany Pop got stationed at Ft. Belvoir, Virginia, and I enjoyed visiting the monuments and museums in D.C. One day walking along I met Steve. We recognized each other immediately, shook hands and discussed old times at Frankfurt High. He said he was on the way to join the Army and was going to be a paratrooper. That was just when the Vietnam conflict was heating up. I never saw or heard of Steve again, but knowing him, he is either dead, in jail or retired as a General.

A while later, still at age 17, I had an altercation with my dad, who may or may not have been bullying me. We never got along very well. Maybe it was just his way of disciplining me and thereby teaching me to discipline myself. One morning he confronted me for shooting my 22 rifle at objects in the backyard from my bedroom window. He never lost his temper until he learned I was using his ammunition. He took a swing at me and for the first time in my life I blocked it and scuffled him down the stairs. I returned to my room and listened to him and Mom yelling at each other over it. “He’s 17. You can’t expect to slap him around anymore without him responding”,  she said. That was the end of my dad’s slapping me. We both grew a little that morning.

When I had children of my own I didn’t want to repeat his mistakes and discipline them through fear. I don’t think my disciplining them, which was occasionally corporal, ever caused them to fear me. Some of my friends with families disagreed. I always explained why they were being punished and never just hauled off and belted them like my father did to me.  Brittany always took her punishment obediently. Cassidy was defiant from a young age. Maybe it was her reaction to not fearing me. Still, both of them grew into young ladies I am very proud of.

I don’t see myself as a coward but then again I have never been tested to the satisfaction of removing all doubt. My Navy hitch went without incident although one sailor got mad at me for some reason and tried to chase me out of the room. He didn’t but other than that there was never anything seriously confrontational. After the Navy I went to bars a lot; drank beer and shot pool. I don’t know why I couldn’t pass up a bar. I did get into a few altercations but nothing that scared me. Come to think of it I quit getting into altercations when I stopped going to bars. One incident in particular has led me to the conclusion that I’m of a gentle nature who doesn’t defend or fight for anything short of actual physical harm. I was shooting pool in a dark bar one afternoon in San Diego shortly after discharge. There were a couple of rowdy people arguing at the bar. I took little notice until I heard the woman scream and turned to see a man holding her by the hair and slapping her. What I also saw was that no one in the place was coming to her rescue. It was more of a reaction than anything else. I ran over to them and smashed him in the face with a right cross. He then let go of her and knocked me down. While I was getting up he yelled: “Don’t get up. Don’t get up.” I got up but the lady escaped and the incident was over. I had no grudge against him. I dusted myself off and returned to my pool game. A few minutes later I hung up the que and returned to the bar to finish my beer before leaving. At the bar an exceptionally good looking young brunette sat down beside me and complimented me on sticking up for the woman. We continued our conversation well into the following week at her place. I’ve arrived at the conclusion that being of a gentle nature and abhorring violence is not cowardice. Maybe the ultimate test that would satisfy my curiosity(ok, self doubt) is facing the threat of death; not an occurrence that any sane man would welcome.

A Country Churchyard

A country Churchyard

Tonight I’m going to share with you a state of mind. A serenity located in the church yard of one of the most peaceful and serene spots on Earth.

It's quiet and offers dew and birdly chirpings.

It’s a study in solitude.

Its combination of atmosphere and presence make one burst with a feeling of wellness.

The church yard of St. Giles country church in Stoke Poges, England , just 20 minutes west of London.

I was alarmed to see this church yard in the first scene of a James Bond movie where double O 7 took off in a helicopter.

It was for all the world to see but all they saw was the helicopter.

I’m glad. It's still my secret.

I found it on my first visit to Buckinghamshire in 1979. Allow me to take you there.

Park in the lot just outside and walk to the weathered, vined and gabled entrance.

Approaching the gate , there starts an awareness that

the mind is getting curiousor and curiousor, for the gate, with its winding vines and variegated flowers provides a whisper of what lies ahead.

“Does it get better than this? You ask.

As you pass through the gate let your eyes drink in the tilted gray stones marking the passage of long gone soldiers, priests, chambermaids, mayors, chimney sweeps faded to dust.

Standing there a feeling of blissful change, stillness begins to soak into your being.

Standing there in the mist, just inside the churchyard gate, before your mind takes you away, lift your head and take in the entire picture of the weathered grave stones helter skelter and the saxon church in the distance.

The structure itself dates well before the invasion by William the Conquerer in 1066.

The three parts remaining also include parts of the early gothic in 1220 and the Tudor architecture in 1558.

The church entrance is guarded by a heavy and never locked medieval wooden door with imposing black cast iron hinges which is approached through an alcove with heavy seats on either side.

The very act of traversing this door into the old church with its ancient wood and boxed pews tempts asking what stories they could tell. It’s like being reborn into the eternal heaven of a hectic world.

Although minuscule compared to gothic churches the design of the church is of a typical cross with small chapels on either side of the main altar in the nave. Breathe in the dank smell of ancient history here.

Just outside of the nave wall are two rather large and inconspicuous  sarcophagi.

Here lies beside his mother and his aunt, the churchyards most famous resident.

Standing beside the sarcophagi and looking into the distance just past where Roger Moore and his Jet Ranger violated a sacred quiet, stands a sandstone monument beside a large oak tree.

Which reads in part. “This Monument was erected A.D. 1788 among the scenes celebrated by that great lyric and elegant Poet Thomas Gray. He died July 30th 1771 and lies unnoticed in the graveyard adjoining under the tombstone on which he piously and pathetically recorded the interment of his Aunt and lamented Mother.”

I give you lines 13 through 20 of “Elegy written in a country churchyard” by Thomas Gray.

Beneath those rugged elms, that yew tree's shade,

Where heaves the turf in many a moldering heap,

Each in his narrow cell for ever laid,

The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep.

The breezy call of incense-breathing morn,

The swallow twittering from the straw-built shed,

The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn,

No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed.

I’ve just described my favorite place on Earth. If you go I wish you all the stillness of soul that inspired Thomas Gray . I wish you the mental balm that the church yard has brought me. I wish you many happy hours reading the weathered gravestones there.

If only death could be as peaceful as this but sitting there on your bench in the Yew tree's shade, You may well wonder: How could it possibly be?

The Perfect Day or how I sailed a 10kt wind and survived.

Saturday was a perfect day for sailing; my first of the season. I approached JudyToo with some trepidation, not having sailed her since last October. Sailing is similiar to flying. I felt like I was bobbing along as a vague, mystical figure in a Renoir painting. Wind northerly between 5 and 10 knots, temperature 76F. Perfect is such a definitive comparative. Maybe it s best described by not so perfect. Perfect in every way marked only except when it was not so perfect. Imperfect described by, I suppose, what I forgot. Like flying, sailing is uneventful most of the time when the product of good planning. Maybe I should write up a check list, just like pilots do. I forgot to put the rudder down. I forgot to check the main halyard lines un- tangled. I forgot to clear the jib downhaul line. I forgot the radio. Yes. Maybe I need a checklist. But most importantly the day was ultimately defined by what I didn't forget: the beer and cigars. Sails rigged, covers stowed, mooring lines tossed, I fired up the Tohatsu and tiller in hand began backing out of the slip. Before I figured out why the rudder wasn't responding we, JudyToo and I, were headed at a not a gentle speed toward the opposite slipped boats. Then the rudder hawser became tangled as I struggled to lower the rudder into the water, all the while the boat is headed, stern first, toward the inevitable collision with the opposing dock. "AHHH!" Motor to idle, forward gear and full throttle. Now, still with no rudder we are headed full throttle toward the forward dock. I hope no one was watching what must have appeared to be a maritime disaster just trying to get JudyToo out of the slip. If they had I wonder if they were scratching their chins wondering if they will ever see us again.
Hawser finally untangled and rudder down, we proceeded, JudyToo and frazzled skipper to the big water. Although light and variable, the wind was all over the place. I like to set the sails and sail the wind, wherever that takes me tither and yon. Yesterday that proved to be a busy busy process, only slightly complicated because I also forgot to lower her center board. I suppose if it wasn’t for all this, sailing would be boring. Still, I managed to get through two beers and a cigar.
There were about 4 other sail boats on the lake. I had sailed quite a bit down wind and being too bright to tell time by my iphone, watched for them to disappear. With their sails disappearing one by one and the sun well past its apogee, I spent another hour beating my way back up wind before giving up, stowing the sails waking up JudyToo’s six horses. By the time we returned to her slip it was 5:30. Like flying, a good approach for a good landing. With a north wind I approached at idle hugging the south side of the channel, then cut the motor about 100 feet from the slip and glided in pretty as you please. It was a pleasant change from trashing the dock with JudyToo's bow as on previous attempts. I gave her a much needed spring scrubbing atop decks, dressed her for beddie byes and got out of there at 6:30, very sore and aching for some beddie byes myself. I and every muscle in my body limped to the parking lot, hopped on the Goldwing and headed for the sack. What a great, unforgettable day.

Selling the Paki Whitehouse

Selling the Paki White House

Hassim! Can you come to my office in the morning. I have to talk to you.

Certainly Habibe. I will be there.

Hassim spent the night wondering what Habibe wanted. He had only sold one small house in a bad neighborhood since joining the firm. He hoped Habibe wasn’t going to fire him as he walked through the office door the following morning. 

Yes Hassim. We have to sell Osama’s hideout. We have been commissioned by the District Commissar of Highhanded Underhandedness to get rid of it. He says it’s an embarrassment to the government and he wants it gone at any price so do your best, but don’t come back here without a contract.

Holy Cow! Oh! Mea Culpa I didn’t mean to cuss. Looking around for any Hindus that may have over heard him. How am I going to sell Osama’s place?

Ok. List all the good parts.

High Walls. That’s good for privacy. And barbed wire for security. Maybe sell this to someone with lots of expensive toys to protect. Save on theft insurance.

Helicopter parts to salvage. Can help pay the mortgage or the electric bill.

Brains and blood smeared on the walls. Maybe a tourist angle here.

Ok. Got to go for a sign out front.

Hey. Something that will  suck in some Muslim traffic. I think I’ll hold an open house on Friday.

Maybe I can give a free kid away with each bonafide offer.

OSAMA BIN LADEN BUT NOT FORGATEN!

(free child with each bonafide offer over 20000 Shekels.)

Wish I had some video. Those Seals could have left a little something behind. They must have known we would have to sell this place after they vacated the principle tenant. Hey! I bet they left his jammies behind. Come to think of it. I wonder if there is any underwear left. Big ebay money for Osama underwear. That’s a selling point.

OSAMA SOCKS!  Still in good shape. Please wash in cold water before use. May contain bone fragments.

Ok. My first prospect.

Good morning Sahib. Would you like a tour of the Osama House? Yessir, this is the original house which was occupied by Osama till he got Obama’ed. Here is the blood smeared courtyard showing the original Seal boot tracks in the sand. Over there is a breech in the wall where the Seals blasted their way in. It is taylor made for a large gate for you to drive your armored Rolls in for parking. Lets go inside shall we?

On the ground floor there are multiple bullet holes in the walls. We decided to leave these for the discretion of the buyer to decide whether he wants to cover them up or video tape them and go for a spot on Youtube. Over here was where one of the couriers and his wife was shot. He ran out to greet them and they shot him. He was just  off his prayer rug when he heard something outside. He looked out the window and saw movement. Hey Honey! It’s the Seals. They are here finally. What in Heaven took them so long? She responded. We been cooped up here looking after that maniacs kids  for six years now. Lets go out side and greet them. Our conquering heroes. Praise Allah they are here. Lets run outside together and surrender our AK-47s. Good idea sweetness. They look like nice boys. Bring all the ammo too.

The staircase is next.  That’s where they shot Osama’s son. He heard the ruckus and ran down the stairs to plead for one last go at one of his sisters and they plugged him. Poor guy. He was only trying to reason with them. I think these Seals weren’t so reasonable. Anyway, what is left of him and his heated desires is smeared on the wall between the 4^th and 7^th steps.

Next we come to the room where they found Osama. It is rumored that one of the seals carried a little speaker live wired through satellite to the Obama Situation Room. I hear that the last words Osama heard was: Osama Baby! This is your Obama bin laden with ma hot lead for ya.

That Sahib, concludes the tour. You probably don’t want to see the toilet. It smells the same as the kitchen. Actually its vice-versa. Well, no sense seeing the kitchen either. Waddaya think? $40,000 Shecks and its yours. Just looking? Waddaya mean just looking. I got to dump this place and fast. How about $20,000. Ok. 10k and I’ll throw in the names of every one who knew he was here. Well, yes. That is half the population of Pakistan. Think how much you could make selling their names to the CIA.

Ok. 5000 and you get the Army Academy down the street. You can have them all. Sure. Your own military academy. They actually didn’t know Osama was here. That’s how dumb our military is. But you can have the whole lot for $4500. Ok. Sold. You Sir. Got a bargin.

Habibe. I sold the dump. Yeah! Some dumb American who wants us to leave it just as it is. We don’t have to touch a thing. He has a whole team of people who are going to be staying there for a while. Yes! Yes! He says he will also take the wives and kids. He wants the whole lot…and get this. He is paying $4500 Sheks! He could have bought the whole neighborhood for that.  Anyway. He paid cash and they are already all moved in. They showed up in a caravan of black Lincoln SUVs.  They have a lot of very fancy equipment with them that he says is for mixing baby formula and that is why he needs a high wall for security. What a deal. Dumb Americans!

Creature of Habit

Creature of Habit

by Chucky

Yogi Bera said it best and the same can be said of flying. “Ninety percent of baseball is mental. The other 50% is physical. In-flight emergencies must be addressed quickly and accurately. When a pilots mind is under severe pressure preparation and practice of procedure will serve him more than thinking. There isn’t time to think, as the following  personal missive illustrates.

In 1984, my job was a  routine midnight freight flight in a twin-engine plane from Southend, England to Brussels, Belgium and back. Normally, like all flights, everything went smoothly. This winter night I would earn my pay. Some would say it is a pilot's skill that enables him or her to cuddle the grandkids.  Skill? In the cockpit, skill can be defined by practice and mental preparation for in-flight procedures.

The flight from Southend to Brussels, after checking the weather, filing a flight plan, passing emigration (I held a British ATP, but a USA passport and therefore was not a member of the European Community which had transparent borders), and preflight and liftoff from Southend was uneventful. I banked East at 500’ AGL, preferring ditching in the icy waters of the Channel in case of engine failure to negotiating a landing in the cement of the city. The weather was CAVU. (Clear and Visibility Unrestricted).  Brussels Approach expected me and after the initial radio call gave me  the altimeter setting and handed me off to the tower. After landing, I parked the aircraft in the general aviation section, set the mixtures to rich because previous experience taught me that they would be frozen in place after sitting on the ramp for the hour it took TNT to unload the freight.

The flight back is the interesting part of this story. Checking the weather I learned that the temperature-dewpoint spread was within two degrees so after takeoff from Brussels I monitored the weather continuously, and by the time I was over Manston, it had dropped to within one degree. The temperature dewpoint spread is a good indication of fog. The winds being light and variable warned me that ground fog was inevitable if the two numbers met. It wouldn’t come gradually, but would appear in the snap of a finger. I’d seen it before but not from 6000 feet.

There are a number of alternatives to the possibility of not being able to land at the intended destination. Manston, directly below me was a giant airfield with Ground controlled Radar capable of talking me down in zero-zero weather till my wheels screeched on the runway pavement. At 4 am, Manston was closed.  GCA was developed by MIT in 1942 and was installed at 3 major aerodromes at the height of WWII, and still used for emergency backdoor 0/0  weather alternatives. They were Prestwick, Scotland, Lyneham, Wiltshire and Manston, Kent. Lyneham and Manston were closed and Prestwick was beyond fuel range for the  Cessna Titan 404.

From Manston my destination, South End, on the southeast coast of England was 120 miles distant. About 45 minutes flying time. Chances are that I wasn’t going to make it if the temp dewpoint closed any further.

Visibility was clear and unrestricted. I continued listening to the weather radio and watching twinkling lights from street lights and automobiles slide by my side window.

About 15 miles north of Manston twinkles were barely visible through the white, fuzzy cloth covering the ground. I made a radio call to Terminal Control, deciding that my best bet was Heathrow. By then the view ahead to the city of Southend showed a blanket of ground level fog. Although visibility through ground fog appeared acceptable looking down through it from above, landing in it was impossible. Looking down its only 50’ thick. Looking ahead its miles thick. Essentially zero visibility.

London Approach, gulf delta alpha foxtrot sierra ten miles north of Manston, altitude 6000 request vector to Heathrow for full stop landing. Heathrow was my alternate. Every IFR flight requires an alternate and 45 minutes of fuel left in the tanks upon landing.

Foxtrot Sierra, approach Heathrow is accepting Cat II approaches only due to 0/0 visibility, came the reply. Altimeter two niner niner two.

Although ILS (Instrument Landing System) was developed in years subsequent to GCA( Ground Controlled Approach),  ILS Cat II  required highly sophisticated electronics and specially trained pilots for a 0/0 landing. GCA merely required a number of practice approaches, which I  had, but useless still if the operators were home in bed; the normal procedure which, in the face of a true emergency, such as a pilot trapped over an impenetrable cloud deck with no available alternate,  they would be called out by Terminal Services.

I asked approach for suitable alternative airports.

London Approach responded that Calais was reporting cavu.

Calais, France is on the coast, a short hop back across the Channel.

I immediately  banked east and responded that I was descending to 5000’ and proceeding across the Channel to Calais. I pulled the approach plate from my flight bag. On the way over I did a routine scan of my instruments, checking heading, altitude, and the engine while setting a course.

Even though its cool in the cockpit, my brow beaded with nervous sweat from concentration and concern whether Calais will become socked in also before my arrival. I’m trueing out at 180 kts and can see the lights of Calais from over the Channel.  I estimate 13 minutes to cover the 40-mile flight. Halfway over the Channel I spy the airport strobe and alter course slightly straight for it.

Listening to the radio for weather on the Continent, the unemotional drone from the radio announces  dewpoint spread is closing.

I set up for a visual approach to 06 after crossing the runway and turning downwind, pull off some power for the decent and run through a mental checklist:  Brakes tapped, gear handle down, flaps set, power check, radios set, altimeter set, auxiliary fuel pumps on, mixtures rich, props, icing check.

I did a double check of my checklist in anticipation of turning final.  No greens! Three greens for the landing gear down are not lit. My mind races. I didn’t hear the gear noise. All three lights can’t be out.

The gear is still in its well. Three lights can’t be out by coincidence and they were lit before takeoff from Southend earlier.  No chance of abandoning the approach and troubleshooting it further for fear of the closing dewpoint temp spread. I turn final approach, the runway lights looming larger as I close on the threshold  I  decided to use emergency procedures and blow the gear down, but first, one more try and I once again cycled the gear. Nothing. No sound or vibration. I placed the gear handle in the down position. Nothing, waiting for the three greens: nothing. Right! Very little time left. The fingers on my left hand count the circuit breakers on the panel by my left elbow as practiced many times previously in anticipation of the situation in a dark cockpit. Three over and four back. Without looking, I pull the circuit breaker for the landing gear motor and Immediately reached for the red handle connecting a cable attached to a compressed air bottle in the nose if the aircraft.

 The compressed air from this bottle will blow the gear down. There is only one bottle. Double check: gear handle down and breaker pulled.

“Its now or never.” I am whispering to myself.

 Either way I am landing at Calais as my mind races by habit to the pilots creed: the most important two questions good pilots keep asking themselves: What if and what’s next?

So what if the bottle blows and still no three greens? With the strong possibility of ground fog and not wanting to take a chance I committed to landing, gear or no gear.

I will at least save the engines and shut them down and feather the props before touchdown. I will also shut off the fuel feed having already shutdown the engines by pulling the mixtures back to full lean. By this time, I’m no longer whispering.

I ran through the checklist items mentally, power off, feather props, mixtures lean, fuel valve off, magnetos off after close enough to make the runway, fly the airplane. The adrenalin is pumping as three green lights appear and crossing the runway threshold, ease the craft down to a smooth and uneventful landing. The buildings are dark so I taxi to a nearby ramp where other small aircraft are parked and secure the aircraft.

I find a phone and call a taxi, which drives me to a hotel. I will phone the office in the morning. Another flight where the end result was never in doubt. Whew!

Oh. Burst hydraulic line.

Unexplained absence

I had a dream of a lady I work with. She was absent from work one morning with no call in, which was quite unlike her.  Not a long dream. Just her standing by a launch pad in a space suit instead of being at her desk at KISD.  With Jacqueline its family first, then work. A few of the story lines refer to private jokes so this story is dedicated to her.

Unexplained Absence

By Chucky

Houston Galaxy one. We have a problem. We are leaking a fluid of some sort into the oxygen rebreather system. Haven’t determined exactly what it is or where it is coming from. We noticed a peculiar odor upon waking up this morning. We’ll keep you informed.

What does it smell like? Can you describe it by anything you have smelled before Galaxy One.

Negatory Houston. We are investigating and will get back to you.

Houston Galaxy One. This is beginning to smell like trouble. We haven’t much time before the atmosphere becomes infected with some serious pollution. If it’s a software problem you had better get Two Shoes up here fast. We don’t have onsite knowledge. She’s the only one who can fix it.

Ahh Roger that Galaxy One. We are in process of deploying the Asset. Since it is early on we may be able to reach her before she is on her way to get her kids off to school, vacation in Denton with her husband, personal business, work or any one of the myriad of her usual excuses. We’re dialing her now.

Hello, this is Jacqueline.                                                                                                                                                             

Two Shoes Houston here. We have a Galaxy One phase One high priority code red  emergency.

“Houston Two Shoes. Switching to encrypted mode. Wait one. ..Houston Two shoes on encrypted channel 3-4 How do you read?”

We read you five by Two Shoes. How us?

Houston Two Shoes reading you 5by. State the nature of the emergency.

We have an unknown software bug, possibly a worm that got through the filter, that has emerged on Galaxy One . It looks like it is manifesting itself in interfering with the O2 discombobulation Compressor Module.

Houston Twoshoes. That’s possibly a fault controlling the sewage gas overboard recombobulation 3rd state evacuator cycle. That is serious.

Twoshoes Houston. We need you up there for an immediate repair. They do not have anyone with knowledge on site.

Houston Twoshoes. I am currently on my way to deliver my kids to school and also planning a vacation with my Husband in Denton, Texas and then there is personal business I have to attend to. I’ll try to squeeze some…..

Twoshoes Houston. WE NEED YOU UP THERE ASAP. NONE OF YOUR USUAL LAME EXCUSES. THIS IS SERIOUS. THOSE GUYS ARE BREATHING SEWER GAS AND TIME IS LIMITED. IF YOU DON’T GET UP THERE AND SOON THERE WON’T BE ANYONE ALIVE TO RESCUE.

TWOSHOES. THIS IS GENERAL FLABBERGHAST. I WANT YOU TO DROP WHATEVER YOU ARE DOING AND PROCEED IMMEDIATELY TO FT. HOOD FOR IMMEDIATE TAKEOFF TO HOUSTON.

TWOSHOES…YOU READ ME!!?

Yessir. I read you. I will drop the kids off at the nearest bus stop and email my boss that I will be late for work. I hope I can get back in time for work. They get all nervous over there when I’m late for work. As a matter of fact when I’m not there…..

TWOSHOES FLABBERGHAST!! I DON’T CARE TO HEAR ABOUT YOUR SAD STORY AT KISD. WHAT I NEED IS YOU TO GET YOUR BUTT TO FT. HOOD AND FLYING YOUR T-38 TO HOUSTON ASAP!!! IS THAT CLEAR TWOSHOES?!!  

Twoshoes Houston again. Your aircraft is being preflighted and will be ready for departure when you arrive. WHICH I HOPE WILL BE SOON!!! We are preparing your rocket and spacesuit at this end to expedite your departure from Houston Pad 1 upon your arrival.

Roger Houston. I’m on my way. Eta 0812 I want to mention that I hope they can find a space suit that fits me.

“Ok kids I’m going to have to drop you off here. There’s a bus stop around here somewhere. Here is 3 dollars. Just ask around if you can’t find it.

“but Mom. How do we know what bus to catch? We don’t even know where the bus stop is.”

“Whatever! You’ll be ok. You two need to start growing up. The world is going socialist, Putin is in the Ukraine, The Pope is in front of Congress badmouthing capitalism , our astronauts are breathing sewer gas and you two are crying because you don’t know where the bus stop is. Let me tell you a thing about ..

Twoshoes Flabberghast. Are you there yet?

“Not yet General. I am finding it necessary to administer additional parenting to my kids because they don’t know how to catch a bus. I’m telling them how lucky they are to live in this great nation of ours and how ashamed they should be because our astronauts are breathing sewer gas and all they are worried about is finding their way to school. In addition I am also explaining that….”

TWOSHOES!! GET ON THAT PLANE!!

“Roger General. On my way.”

She slams the door and zooms off in the direction of Ft. Hood. In the rearview mirror her kids are making hand gestures and looking awkwardly around.

She speed dials her husband. “John. Go get the kids. They are wandering around somewhere downtown..No I have personal business of the kind we never talk about to attend to and ….no no. forget about the Denton vacation for a while. I haven’t got time right now. Ok. Yes. Spaghetti for dinner tonight. I’ll hit the grocers when I get back. No lets not talk about where I’m going right now…ok if you must know it’s about 350 miles away. Call you when I get back.

“I haven’t got time for this. What with dropping my kids off in a strange neighborhood, planning our Denton vacation, spaghetti for dinner, late for work.  Still..Ok. Refocus on the mission. Hope I can get back in time for the afternoon leg. Then shopping, plan for Denton, look for John and the kids.”

Upon pulling into her reserved parking space she sees her plane sitting on the ramp. Commanding General Eschelon 1 has the third space. General ‘Bomber’ Hankeyjammer, Special Presidential Envoy the second and the one closest to the ramp: simply named “TWOSHOES”.  ‘Who is Twoshoes’ is an occasional topic of conversation at upper level staff meetings. The answer: classified.

Habitually she grabbed her ‘dighty bag’ then hesitated, gave herself a resigned pre rehearsed eye roll and tossed it back toward the car as she ran toward the jet. “we’ve got the plane pre-flighted ma’mn and its all ready to go fueled for Houston. We’ve filed your flight plan. Here is your pressure suit. As soon as you are seated we’ll get the start cart plugged in for engine start on your signal. “

Climbing into the cockpit , the flight suit snagged on the canopy latch. She reached back and unhooked it. As the start cart began spinning up she hit the canopy switch and pulled on her helmet, plugged into the mic jack and pulled on her oxygen mask. She gave the thumbs up to the lineman and when the start cart light turned green she initiated start sequence. Master Switch on. The engine instruments came alive. She looked for oil pressure and N1 the rpm of the first stage compressor. When it indicated 40% she flipped  the ignitors on and heard their ‘tick tick tick…’ anticipating the familiar rumble of twin J79 engine ignition. After listening to automated airport information she dialed the ground frequency into her UHF and hand signaled the lineman to disconnect the power cart.

“Ft. Hood ground. T-38 9045 with bravo Hangar 2 taxi.”

“Ah roger 9045 taxi to the runup area , hold short for the 747 exiting the active”

“Ground niner zero four five cleared to taxi hold short for the 747”

She completed her runup and airframe flight control checks.

“Ft. Hood ground, niner zero four fife ready for takeoff”

“9045 ground contact tower 295.8.”

“Ft. Hood tower . T-38 9045 IFR Houston”

“9045 Tower you are cleared for immediate takeoff runway 30 , altimeter 2994, sqwak 4035, immediate right turn after departure heading 185 contact departure control 298.6.”

“Cleared for departure runway 30, altimeter 2994, sqwak 4035 immediate right turn heading 185 departure 2 niner eight point 8 9045. “

The aircraft accelerated down the runway with full power. After the right turn to 185 magnetic she dialed in the UHF frequency for departure control.

“Niner zero four five climb and maintain flight level 370. You are cleared to Houston Space Port direct”

The flight at 37000 feet was smooth. The ground moved almost motionless below her. She turned her attention to troubleshooting the software for the O2 reconbobulation module. She forced any distracting thoughts of her kids looking for a bus stop, her husbands Denton vacation, spaghetti shopping and additional personal business from her mind.

Fifty minutes later she contacted Houston Approach for landing. “Houston Approach T-38 9045 Angels 37 full stop Houston Space Port.

“Niner zero four fife Houston Approach good morning. Descend and maintain eight tousand  heading 175 hold at Charlie Foxtrot. Sqwak 4398 report the beacon outbound.

She reached for the throttles to begin her descent. The VSI needle swung to 3000 feet per minute. Upon reaching CF she made the turn and pressed the mic button on the top of her control stick.

“Houston Approach 9045 eight tousand beacon outbound.”

“Roger 9045 , altimeter 2998 expect runway 14 contact tower 276.4”

“Altimiter 2998, runway 14, tower 276.4, 9045”

Houston Space port tower T38 9045 CF outbound full stop .

“Ahh Roger 9045 you are cleared for the approach. Upon clearing the runway contact ground 334.7.”

Upon landing the ground crew rushed out to the aircraft. Put up the ladder and escorted her to the dressing area. Her frustration showed as she hesitated to unsnag her flight suit from the canopy latch.

“We are scheduled for rocket launch in 10 minutes”  As she suited up the faint sound in the main control room could be heard over the preflight briefing she was being given by the launch coordinator.  “T minus 9 minutes and counting. Launch on schedule.” As she climbed out of her flight suit and into her space suit. ”This flight suit is too large. They are all too large. I could stuff a pillow in here and still have room left over. It’s just too much flight suit. Even when I’m pulling Gs and it inflates I can barely feel it. I almost passed out on my last check ride. “

She finished the launch briefing on the elevator.

“Can’t you get me a smaller space suit? I feel like I’m swimming in this thing. I can hardly walk without tripping over myself, and this fishbowl helmet…I have to fix spaghetti tonight. Have you called my boss yet?”

“Oh yeah. Call your boss. Sure email the boss. When you arrive be sure to don the oxygen mask before entering the pressure hold Agent Twoshoes. No telling what the density of the cabin atmosphere is. We can’t get an accurate estimate from the crew. They’re starting to sound giddy on the radio. Sewer gas has a strange and unpredictable effect on people, especially astronauts who are used to breathing purified air, not like what we have to breathe down here. There are no cows in space.  “

“Ok but I have to get word to KISD and tell them I may not be in till after lunch.”

“No sweat Twoshoes.  Yeah sure. Email kisd. “

Twoshoes contacted Houston after launch and initiated procedure for docking with Galaxy One. The space station orbiting 350 miles above her.

“Be sure to email my boss” at KISD were her last words before she switched frequency and contacted the space station.

“Ok yeah sure email your boss at ..Where was that we were supposed to email?”

“Hey. Anyone seen Jacqueline? “

“Dunno, maybe she’s at a campus. It’s 9 o’clock and not here. She isn’t on the calendar. Ask Cynthia. Maybe she called in sick. “

No word. Maybe she is at the other Data Center. Is today her turn to be down there? No, we checked and she’s not there. This is strange. She usually emails us with about 10 pages worth of explanations why she is going to be 5 minutes late.

“WHERE IS JACQUELINE? People are calling. There are students that can’t log in. filter requests. Trouble tickets for server issues. The department heads having a fit and doesn’t know what to do. Where is she? We have to find out where she is. She’s not here. Its very odd she’s not here with 40 pages of explanation as to her being tardy and how she is going to make up the time. We have to know. There is no email, no phone call no nothing. Call the police and report her missing. She’s maybe lying in the road hit by a truck. Call the hospital and tell them to wheel her over here. Where is she? Ohh. What are we going to do? We are in a real jam here. Oh! Yes. Denton. Maybe she’s in Denton again. She has relatives in Denton. Maybe she’s at church. Hey Yeah. Church. Maybe she is on one of her all day Wednesday church sabbaticals. No she only does them on Sunday , Tuesday, Fridays Saturdays, her birthday, her husbands’ birthday, his Army discharge anniversary,  fourth of July week, spring break, Memorial and Labor Days.  Does anyone have her home phone? Send someone out to her place. Maybe she was touring her property and got lost.

The true identity of special agent Twoshoes was never revealed. Due to her unrelenting devotion to duty and ability to simply vanish at a moment’s notice the nations’s space program was reinitiated and we no longer had to beg rides from the Ruskies. All NASA records of her existence are sealed in the archives. Although forever anonymous, she will remain in our hearts simply as Agent Twoshoes ; The Top Secret American Space cadet who led two lives; never failed to report ‘Mission accomplished’ and whose spacesuits were always a little too large.