Transit and transiting across open spaces

During the Olympics in Vancouver this last February, the city came alive with a spirit of joy and fellowship, the likes of which I had never seen before. The streets in the center of the city were barricaded and pedestrians were free to mill about as they wished. I only managed to get right downtown once during the games, I like many, had no tickets to the venues but went down to just soak up the ambiance and a few suds. I went on the SkyTrain, the local rapid transit, with my brother-in-law. Once downtown we wandered a bit, stopped for a bite to eat and then headed over to the "Zip Line".

The Zip Line is a pair of cables stretched across an open park area, attached to a very high scaffolding on one side and a lower one on the the other side about 300 meters away. The objective is to hook yourself to one or the other of the cables with pulley and assume your mass, the pulley, the cable, gravity and the lower scaffold all align perfectly and you don't become a splatter at the base of the higher scaffold for jumping off it.

It is quite safe, and in spite of spending hours at altitude and even having taken a rock climbing course at the University, it was a little difficult to just walk off the edge of the tower.
Of course the other aspect was that there was normally about a 3-4 hour line up for this free activity, I wouldn't have waited and in fact due to the Bro-in-law having been High School buddies with the fellow managing the event, we got the "Rock Star" treatment: In the back door, waiver signed as two assistants help select and install the harness and helmut on each of us and then subtly insert us in the line at the base of the tower.

It was a gaaaaassssssss,

The other aspect of the Olympics was that they instituted a surcharge at the airport for the SkyTrain, a $5 surcharge, only if you boarded the transit at the first 3 stops nearest the Terminal building.
My company office is at the second stop and I had discovered it you purchased a book of tickets you didn't incur the surcharge, in fact the books give a discount over the regular fair.
The surcharge annoyed me and I made a point of telling everyone about the ticket books.
One evening, having been in the office to check for mail on a return trip from visiting Balloon Girl, I watched a fellow wearing the Olympic garb, vest, bandanna and hat approach the automated ticket kiosk for the SkyTrain. He looked at it and looked at it again. I asked "Are you buying ticket?" He kind of ignored me but not quite and I asked again. His reply was "Yes?" as if to ask why I was asking. I went into my spiel about how I thought it was a terrible idea to impose a surcharge and that it was going to cost him an extra $5 just to use the transit from the airport. He nodded and I then drug out my book of tickets and showed the price to him and said if he wished he could have one for what it cost me. He reached into his pocket and handed me 2 twonies ($4, the about the price of the tickets). We chatted a bit then he noticed my crew bag and asked what I did, I replied I was a pilot for XXX XXXXXXX and he nodded. I asked if he was a colleague, (seems that is the code around here to see if you also work for XXX XXXXXXXX). He replied in the affirmative and we chatted a bit more. After we were on the transit a while I asked where he was going and he said "for dinner with the boss, and and the money guys". I said "Huh?" and he smiled and said "YYY YYYYY (The president of the company) and the folks from ZZZZZZZZZZ ( a multinational finance and leasing corporation with large manufacturing interests), He re-introduced himself as HHHHHHHH ( a name I immediately recognized) the Executive VP of Human Resources.
I told him to give my regards to the gentlemen but due to my less than natty attire I would have to decline any invitations for dinner that night, he chuckled.

As we further chatted it was determined we would both be going to Sydney Australia on the same flight later in the month, he riding and me flying. So we agreed to meet and chat some more on the flight.

Unfortunately, that was the first flight I was scheduled for after my concussion, so I was unable to attend. We had exchanged business cards so as a courtesy and not really expecting a reply from an Executive VP on a social matter of this sort, I emailed him that I would be unable to work that flight due to the concussion suffered when playing hockey. His reply was long and sincere, I was pleased.

Now as I write, I have spent most of the day the last three days on the phone to Employee services trying to get out of the mess my file appears to be in. Long story short, no longer being paid as my extended sick pay is paid not by the company but by the insurance company and they don't seem to be able or willing to talk to each other and I apparently still need more forms filled out to get paid.

I thought I had gotten them all filled in weeks ago, but apparently not and instead of asking me for them the policy is to wait until I raise a fuss then tell me it's my fault for not completing the "Easter egg hunt, but we're not going to tell how many eggs there are or which park we hid them in" task.

I think I will be sending one more email today.

Take Care
AJ

Fatigue is tiring

I work night shift mostly, it seems that one should be able to sleep when you are tired but that doesn't seem to work for me.
My job is that of a long haul airline pilot. I try not to spread that around as most of my career people have wanted to hear about all the horror stories that I have and mostly it is a job that is really quite mundane, "Hours and hours of sheer boredom interrupted by moments of sheer terror" is the old gag line, it's not really true.

Statistically, the most dangerous part of my job is the ride to and from the airport. It is a great job and some of the other pilots, men and women, adapt well to the "overseas" flying, I don't. I enjoy the dynamic aspect of the job, thinking in 3 dimensions and considering energy management of planning the flight to optimize the efficiency of the several hundreds of thousand pounds (kilograms actually, we use metric measures now).

En route, the job becomes rather mundane, monitoring radios/ACARS(a fancy fax machine)/ checking the flight plan/ monitoring systems/ recording time and fuel at waypoints that are usually about 40-60 minutes apart/ interfacing with the cabin crew (since 9/11 we are no longer able to have "guests" on the flight deck, it used to be a real pleasure to have someone come up and ask the myriad of questions that they always had, or have a young person come up and show them the lights and controls that encompass us as we work).

On most airliners today, the crew requirement is for two pilots, on the long haul we operate with up to four. On a four crew operation we all are present on the flight deck (the term cockpit left the jargon many years ago) for the first part of the flight until we are established in the cruise portion and then again from the start of the initial descent from cruise until we complete the flight at the gate. The more eyes and ears the better.

During the cruise portion of the flight on the long haul flights we can take a break, two pilots are required to remain in the flight deck, except for short periods when one can leave for physiological reasons (pee break). The cruise time is divided into two or four breaks and we can leave the flight deck and have a "rest". The modern long haul aircraft are equipped with crew rest facilities. These range from a curtain around the business class seat, usually placed in the least desirable location in the cabin, next to the lavatory and the galley, as the revenue passengers don't care to be disturbed by the continual banging of the lav. door that vibrates the seats adjacent to them or the rattling and banging of the galley doors and equipment as the flight attendants (don't call them "stewardess/stewards unless you are willing to face the wrath of a large deity).

The flight attendants are generally great but there is an undercurrent of animosity that has permeated the work place, by only a few, but it is omnipresent, due to the jealousy of the facility and length of our breaks. On the longer flights you can find them in the economy seats or occasionally lying on a mound of blankets on the floor of the galley on some aircraft that are not on the very long haul, the longer haul aircraft do have cabin crew rest facilities with bunks.

The flight deck crew on the aircraft I am presently on (the very long haul/ultra long haul) is a modern wonder. The rest facility is ensconced in essentially the overhead bins, that may sound crazy but the aircraft is a single deck design but has enough room to place a small area for two seats (with entertainment systems just like the passengers) and two lay flat bunks separated by a petition but essentially two coffins with reading lights, side by side, no room to stand up but it is quite comfortable and the best part is that it is away from the banging doors and clattering trays and galley carts.

It sounds like a wonderful place to rest. It's not. The low frequency vibration of the craft keeps you in a continual state of tension even when you do get to sleep, your brain is saying "watch out, you might get tossed out of bed" by the subtle clues that are telling it you are not completely secure here and your muscles never relax completely, taught, waiting for that next jostle. The noise of the engines and believe it or not the wind noise across the skin of the ship is insidious, omnipresent and fatiguing, your ears never being more than a foot or so from the inner cabin wall.

Then you get to the hotel. The lay-overs in exotic destinations: Australia, Hong Kong, Shanghai, London, Frankfurt, What a dream job. The layovers are generally 24 hours as you take the next flight out the following day, just the exact wrong amount of time for a proper rest. You've worked the flight over, onboard crew rest aside, and arrive exhausted. If you sleep for 8 hours, you awaken to the local clock being early evening and have a 12-16 hour void to fill, usually in the downtown areas we stay not much to do at 2 am, and then you are ready for another sleep but its time to strap on the plane again and get to work. Consequently, the norm is to grab a short nap, 2-3 hours, and meet with the other crew members, usually just the "front end" as the days of crew fraternization are pretty much a thing of the past. You plan a long walk, got to get the kinks out from the up to 16 hour flight you came in on and a meal. Usually eating dinner at about 8 am body clock time, the legendary alcohol consumption of the past has pretty much ceased in the last decade, the consequences of the third beer, even after a good sleep still puts you in jeopardy of the zero tolerance for any blood alcohol measured by the random checks (and this is a good thing, incidentally you can have a small trace of blood alcohol from body generated sources due to some physical disorders and there have been pilots caught up by this very thing)

The subsequent sleep, after another long walk after a too big dinner/breakfast, is welcome respite. Usually for about 2-3 hours, then the body clock kicks in and says "it's 3 pm, what are you doing?" Your melatonin levels are out of whack because you have been chasing the sun all flight or walking around in the daylight in spite of it being night time at home.

You lay awake, now middle of the night at the destination but midday for your circadian rhythm desperately trying to rest for the next 10-16 hour flight, usually falling asleep minutes before the wake up call that starts the whole circadian jostle again, daylight induces the body to adjust to the local clock and then the night shift home again, arriving usually before noon, planned that way by the airline so the passengers can make ongoing connections to the final destination.

The drive home is usually the most dangerous activity I do. Tired and feeling ill usually, fatigue is insidious, your brain is in neutral and you are not really there. I usually can't sleep when I get in the door and if I do, it sets up the long night of not sleeping, then as you adjust to the home clock again, your brain stays behind.

I have found I mustn't use power tools or try anything requiring much concentration for at least two days after I am back. Golf handicaps soar, the drill usually doesn't stop until it is biting the flesh, well you get my drift.

I have been off work for a month now and am finally getting a full night's sleep, something which I haven't enjoyed for the most part of the last 6 years. It's refreshing to not have the fog of fatigue hanging over your every thought and deed.

I bid off the overseas last fall but will not be trained on the new to me, domestic airplane until at least this coming September, I had taken the overseas job to facilitate the balloon girl and having time to spend with her, she takes a lot out of you and I felt I had to be there for her, but being there fatigued, I couldn't do the other things I needed to do.

I am looking forward to returning to work as soon as I get the OK from the medical staff

(concussion see last paragraph)
http://breathingatsealevel.blogspot.com/2010/03/first-time-out-of-shoot.html

but do not look forward to the fatigue, September won't come soon enough for me.

Horses are cool

I got back to the condo late this afternoon from visiting the balloon girl, a one hour and forty minute flight away. It was nice and sunny there and it is mostly cloudy and cool here. We had a great time yesterday and today, both days she chose to go to the Mall and see the Sea Lion Show. Yesterday we sat in the "pay" bleachers, today dad cheaped out and we watched the show from the upper deck of the Mall in spite of her initial protests. She enjoyed the show just as much both days in the end and she always gets whoever is around to clap and smile. We took a flock of balloons (they fly away if not properly tethered, so must come in flocks) back to her apartment and I left some easter candies for tomorrow.

Tomorrow she starts back horse back riding. She has ridden horses for six or more years now, in the spring and in the fall. It is Therapeutic Riding and is the most wonderful thing in her world. Before she started the therapeutic riding we had tried everything to get to focus. She still is not interested in watching TV or playing games as such. We spent hours, two or three minutes at a time, sitting on the couch, bribing her with Smarties, at the doctor's or some other professional's direction, trying to get her to sit and focus on one thing.
I had taken her to places where they had pony rides and in spite of wanting to pet the horse and even indicating she wanted to ride, she always balked at the last minute, freezing up and not willing to get on the pony.

I would have bet a months pay that the therapeutic riding was not going to work but we had waited for several months to get to the top of the waiting list and were willing to try anything to get her to have an activity that she could participate in.

Well the people at the therapeutic riding were wonderful and couched her onto the horse and she rode the entire hour without so much as one protest. It is hard work sitting on a horse that long but she loved it and persisted.

She signs horse tens of time every day and when she isn't riding, I will often take her to the stable just to visit the horses and watch for a short time, anyone that might be riding in the indoor arena.

ASL sign for horse:



The horses are such kind animals and the staff and volunteers are the best!

Candles and Fear

Candles are not my favorite form of illumination, I prefer sunlight, moonlight, firelight (campfire), incandescent , fluorescent, LED, or dashboard lights, not necessarily in that order. The full moon is the very best light at times and I have thanked my stars for the clouds to peel away so the moon can illuminate the way, but any thing from half moon up is good, the crescents just don't have enough light to maneuver your way through the thunderheads I encounter at work.

Candles always evoke the memory of waking one morning with a terrible splitting headache, I was 16 so no, it was not a hangover. My sinuses seemed congested and the air had a smokey smell as it sometimes does when there are forest fires nearby.

I was late for school as was usually the case and had ran up to the kitchen only to grab a piece of toast and go, my mother told me I had a dirty face, she never usually commented on my grooming, I noticed some mascarra or something around her nostrils and said she had a dirty face too. I sported the short haircut of the Air Cadets and although admittedly a bit of a slob, did take pride in my appearance. I would usually hit the washroom again just before leaving for a quick wash and ensure my Air Cadet short hair was still in proper formation.(I was the Squadron Drill Sergeant. I often wondered if they had used me as a model for the drill sergeant in the movie "An Officer and a Gentleman", I doubt it).

About this time I noticed a black mark on the back of my hand,
I rubbed my irritated nose once again and another streak appeared. I went back to the washroom and looked in the mirror, the first visit I had thought the light was playing tricks on me and heavy shadows had appeared in my nostrils and just under my nose. Well now two distinct track of black lay across my lower face, just under my nose and I ran back to see if the black on my mothers face was the same. It was, and what it was was black soot, We looked around and noticed the entire house had a dull tone, on further inspection everything seemed ensconced in a very fine layer of black soot, only thick enough to dull the tone not obscure it. The walls, the drapes, the counters, the floor, the furniture it was all covered in soot.

Where could it have possibly come from. By now my sister was up and she had a dirty face too. The nostrils of all of us were as if someone in the night had colored the insides of each of our noses with a charcoal crayon and the little tell tale charcoal half moon under each nostril looked like a shadow in a very eerie way.
Last to rise was my father, he also sported the darkened nostrils and soon we were trying to determine where this mysterious soot had come from.

After an extensive search of the house, we found, in a basement room divided because it was too long otherwise, by a curtain and behind the curtain was my sisters hide away/quiet spot. Was my old bookcase, the kind with glass doors, hand made for one of my birthdays, sitting half burnt up and the remnants to candles that had sat directly on the wood shelves.

My sister had lit two candles to read by in her basement sanctum, had left them burning and forgot them. I don't carry a grudge on this at all just recalling the facts, as she was young and it was not on purpose, and thankfully no one perished.

I do like candles on a birthday cakes but the others never really soothe me. In fact open flames to a sailor or an aviator (I sail and fly) on a craft, are one of the few things that can evoke utter terror.

The Four Agreements

The Four Agreements


In the best selling book The Four Agreements don Miguel Ruiz gives four principles to practice in order to create love and happiness in your life. The Four Agreements are powerful in their simplicity. For those starting out on a personal growth path, following The Four Agreements and implementing them in your life can be an excellent practice. With practice these agreements become integrated into your being and every area of your life and become easy habits to keep.

Everything you do is based on agreements you have made. In these agreements you tell yourself who you are, what everyone else is, how to act, what is possible, and what is impossible. What you have agreed to believe creates what you experience. When these agreements come from fear, blocks and obstacles develop keeping you from realizing your greatest potential.

The Four Agreements are:

1. Be Impeccable with your Word: Speak with integrity. Say only what you mean. Avoid using the Word to speak against yourself or to gossip about others. Use the power of your Word in the direction of truth and love.

2. Don’t Take Anything Personally
Nothing others do is because of you. What others say and do is a projection of their own reality, their own dream. When you are immune to the opinions and actions of others, you won’t be the victim of needless suffering.

3. Don’t Make Assumptions
Find the courage to ask questions and to express what you really want. Communicate with others as clearly as you can to avoid misunderstandings, sadness and drama. With just this one agreement, you can completely transform your life.

4. Always Do Your Best
Your best is going to change from moment to moment; it will be different when you are healthy as opposed to sick. Under any circumstance, simply do your best, and you will avoid self-judgment, self-abuse, and regret.

The Four Agreements, by Don Miguel Ruiz, Amber-Allen Publishing, San Rafael, CA (1997)


>>>>
Simple as they sound the first is the most difficult for most people.

Take Care

Stress, distress and distraught in a joyous world

Feeling a little blue today, I told my lawyer I was "distraught" when I arrived to be served with the papers my soon to be ex filed for divorce. The divorce has been inevitable for quite some time, so that was not causing my funk. Driving to the appointment my doctor's secretary called. She advised me that I have an appointment with a neurologist, May 27th. It is due to my concussion, I had whacked myself on the head playing hockey (with a very good, new helmut on) as mentioned earlier. I was glad to hear that the doctor was concerned about my concussion enough to book me into a neurologist, I only had wished that she would have saved the news until I saw her at my next appointment on this coming Thursday and let me know what her concerns were and why a neurologist is involved. On the up side it looks like I will have lots of time for golfing, the neck is almost completely healed from the whiplash that also occurred, and fishing this spring.

My mechanic who sorted out my engine problem on my free car is a fisher and has invited me to come fishing with him. He was the one that I mentioned, had told me to expect an $836 bill for the fuel pump. As it turned out it was low fuel pressure caused not by a defective pump, but simply the filter in the fuel tank and at a minor cost we are up and running, new muffler, rear breaks and an oil change cost me about what I would have had to pay just for the parts if I were to do the job myself. Would have if I weren't on doctor's orders to cool my jets and had I had my tools. I'll get my tools and "stuff" soon, I am not as fatigued as much (the concussion) this week.

Took the balloon girl out Sunday, all day, for 8 1/2 hours. Usually I try to take her for about three or four hours, she is very fatiguing even when you are at 100%. The care giver manager had told me they were desperately short staffed this weekend and had asked if I could take K for an extended visit to help them out. K mom says K is "happy enough", I think she is the happiest person in the world. To spend time with her is a lesson in joyousness. To watch laugh and smile almost nonstop and to see her run and skip with the exuberance that is equal to none, it;s invigorating and tiring simultaneously. Mind you, one must always be on guard. She can be very demanding. If you are not attending to her as much as she thinks you should be, she will quickly reorient you to her perspective. She will grab me by the chin and turn my head so that I am looking at her. She will pinch, drawing blood, usually on the base of my thumb if she is distressed, she doesn't pull my hair, although sometimes tries, as I have maintained a crew cut length style for some years now, in self defense.

As happy as she is, usually by placing my hand over my mouth to cause my voice to mimic the reverberations of a PA address and stating in a circus ringmaster tone "Ladies and gentlemen, children of all ages; Seal lion fans and aficionados" elicits a jumping, skipping, smiling laugh that is an expression of the purest joy. We watch the seal lion show at the Mall several times a week, for several years now, usually from the mall second level, outside the paying grandstand (did I mention I was frugal in a previous post?) but recently we have indulged in bucking up for the grandstand seats. She is as fascinated each and every time as if it were the first time. She recognizes the music that indicates the show is about to begin, I didn't catch on to this for a while, wondering why she started clapping and laughing so hard, but finally, good old dad made the connection, they always play a particular piece just prior to the start.

She can be a handful, once when she was getting tired, l let her lag behind me about 10-15 feet, usually I keep her within arms length of me as she tends to reach out and touch everyone that passes by, but the mall was quiet that day a few months ago, and I was tired of having to motivated her every step. She usually keeps up and grabs my shirt or my watch to maintain contact (unless she is tethered with the balloon ribbon, of course) but this day she was tired and lagging behind. I can usually motivate her to keep up if I just walk ahead a bit and she runs to catch up, but this day she didn't seem to have the energy she normally enjoys, and I was becoming impatient. There appeared to be no one around, so I let her lag. I didn't notice the small elderly lady coming down the escalator as I passed it, the lady passed between K and I and too close to K for her comfort. I heard a squeal and looked back and to my horror saw that K had grabbed the lady's hair as she does when stressed and was pulling quite hard. The lady's daughter appeared on the scene about the time I got to the center of action and started yelling, which of course stressed K even more. K's developmental delay exhibits as being unable to understand negative commands, telling to not walk on the road evokes walking on the road and only if you tell her what you want her to do, "walk on the sidewalk K" does she follow instructions easily, also diverting her by telling her to do something else, rather than something with the undesirable act works as well.

The daughter yelling at K to "let go, let go, let go" was not having the desired effect, in fact it was causing her more stress and I couldn't explain to the people the situation. Fortunately, I finally wrested most of the hair out of K's hand, she did maintain a few strands as a momentary souvenir of the event; humble apologies and thankfully, a stressed but understanding lady and an extremely annoyed daughter let us on our way with no threats of litigation or other redress.

This type of event is rare but is always in the back of my mind when out with K, it is stressful and I probably over compensate by being protective and willing to be vocal to people that are rude and cut between us, usually because they are being inattentive to the father and daughter trying to maneuver hand in hand in a crowd, they being oblivious to the world around them.

No incidents Sunday, we saw the seal lion show, I didn't try to shop, K hates it when you shop, not enough attention to her, we hiked up and down the mall a couple of times, had lunch, watched the skaters at the rink and went on the kiddy train. She loves trains, big or small. The look on her face as we went through the UV lit tunnel withe fluorescent "creatures" was to behold, she has been on the train many time, I quit paying to go with her and go as an aid but really I enjoy it almost as much as she does. To watch the expressions on her face as we enter the darkened tunnel, its amazing. Total absolute emersion, nothing can distract her from staring at the vivid orang and blue and green "creatures" and when we leave the tunnel a laugh, as if to say that was scary but I liked it.

Man Bites Dog

One more before I get away to visit my balloon gal for the weekend, well actually I got a call from her care co-ordinator a couple of days ago. They are short staffed this weekend and need K to be cared for tomorrow. He assures me that they are hiring more staff but are in a short term bind right now and if I could take K for an extended time tomorrow it would greatly help. I'll catch the 0630 flight and be there by 10 am and keep her til 6 pm. I don't mind but usually I run out of steam after about 2-3 hours with her, it is intense but I love her a lot. I also really like the group of folks that are providing care to her now, fodder for another blog later. We will probably spend a lot of time just driving around tomorrow, it is one activity that K likes and is not too strenuous. Wish me luck.

"Man Bites Dog"

I was returning from Baker Lake in my Cessna 402, a twin engine, all weather, high speed aircraft (reminiscent of the old, old TV show "Sky King". This was one of the fleet we had based in Yellowknife that I flew when I was "furloughed" from the airline. Furlough is a euphemism for laid-off but seems much more palatable to the professional pilots and management of a big airline. I had gone to work for another charter operator in the Far North, this time I was living "North of 60" (the 60th parallel of latitude). It was the Arctic.

We had a covey (fleet) of several Cessna 185's, a Standard Beaver (piston engine), Turbo Beaver (turbo-prop engine), Twin Otter (large freight hauling twin engine turbo prop) and two "Twin Cessna's" like the on I was flying that day. All but the Twin Cessna's were on floats in the summer time and wheel skis for the rest of the year, there is only about four or five months of ice free water this far north.

I usually flew the Twin Cessna's and occaisonally the 185's because the 'freight walked on", not a nice way to say we mostly hauled passengers in these aircraft, the others were freight haulers and the pilot loaded and unloaded his own aircraft. I was the chief pilot so I got my pick as a rule.

Returning from dropping passengers in Baker Lake (the only fresh water Inuit community in the world, the rest are on the salt water shores of the Arctic Ocean), I had an empty airplane, cruising along the HF radio crackles and snarls as I check in about an hour out of home base, Norm the dispatcher is eager to hear from me as he has a "double up", that means we can catch another charter and everyone gets paid as though the trip was done both ways, legal and a normal but rare occurrence).

He had a passenger to pick up at a fishing lodge that just happened to have a strip that could accommodate the Twin Cessna. The trip had been planned with a 185 on floats but I was about ten minutes away from the lodge when I checked in on the radio and Norm had already figured it would save the 185 trip and hardly be out of my way.

I took the message and proceeded to the lodge strip, I flew low over the camp and waggled my wings, the fishers in camp waved and I flew over to the strip, about 3/4 mile up the hill, landed and waited, and waited and waited, obviously they had not realized I would be landing. This, not being a town, had no official meeting party I guess.

I decided after about half an hour to walk down to camp, have lunch (camps are famous for good lunches and feeding pilots). As I started the short trek I thought to myself - Bear country, best shuffle my feet a bit and whistle, just in case.

I had only got a few hundred feet, got to a blind corner and as I shuffled whistling, in the middle of the road (really just a path in the bush for the pick up, I came upon the the north end of a south bound bear, in the middle of the path and sniffing or eating something. I stopped and reached down to grab a rock, thinking if I threw the rock in the bush beside the bear he (bears are always he unless they have cubs) would be frightened and run off. Stop the presses! As my fingers touched the rock I remember never having read in any newspaper the headline "Man Mauls Bear". I stayed crouched and backed up around the corner and ran like a three year old back to my plane.

Fortunately, not long after I got to the plane, thinking I would have to buzz the camp again, a pick-up with three guides from the camp drove up, all with eyes as wide as saucers, they were an a garbage run to the dump spot with the camps garbage and didn't know I was there. hey saw me and stopped and one said "Did you see the bear" with more than a hint of terror in his voice, I said "Ya". I hopped in the back of the truck and we dumped the garbage at the far end of the strip, there because you don't want the garbage near camp- bears.
There was a bear carcass in the dump. I asked and they told me last week it had come to camp and started "raising hell" so it was shot.

We headed back to camp and as we approached the last turn for camp, a gun shot rang out, as we made the corner, there stood Jerry the camp manger, gun still smoking in hand and a dead bear about 20 feet away from him. He looked up at the pick-up and shaking his head said "The bugger charged at me". I recognized that bear.

Thank you Leonard Cohen.

"Hallelujah"

Now I've heard there was a secret chord
That David played, and it pleased the Lord
But you don't really care for music, do you?
It goes like this
The fourth, the fifth
The minor fall, the major lift
The baffled king composing Hallelujah
Hallelujah
Hallelujah
Hallelujah
Hallelujah

Your faith was strong but you needed proof
You saw her bathing on the roof
Her beauty and the moonlight overthrew you
She tied you
To a kitchen chair
She broke your throne, and she cut your hair
And from your lips she drew the Hallelujah

Baby I have been here before
I know this room, I've walked this floor
I used to live alone before I knew you.
I've seen your flag on the marble arch
Love is not a victory march
It's a cold and it's a broken Hallelujah

Hallelujah, Hallelujah
Hallelujah, Hallelujah

There was a time you let me know
What's really going on below
But now you never show it to me, do you?
And remember when I moved in you
The holy dove was moving too
And every breath we drew was Hallelujah

Hallelujah, Hallelujah
Hallelujah, Hallelujah

You say I took the name in vain
I don't even know the name
But if I did, well really, what's it to you?
There's a blaze of light
In every word
It doesn't matter which you heard
The holy or the broken Hallelujah

Hallelujah, Hallelujah
Hallelujah, Hallelujah

I did my best, it wasn't much
I couldn't feel, so I tried to touch
I've told the truth, I didn't come to fool you
And even though
It all went wrong
I'll stand before the Lord of Song
With nothing on my tongue but Hallelujah

Hallelujah, Hallelujah
Hallelujah, Hallelujah
Hallelujah, Hallelujah
Hallelujah, Hallelujah
Hallelujah, Hallelujah
Hallelujah, Hallelujah
Hallelujah, Hallelujah
Hallelujah, Hallelujah
Hallelujah

One of my long time favorite songs. I loved the LC live in London version but if the Jeff Buckley version doesn't move you nothing I know of will.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=y8AWFf7EAc4

It says it all!
Have a good weekend.

Home again, home again, 4-5-6

Yesterday, after I finished helping bro in-law with the install I left him with the clean up. I had finished the job of building several white boards and had enough of his attitude. He's a piece of work to work with but that's another story.

I diverted on my way home to drive by, to see if I could find some more memories, the house we moved to when we sold the store (see last post). I found it without too much effort, had tried once before but the impatient one wanted to just get to destination the last time we were close.

Drove past the house and then drove up to the school. It was a brand new school in 1965 and I had expectations of electric pencil sharpeners and all that James Bond technology of the sixties. Not to be had, we had manual pencil sharpeners, a same old black board (they were green but called "Black Boards"). If you got all your work done in class you got to clean the erasers at the end of the day and socialize with the teacher, an evangelical minister who was warm and charming. I loved cleaning the brushes and listening to his stories. We had lockers, full size ones and the best teacher I had ever had.

On Mondays I could never remember my combination to the padlock that guarded my coat and lunch. The smell would gag a maggot after a long weekend. Our intra-mural teams were named after automobiles, the muscle cars of the sixties. There were Mustangs, they always won and Barrcudas, I was a Stingray, a car I still pine for.

The neighborhood has grown up, filled in. The bush where I had built a fort is now houses, I had made my first hardware store purchase, a small bag of nails, to attach the hand cut trees to the carefully surveyed "corner post" trees and the hill where I first became airborne, on a toboggan, is now a not so steep back yard to a newer house.

Last night I went to a YMCA fund raiser, my friend the realtor invited me as she is member and on the fund raising committee, I was to meet her there but as is the case with real estate agents (my dad was one) she was busy. Not that it mattered, I suspected she'd be busy, I had talked to her on the phone earlier and she was doing the one armed paper hanger drill. I wandered around the gym where they had set up several booths, trade show style to display the programs they had. I stopped at each one and diligently filled out my "passport". If you completed the passport by answering each booth's question, you could enter the draw for an X-box game setup (I don't really need an X-box but hey, it was fun chatting at each stop).
At the fitness booth was a charming lady that took my vital statistics and when I stated my age said "that's a nice age", she commented that I was quite fit ( I need to lose a few pounds to get away from borderline "overweight" according to the chart she had for BMI indexes). We chatted and she said she works as a fitness trainer at the Y and come and see her in the workout area some time.

I think I'll start working out a bit more. At the Y.

Home again, home again, 1-2-3

I'm home. I really felt at home today standing in the rain, looking at the fir and cedar trees. I helped the bro in-law with some work he had today, he was installing portable white boards in a school about 5 miles from where I grew up. He and my sister run a small business that sells desks, chairs and library shelves etc. mainly to schools and institutions and we were assembling the cross between Ikea and Mechano Set white boards. Right up my alley, I can run the screw gun with the best of them and it is not to physical. I am still on low exertion orders for the concussion I mentioned a while back.

I took a break and wandered outside the school. As I stood there in the rain I remembered my childhood in that neck of the woods.

When I was three my parents bought a small corner store (way before 7/11). It was a General Store, it sold everything that you would find in the big grocery stores and had a meat counter to boot. We lived in the living quarters attached to the store so there was always a continuous flow of friends and mostly customers into the kitchen for coffee.

I often hid out in the living room just watching TV as I didn't want to hang around the continuous wheeling and dealing that seemed to always be going on. "We can pay for the groceries next week if you let us have some today", "Can we charge for the groceries because so and so broke his leg and can't work for six weeks". "You don't need the money, you have a store". It never seemed to end.

But that was home and we lived there until I was eleven so, I guess you could say my formative years, at least those that I remember. I drove past the store last week on an errand, stopped in and spoke to the clerk. The present owner had purchased the now convenience store about three years ago. The living quarters have been gone for years and the store is now as big as the store and house was when I lived there.


There are some houses I recognized near the store, most had been on huge lots, almost acreages, but are now surrounded by infills and condos. Very crowded now it was almost rural in the day.

I remember my first phone call home. A gaggle of kids (more than two) we were intently watching a telephone lineman climb the pole with belt and spurs ala (sp?) lumberjack with awe and fascination. He climbed down with a handset in his hand and asked if any of us knew our phone number. Of the gaggle, I was the only one that knew their number, we were pre-schoolers, pre-kindergartener myself. This was in the days before dial phones. Our number was 86L3, I still remember it (I also remember the address of the house we lived in as a smaller child, prior to the store, probably only because my mother answered the phone, as was the custom in those days with the house address: 918 West 20th. Now, where's my cell phone and keys?).

My mother answered the phone, "Newton Road General" that was the store, I said hello and I think she nearly fainted, phones were for adults only in those days, if I wanted to talk to a friend, I walked to their house, if it was important, like a birthday party or something, the parents spoke and relayed the message. She asked what was the problem and I told her I was let to use the phone by the telephone man. She didn't believe me until she came outside and saw the gaggle at the base of the telephone pole and the very kind and friendly lineman, that was a regular customer of the store about 200 feet from the door.

The clouds were low today but not too low and the rain was not too wet either. I stood under the cedar and just felt the air and the rain and the trees. I saw a telephone pole and remembered my first phone call. I was back home.

Reporting for duty times 2

I left my wife last month. Correction, I left my home last month. Correction. I was locked out of my house last month. Long story and suffice it to say that the previous post eludes to what happened.
My wife left me about 15 years ago, not herself just her soul. We stayed together mainly because of fear. Fear of what would happen if we were alone, fear of not having enough money, fear of change, fear of having to look after our handicapped daughter alone, fear of leaving the handicapped daughter with the other. It was the daughter the really kept me there, sorry honey not the sweat pants and housecoat that were so appealing, donned as soon as you were in for the day.

I am working through this with a great bunch of helpers, friends, family, professionals et al. I have learned I must work through my fears and woes rather than simply move on, to move on is to ignore, forget and dishonor my feelings. To work through is to grow and be healthy.

One aspect of this is to be kind to yourself, and in the past I thought it was kind to move on, apparently that is not true, forgetting the past and letting it heal buries a foreign object that exacerbates the scar, a scar that you carry for the rest of your life. To be kind to your self you must remove the offending object and then let the healing begin.

Last night I attended the Air Cadets near my condo. I drove up to the building situated in a corner of the park that has an arena, a theatre (for stage plays) and a building dedicated for the cadets. As I got out of my car I saw a woman officer arriving and presented my self to her.

"Captain" I called as she wore the two strips of the rank on her shoulders. She turned and I said "Good evening Ma'am, my name is 'AJ............" and I am here to volunteer for your program." I was intentionally formal as there were several cadets waiting to be let into the locked building.
She looked at me a moment and then relooked at me and said "AJ .............. , I'm P....... K....... , we worked together in Nanaimo". As soon as the words were out of her mouth the woman in front of me transformed into the teenager I recalled from when I was stationed as a reserve officer, instructing gliding and flying tow planes in the summer off from college. PK was one of the cadets hired to help as support staff, secretarial office work, so we had been stationed in Nanaimo together 34 (did I say that out loud) years ago.
Protocol be damned, I stepped over and gave her a big hug, we talked about Nanaimo and listed all the names we could remember, you know the drill when you meet an old acquaintance or school chum and go through the memory row.

She introduced me to the other officers and after taking my name and email said that they dearly needed more warm bodies to help and to expect the standard criminal background checks, the security check and the harrasement course,(I have it on authority that I have already qualified on that front, just saying) and because I said I liked camping with kids, previously a beaver/cub scout leader) I suspect they will be fast tracking my application.

To move on, one forgets the past and is likely to repeat it, to work through is to face the scalpel of the soul but is in the end the kindest cut.

Take Care

Dear Lizzy

March 24,2010
Dear Lizzy,

Thanks for the suggestion to write, it is quite therapeutic in a way.

AJ

Bush Pilot Day 1, part II

Getting the goods delivered to Ft Liard was the easy part. New slippers in hand I hopped in the trusty old 185 and fired her up. The 300 horsepower Continental engine tends to buck and snort for a moment or two then smooths out and purrs, well growls, like a kitten when running. I, being a new bush pilot and a recent flight instructor, was still doing a thorough walk around inspection including checking every fuel and oil cap and perusing for general condition before every flight. Normally a good inspection in the morning and a double check of any caps or lids or doors that have been moved, opened or used is the norm that is generally adopted, but I was brand new to this gig.

I taxied out and having a light aircraft, no passengers or freight, I decided to thrill myself with a high performance short field take off and use the obstacle clearance maneuver to gain height as quickly as possible to clear an imaginary obstacle, just for practice. The performance of the 185 is stunning when light and I was quickly airborne and in a very high rate climb when splat. The windshield became opaque, I didn't know what it was at first but quickly realized it was engine oil covering the left side of the forward windscreen. Without oil an engine will seize up and that is not only dangerous but very, very expensive.

I quickly realized my only hope, as I throttled back and lowered the nose to level off from my high performance climb was to return to Ft Liard, I leveled off and checked the oil pressure, there was enough oil still left to maintain pressure but it wouldn't last long at the rate it was streaming onto the window. I saw that the right side of the front window was clear and decided that since I had been an instructor and flown many hours from the right side while instructing that I would just slide over to the other seat and plan an uneventful landing. I had just been checked out in this particular aircraft by another pilot and he had flown the aircraft from that side for a short time during the checkout. The rudder pedals had been stowed on the right side to accommodate the passenger I had just dropped off so I unbuckled and reached down to engage them, a little tricky in flight but I managed alright then I got ready to jump over to the other seat, sifted my butt and reached for the right side control column. It wasn't there! During the short time between my check out and the first trip the mechanics had removed the right side control column and I had not even noticed it was gone. I was embarrassed at my lack of attention to that fact as I had flown the aircraft for the entire trip to Ft Liard without it and hadn't even noticed. Sheesh, what a dunder head.

I re-buckled my seatbelt and realized I would now have to land looking out the side window as my only reference in a relatively new to me aircraft. The landing was uneventful actually, not my best to date, but close to it. I stopped at the loading ramp used previously and sat and waited for a short while expecting the official meeting party to show up. No one showed, I guess they didn't expect my return and thought the aircraft noise was from my departure.

I had no idea that the town lied just a few hundred feet further than I could see from the 200 or 300 feet I had walked down the road as it is hidden by a drop down to the river from the direction I had flown in on and I was a little embarrassed by my having to return, caused by a loose oil cap that had allowed the engine oil to leak out, undoubtably exacerbated by my high performance takeoff, the cap had completely come off.

I thought I could simply re-install it, add a quart or two of the extra oil that was onboard and leave. The gasket that held the cap secure by friction was missing and the cap, although it would go on, obviously would not stay put without the gasket.

I dug into the survival kit we carried onboard and found nothing of any use as a gasket and the only tools per se were the camping cutlery that so neatly fits together on a keyhole type fastener. I wondered around looking for something to fabricate a gasket with and finally at the end of the loading ramp, half buried in the dirt found a single leather work glove filthy from lying there for some time. I grabbed the cutlery set and choose the knife, with a poorly serrated edge, it really didn't cut the leather of the glove but only helped to tear it into a new gasket.

Oil cap installed with the hand fashioned gasket, the flight back to base was uneventful.

I told the mechanic to replace the gasket on the oil cap after I had taken the glove remanent, that mostly looked like the palm half of a glove and hung it, unannounced on the company bulletin board. Told a few friends of my story but rarely said much about the half a glove pinned to the cork board and insisted that it stay there whenever anyone tried to take it down.

I bought a Swiss Army Knife with a toothpick the next time I was in town.

Bush pilot Day 1

This morning real early my feet were cold sitting at the computer so I went to get my slippers, it was far too early to get dressed. They're the old moose hide low cut, front beaded, fur trimmed ones that anyone going to souvenir shop, at least in western Canada, has seen a million times hanging on the wall. Mine didn't come from the souvenir shop, I didn't pay retail for them at all. In fact I got them for free (if there seems to be a theme on my blog so far, yes I'm thrifty, sometimes some calls me cheap, but I prefer thrifty or economical, or prudent or frugal but not cheap, that's something that falls apart too readily or doesn't get the job done, like a cheap tool that breaks before the job is done).

My first real flying job, after instructing flying, was as a bush pilot in the Canadian north, well it didn't seem too far north to me at the time as I had gone to high school about 200 miles south of there, as the crow flies, but it did take me into the North West Territories on a regular basis. Fort Nelson was a gas stop on the Al-Can (Alaska Highway) that had turned into a small hub of transportation, planes, trains and automobiles. An old WW2 hangar stood at the east end of the airfield as tribute to the many who had passed through town by air en-route to defend Alaska and the northern Pacific operations, the Pacific Great Eastern Railway was end lined at Fort Nelson and of course the famous highway, Ft Nelson being "Mile 300".

I landed, not literally, in Fort Nelson as a flight instructor for a small flying school and had a wonderful summer teaching students and meeting a couple of old high school buddies who were in town as well, it didn't feel too removed from where I had lived just a few years back.

In fact, my best buddy from first year college, he took a year off the two year aviation program for personal reasons, had gotten a plumb job (not instructing) at the local charter operator, flying as co-pilot on the most incredible aircraft you are likely to see, a Britten-Norman TRIslander,(http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Britten-Norman_Trislander)

I lived in the aforementioned hangar, it had a small living quarters, suited me fine for the summer, and I had a couple of neighbors. The mechanics for the charter operator had a similar living quarters on the other side of the hangar.

I instructed a fellow, R., that owned a logging operation out of town and the reason he wanted to learn to fly was so he could come and go as he pleased from camp instead of waiting for the charter plane to come and get him.

He was quite successful in his logging but found aviation a bit too much of a challenge, about half way through his flying lessons he decided that I should become his personal pilot and he would buy a larger (he already had purchased a fairly new two seater) "brand new" Cessna 185. Expensive airplane!! He decided that although he could fly, it was a lot more involved than he had thought and business was business and his was good. I didn't commit to being his pilot, the thought of spending all that time in camp waiting for him didn't seem my cup of tea and the romance of flying the bigger twin engined aircraft was still in my dreams.

The new aircraft arrived directly from the factory in Wichita and I was assigned to take delivery as R. was down south that week on business. It was shiny and new and perfect and red and white, and the factory pilot took me for the obligatory test flight and check out on the new plane before he turned the keys over and hopped on the 737 "southbound".

Here's where my college buddy comes in. We decided, as R. had said to get used to the plane and "fly it around a lot" while he was away, where the logging camp he has, is located by an old WW2 emergency landing strip and it is not paved, it's not even really gravel and it's really just a track on the high ground of the muskeg of northern BC.

Buddy and I decide it would be a great trip to go the Trout Lake, (never heard that name for a lake before) and go fishing one evening, get some off pavement landings in on the gravel strip and do some lake trout fishing. We took his uncle and set off. Arrived in Trout Lake to be met by the official meeting party of any aircraft that lands on the strip. This included all the kids in town, most of the men, some of the women and of course the mayor (who sells fishing licenses, fortunately for us) and the single RCMP constable stationed there.

We got our fishing licenses and rented a boat (the mayor gave us a deal and only sold us two fishing licenses for the three us as we were renting a boat off his son, single day fishing license were a bargain, one dollar less than the annual license. Due to the lack of official forms the annual ones were not available and single day licenses did not require any paperwork, hmmm?) In about an hour and a half we returned to the dock with a boat load of fish In those days there was fairly large limit on lake trout, lets say 6 a day per person and at that time no limit on northern pike, we call them Jackfish or "gators", they are bottom feeders, have a flattened mouth, hence the "gator" nick name and at the risk of offending every fisher south of 55 degrees latitude, are considered terrible to eat, far too boney and the flavor is flat. We had so many fish I couldn't believe it, this was before I had ever heard of catch and release and barbless hooks, so we gave almost all the "gators" to the locals, they said they wouldn't eat it but it would be good dog food for the quintessential dog pack that roams most northern communities. They are not pets but cared for by everyone in town because they keep the predators, bears and wolves, away,

We loaded the plane and headed back home, en-route my college buddy lamented that he was not happy as a co-pilot on the Trislander, that he didn't get along with the boss and he was planning on moving on. I told him about the job for R. and he seemed to perk up, it would be a good fit for him as his family was in the logging business down south and he enjoyed camps and logging.

Karma. Within in a couple of days college buddy is asked if he would like to be promoted to pilot on the Cessna 185 which the charter operator had several of and he said yes. Then we sat down and had the famous beer, when all was said and done, and by totally mutual agreement, we had swapped 185 jobs. He worked for R. flying into camp and loving it and I had quit instructing and hired on at the charter operator as the new 185 bush pilot. Joe Walsh had a song out about then called "Life's Good to Me So Far", the lyrics ("My Maserati does 185") were always blaring from my eight track whenever I drove to town, (still living in the hangar).

The big day. My first day as a bush pilot. I am checked out again on the 185, by the company pilot for insurance reasons and assigned a trip to Ft Liard, about 50 mile east of Trout Lake nestled in the corner of BC, Yukon and the NWT. It is a private charter to haul groceries and an older couple of locals home after a shopping trip in Ft Nelson. I carefully load the boxes, keeping track of the weight and balance- it's really important for airplanes to be properly balanced and not to exceed the max weight. As I recall the trip is right around an hour each way in the 185, about half way the older gent beside me (probably younger than I am now, but it is a hard life in the small northern communities) turns to me and says in heavily accented english-"Pilot, you leave the box with the liquor in it in the plane until the RCMP go away."

I was choked, my first trip as a bush pilot and I would be going to jail for taking liquor into a dry town, what to do? I called my dispatcher on the HF radio, a long range radio that cracks and hisses from the airplane and asked what the deal was and he said that the down was not dry and that it was normal ops. to just drop off what we had and it would be fine. I was still concerned but hey, they are adults and I was not the moral police.

We landed in Ft Liard and the same type of meeting party greeted our arrival as had happened in Trout Lake, almost everyone is interested in who is coming in to town when a plane lands at the strip just on the edge of town. Dogs, kids, adults and of course the local constable were all present as we taxied up to the loading ramp. I was greeted by the constable, he said he had never seen me before and I told him this was my first trip to Ft Liard, I didn't tell him this was my very first trip as a bush pilot but the shine on my new boots and coat probably gave me away.
I unloaded all but one box, it had two bottles of whiskey and some cereal in it, the rest was loaded in the back of a pick-up and as quickly as they had appeared, every one disappeared.
I hung around and waited about 15 minutes the cautiously unloaded the box of, not really, contraband.

I set the box by a shed and headed back to the aircraft. From out of the bush came the passenger running towards me waving, his wife running behind carrying an old beaten up cardboard suitcase held closed with an old leather belt. I was quite concerned and only stopped when I got to the plane inspite of his hollering and waving at me. He approached me, I didn't know what was going to happen next. He said something to his wife in the local native dialect and she threw the suitcase on the ground and opened it up, pulled out a furry brown thing and gave it to him, he passed it to me and said "Thank you pilot" and they turned and left, nothing esle being said.

The brown item was a handmade pair of moose hide slippers, beaded and trimmed in fur. The smell of the tanning was overpowering, (it took a whole winter on the porch before I was allowed to bring them into the trailer I shared with my new girlfriend, I was "evicted" from the hangar as it was being reno'd by the owner shortly after I got this new job and fortunately the new girl friend was keen on having me stay at her trailer, well except for my slippers).

So that is how I got my slippers that I am wearing this morning, they no longer smell but I often am reminded of my first trip as a bush pilot when I put them on and the return trip from Ft Liard was even more exciting, but I will save that for latter.

Fuel Pumps and an Orange Balloon

Well, back to the fuel pump, for a moment anyhow.

I was chatting with a co-worker, W., a month or so ago, and he was complaining that the fellow he was trying to sell an old car for $500 bucks to was grinding him down on the price. I asked if it ran and W. said it did and had $300 worth of new tires he had just put on. I said if it ran I'd buy it for $500 bucks as I was needing a car for the crash pad/cottage/second residence (another long story I'll get to sometime). As we both on our way to work, he said to give him call when I got back in town and he'd show me the car. I said OK, and oh what kind of car is it? 1986 Mercedes Benz E300 was his reply. Well this floored me because I am particularly fond of older German cars, ( got two already and my second favorite vehicle I ever owned was a 1984 Westfalia).

Upon return, I called W. and he said he would bring the car by as he had errands out my way and I could take it for a test drive. It is sky blue and except for a rather large dent in the rear passenger side door, reminiscent of the dent my daughter put in her car in turning into a pillar in the underground parking lot, seemed to be in excellent condition.
We hopped in the car and went to run the errand. Apparently the car was well maintained, yadda, yadda, but had recently been stalling out during the warm up. Probably an electronics issue was both W.'s and my "educated" guess and he had in fact located a chap who had the suspect part, that was the errand.

We arrived at the address to find a modest house with a large garage behind it and the driveway and parking pad full of similair vintage Mercedes in various states of dismemberment. The chap was parting out old Mercedes. We chatted for a while, turns out he was a lay minister for a minority group and had become too busy to keep up the "auto parts" business and was trying to get rid of the stuff. We talked about the stalling problem of the blue car and he said he had other parts as well if needed just let him know and he'd take it off one the several donor cars he had.

We decided to try just the one part that we had thought was the problem and installed it as we chatted, the car seemed fine, but it was an intermittent problem, so you never know. As the car idled away, the chap went to one of the other cars and grabbed something out the inside and then proceeded to install the small center hub caps which had been missing on the blue car, he said "you might as well have them". $20 bucks for the electronic part that W. said the chap had listed for 80 on the internet add and free hub caps. Sweet.

Car ran fine, we drove back to W.'s to consumate the $500 sale, as the car was registered in his wife's name and would have to sign the transfer. She was home when we got there and although we all work at the same place, I had not met her before, W had been a friend for a while, but only at work. W. told her I was going to buy the car and she began what seemed like a job interview for the mechanic's pool; asked if I had any "experience" with cars and what I was going to do with it and if I was going to keep it in good shape. I told her about my passion for automobiles and how I had recently rebuilt an engine for my '69 Porsche 912 and about my other car (later).
She seemed to nod, not seeming too impressed, and told me the blue car had been in the family since it was "two" (years old) and that her parents had gotten the car from friend's a the consulate and her father had polished it almost every Sunday until they had given it to her a few years ago.
She then turned to W. and said "I want 'AJ' to have the car". W. nodded and I took out the wad of cash ($500) to complete the deal. She said "NO. I want him to have the car, no money". I was stunned, I think W. was too a little. That's how I wound up with a $500 car for free.

It ran fine for about a month but the stalling did start up again this last week and I took in to a mechanic that I had met through a good friend and the mechanic diagnosed the problem. Fuel pump, no biggey, let's just get a new one. Oops. Mercedes Benz. New pump from MB $1800. Mechanic says he'll look around, ( I'm not stuck as I have my white car to drive) and he finds a used one for $836. A bit steep, but considering what I paid for the car, I am happy to say I would have happily paid the $1800 for the fine blue car and when it is all done, would have spent twice that for an old car just to keep from driving my white car (1997 BMW 850, V12 engine, 39000 original miles, a bit of a collector car) around town too much.

Oh and did I mention, the dented door, as we walked out to leave W. goes up to the attic in his three car garage (with a car hoist) and brings down a replacement door in perfect condition, "you need to get it painted" it was white.

Yesterday I visited my daughter, she loves to go to the mall. Lot's of activities and lots of people to shake hands with. She is nearly 18 but severley handicapped. She can hear but can't speak and uses ASL to express herself. She functions at about a 2-4 year old level depending on the skill. She loves people but becomes very anxious at times. She pinches and pulls hair and will even head-butt when she is stressed. She live on her own now, well actually, she lives in her own apartment with full time staff. I now visit her on the weekends as much as possible.
We had gone to mall the weekend before and had a good visit, the mall had been extremely packed last weekend and there seemed like no room the move at times.
This week we returned to the mall and found it was far less busy. Our routine consists of getting a balloon, the staff at the Party store all know my daugter and often offer her a free balloon, but I always try to get her to pay and get change for the .53 cent helium filled orange (she almost always signs orange and picks an orange balloon from the bulk box) balloon. I have found that if I just tie the balloon to he wrist that it becomes liberated within minutes, I believe K. is a charter member of the Free the Balloons Society, it never bothers her to see the orange orb grow smaller and the string slip out of reach, she enjoys the anticipation and the event of the purchase, once that is done she cares little for the object.
I have found it if I get a really long ribbon, really long, I can tie a loop for her in the middle and then tie a loop on the end for me, I am bothered by orange orbs growing smaller I guess. The added bonus is that K. gains a new found confidence when tethered with the balloon ribbon, she normally sticks like glue, mostly holding my hand as we walk, tugging at clothes if I let go and grabbing my chin to turn my head so as to look at her signing if I am not attending properly, in her opinion.
But with the ribbon tether she will let go and start to run taking up the 3 feet of slack and seems to have a sense of confidence that is not present unless she is holding your hand.

Last weekend we couldn't run, the mall was that packed, this week we ran, she loves to run and laughs and runs and signs where she is running to in the mall.
I mentioned in an earlier post I had gotten a concussion. Dr's orders for the last two weeks- no aerobics, exercise etc, getting Physio for the sore neck as well. Friday the Dr said it was OK to start some moderate cardio, but to listen to your body and be careful.

Running with K. was fun, but then it hit me, a little too much and bang I was done, fortunately my soon to be ex came to the rescue. I called her as I sat and tried to get some lunch into K. but she had become both bored and anxious, she's very preceptive of people's feelings and if your sick, her reaction seems to be fear driven and she will pinch, scratch and or head-butt you, it must be some sort of fear driven reaction in her (?). With a bump on my head and bloody ear (K grabs my rather large ears and digs her nails in rather than pulling my hair, as I have a crew cut essentially, I had to leave them at the mall.

Just got back from the mechanic's shop. Not good news. the new to me car I almost bought is going to cost $836 for a used fuel pump, the muffler is another couple of hundred including labour.

I love mechanical things, my first job out of high school was as an apprentice aircraft engineer. The year I learned to fly was the summer after grade 10, I hadn't really planned it that way, it just kind of came upon me.
Air Cadets offered many courses, called scholarships, in the summer some two weeks, some up to six week, I had my eyes set on the mechanically involved, six week Airframes and Aero engines course. My commanding officer suggested that if I was going to travel to the interviews, a ten hour car ride, that I should apply for some other courses in case I missed out on my first choice and "It will look good for the interviews". Interviews seemed to go well and I awaited for the final night of the year (September to June) to be presented my scholarship. Well, when my name was announced at the squadron parade to march up and receive my scholarship, much to my horror I opened the envelope to find a note and an elastic band, the note congratulated me for being awarded the Air Cadet Glider Pilot Scholarship and the elastic had been attached with the written comment "In case of power failure wind this up". A bit of shock but hey I was only 16 and summer away from home was always fun.
Not too confidently, I set off to become a glider pilot. The previous summer at Cadet Camp I had actually tried out for the swim team (and made it and I don't love swimming) to avoid the roller coaster ride of the gliders being launched by a huge winch, hurtling the glider and occupants nearly straight up 600 feet. I hate roller coasters and this was not my cup of tea.

I was the second last of a class of 10 to go "solo", the marker we seemed to use to judge ourselves as good pilots. I had been through two different instructors and finally the head instructor took me out and I think I got my first decent lesson. I soloed and loved the sky. I would stall the glider and make it point at the ground, turn tight and steep turns, the G-force pinning me to the seat, my face pulled tight and my hands, on the controls, weighing double their normal weight.
I thought little of it when I got home as we lived in a remote community and gliding was not something that could be done there.
My father came to me one day asked if I cared to join him and some others to go to the Air Cadet meeting near where I learned to glide, (the ten hour car ride) and I said "No thanks" . He said too bad because we are leaving on Friday, he knew I would jump at any excuse to miss a day of school and he was right.
There were meetings for the Air Cadet Parents and Executive during the day and that night was to be a "Mess Dinner" requiring special white shirts and bow ties for the Air Cadets and the finest Mess Dress for Officers and adults.

Well, boys being boys, a couple of us got into town during the day obtained a case of beer for after the festivities, the cadets were being billeted in the barracks, the adults in the Officer's quarters on the base.

Just as I was adjusting my bow tie, I received a message to report immediately to the Officer's Mess, a place strictly out of bounds for cadets, my commanding officer wanted to see me alone. The jig was up, I was about to be court martialled for the beer and I had only chipped in a couple of bucks and the older guy had bought it.
I nervously presented myself to the Officers Mess and asked for my CO. I was told to "Wait right there!" by the duty NCO and soon saw my father and the CO coming towards me. I stood a perfect attention expecting a world of grief. My CO, a British veteran, (my dad was a paratrooper during the war), called my last name as he always did, and said "I guess you'll be making a speech tonight, we've got spot for you at the head table and by the way; Congratulations on being the top Air Cadet Glider Pilot in Canada this year."
I sat at the head table and listened intently to every speaker trying to gleen what had to be said as an introduction, I finally decided to go with "Ladies and gentlemen, Officers, cadets and honored guests."


Well as I mentally rehearsed this bit I watched as the table of trophys and plaques seemed to evaporated into smaller and smaller awards, my name wasn't being called and I was saddened by the lack of hardware and relieved as I had no speech or notes or anything other than my introduction entering my stage frightened tiny mind (for you Eve).
Then two older cadets arrived with a crate, really a crate, it was 2 1/2 by 2 1/2 by 1 feet, solid plywood, they unscrewed the lid and took out a trophy that stood almost 2 feet tall. I looked at that and thought wouldn't that be cool if... and then they carefully lifted a miniature stainless steal glider from the crate and attached it to the top of the Trophy.\
My speech including the introduction was short, I said "Ladies and gentlemen, Officers, cadets and honored guests. I'm speechless." That was all I could muster, but the applause was deafening,

Well that's how I got started with flying, meanwhile mechanics has been another true love and I will tell more about my 500 dollar car and 836 dollar fuel pump next blog.
Take care

First Time Out of the Shoot

Hi all,
Just getting started with this blogging. My soon to be ex has done this for years and found it quite cathartic so I thought I would give it a go.
A little boredom and a lot of loneliness and here I am.
Not to be too remorseful, had a great day today. One of my neighbors is a real doll and I have taken up a true friendship with her. She is a Realtor and and is a loud (I'm hard of hearing due to years of occupational noisy environments) and a lovely soul. I have told her and she agrees, that we are truly friends and no sex. She has three "booty calls" and I am recently (well actually that's a long story and fodder for another night) separated.

She stood me up last night, I was invited for dinner with her and a couple of other people, but they had to sort out some business first. Well about half an hour after the time she said they would eat and she had said she would call when done the business discussion, I called and she said she would call back, she never called back.

This morning she called and said sorry for not calling, she had got incredibly busy with all that Realtor shit that happens when a deal goes south. I told her I was mad at her, she asked if I would like to go to the Y for a steam (not co-ed) and I said yes. I love relationships that you can be pissed at someone, tell them and then move on. Holding a grudge only works against you.

She picked me up in her vehicle and said she had a couple of errands.

Yesterday before dinner she had hired a kid and had sent her down, at my request, to do some house cleaning, I usually do it myself but my friend was trying to help a friend of hers that's having a rough time, get her kid to do something besides hang at the mall.

So today when we were doing the errands, Friend says to me "Go grab some flowers ($5) and we'll give them to "the kids" mom. \

I grabbed the flowers and we headed for the office where the mom works. When we got there Friend says: take them in and just give them to her and don't mention my name. I walked in to the office with the flowers and lied to her, I said "I saw you in the window and I saw the flowers and I had to get them for you, my name is AJ and I'll see you again." and left. The smile on her face was as bright as the sun. forgive me for my lie.

I am on sick leave right now. Well actually tomorrow I transition to long term disability, it's been a month now since I fell skating, well actually, I hit my head and got a concussion, twice. The first time was with the kids, playing shinney (make up hockey) and the second time was with the full on gear on. Had a helmut on both times. First one was just a ringing in my ears after I flopped down backwards to not fall on a kid when I lost my balance and the second was a hard cut, too close to the boards to follow the play the other way. Was joining the local firefighters recreational game and thankfully I didn't loose conciousness or the bas___ds would have given me mouth to mouth. Limped off under my own power, slowly, and in my best Don Cherry voice said I was "doing the European thing". Finished the scrimmage, about another hour of hard cardio, went home. Friend had invited me for dinner, had two glasses of wine and felt totally pissed.
Indecently had a doctors appointment the next day and guess what, mild to moderate concussion was the diagnosis. I work in the transportation industry and the concussion is a game stopper for the job I do, at least in the short term. Hence, I have started to blog because there is only so much surfing one can do. to be continued