Old School

In the slow times of summer the kids tend to get restless. When I get home from work my first order of business is to start cooking supper. The trick is to get the boys interested in something that doesn't involve Disney Channel and/or SpongeBob.

As they as sitting quietly downstairs I open up the entertainment center and drag out 3 cases of old tapes. Yes tapes - no CD's. No iPod. Tapes.

So for the last hour or so they've been downstairs listening to Master of Puppets, Van Halen I, etc. My oldest even asked if I had any Hendrix.

Almost brings a tear to my eye.

R.I.P John B.

We say goodbye to a friend tomorrow.

Our co-worker and close friend John died last Thursday evening of an apparent heart attack. He was 51 years old and leaves behind a son who has just graduated high school. He's supposed to be attending school here this fall but all bets are off on that.

We're a small group at work. When one of us goes on vacation it's a little different in the office. He was always there for you. Outside of the Stores office they had printed the word "Sanctuary" on some label material and placed it on the door. It meant that if you needed to vent about anything you could go in there, sip some coffee and vent. I know I did a few times.

We'll miss John. I miss him now. Peace John.

So what's new....

The last time I wrote I was whining about wanting to leave England. A lot has happened between now and then.

Stanley's hockey season came to a premature end (broken right radius and all). While as a team we weren't as sucessful on the scoreboard as we'd hoped I think they all had fun. The kid wound up with 7 goals, 7 assists and 16 penalty minutes. The goon.

I'm already missing the rink.

I haven't been busier at work. We brought the second airplane home and as soon as I finished bridging that one I was neeck deep in the -800 that flew in from Belgrade (holy cow but does that aircraft literally STINK). I can see the light at the end of that tunnel now. All things considered I'm glad I'm still employed.

That's all for now.

Hurry up and wait

I'm sick of this office. I'm sick of waiting for the feds. I just want to go home. Right now I'm sitting at an office at London Stansted airport waiting to bring an airplane home. All we're waiting for are a couple of articles of official paperwork and we can start jetting westbound. If it doesn't happen today then it's time to give it a go tomorrow morning bright and early. My problem with it is why it's taken so long for some of this crap to go through.

I know, I get it, I'm a quality guy and these things take time but WTF!!!!

Sorry, I'm getting whiny again.

The flight over and the stay here at Stansted has been fine. The people I'm working with are fine as well. It just seems that these things get pushed on so damn fast that things get missed. Oh what the hell.

Plus I want to get home and see the 10 year old...he broke his right wrist at practice this week so I'm obviously bummed about that. Poor kid.

/rant......

Your Last....

I'm an Anthony Bourdain fan. While I was eating lunch at my desk today I came across this clip:


At about the 7:30 mark he asks the question to those dining with him: what would your last meal be? So I thought about it.

The meals would be mad in my parents kitchen. Food from my youth. No Pizza, no fast food. Whole Filipino foods. Pancit. Chicken and Pork Adobo. White rice. Lumpia.

Maybe a slice of Prime Rib as dessert.

Election Day

Looks like we have a new President. Congrats to Mr. Obama.

What I think is funny is all of these TV talking heads pissing all over themselves about how great this is.

We'll see.

Meanwhile I'll be wathing my wallet. I encourage you all to do the same.

First Solo

The morning started out cool and overcast, and part of me was relieved. I was scheduled to fly my first solo later in the day and while I was excited I was a little bit scared. I know, aviators are supposed to be fearless; Charles Lindbergh flying across the Atlantic, Chuck Yeager breaking the sound barrier. I felt more like Charlie Brown waiting to kick the football Lucy was holding. I was 13 days into my 18th birthday and I was psyching myself up for my first ever solo flight.

At a very young age I had taken to airplanes and flight. I loved the hustle and bustle of airports, the smell of jet fuel, and the roar and crackle of engines at take-off power. When I was 10 years old on a flight back from Manila we had a long layover in Tokyo. Airport security in the late 70’s wasn’t anything like it is today so my dad and I took the opportunity to tour a couple of the 747’s sitting on the gates. So with camera bag in hand we boarded several wide-bodies, aircraft cleaning crews watching us curiously as we walked through the aisles and galleys, and eventually winding our way up the circular staircases to the cockpits. To this day I’m amazed that nobody asked us a single question. In the cockpit of one 747 I sat in the first officers seat, looking at the instruments, listening to the terse, static-filled conversations over the radios. I put my hands on the yoke and dreamed 10 year old dreams of someday flying one of these magnificent machines.

So a decision that I’d made as a 10 year old on the tarmac in Tokyo was being turned into reality in the plains of North Dakota. It was the fall of 1986; Top Gun was the summers hit movie, and Sammy had taken over for Dave in Van Halen. Myself and a few hundred other souls were freshmen pilot wanna-be’s at the Center for Aerospace Sciences at the University of North Dakota. Until I’d set foot on campus the smallest aircraft I’d even been in was a DC-9. My flight plan to destiny would start in the mighty Cessna 152. The 108 horsepower was developed by a 4 cylinder Lycoming power plant, pulled through the air by a twin bladed prop. Fast? No. High performance? Not hardly. A joy to fly? Of course.

As the day wore on, the cool undercast gave way to bright sunshine, and the relentless North Dakota winds settled into a slight northernly breeze. My palms wouldn't stop sweating as I stepped off of the shuttle bus to meet with my instructor at the field. After our preflight briefing it was time to take her around the patch a few times with him sitting in the right seat. My preflight of the aircraft was a bit more thourough than normal. My steed for the day was Sioux 36.

My instructor and I climbed in, and started through the interior preflight procedures, I spent extra time making sure things were correct while he sat stoically in the right seat. "CLEAR!" I yelled out the window moments before I engaged the starter to get the prop turning. Ground control cleared us to taxi to runway 35 right and without much delay we entered took off and entered the takeoff pattern with a few more UND aircraft.

I concentrated on flying the aircraft, and not letting it fly me. Keeping ahead of it, hitting my marks. My radio calls were crisp and clear, my turns and altitudes the best I could manage. My hands were sweating like crazy the entire time.

After 4 touch-and-goes my instructor gets on the radio and informs the tower that our final landing will be a full stop. After we land and taxi off the runway back to the UND ramp he instructs me to kill the engine. As the engine noise dies down, all that's left is the static from the radio to pierce the uneasy silence. He's thinking about it.

"So you ready to do this or what?" he asks.
"I think so," comes my response. He unbuckles his lapbelt, opens the door and hops out. "Good luck. Have fun," he says as he punches me on the shoulder and walks back towards operations.

Suddenly things get serious.

Suddenly the checklist means something. I see details in the instrument panel that I hadn't noticed before. It's all me baby. I had never felt so alive in my life. I go through my checklist, obtain the current ATIS, set my altimeter, reset the directional gyro and call ground control lettting them know my intentions. They direct me back to runway 35 right. At the end of the runway I accomplish my "run-up", set my brakes, push the throttle to 1700 RPM's (take-off is between 2500-2700 RPM's), check my engine instruments and megnetos. Then it's time to go.

"Grand Forks Tower, Sioux thirty six holding short runway three five right for touch and goes."
"Sioux thirty six taxi into position and hold."
"Sioux thirty six," I reply and obey the commands. My heard beats loudly in my headsets as I stare down the runway, on task, as focused as I've ever been.
"Sioux thirty six cleared for takeoff."
I respond and push in the throttle.

Time slows at moments like that. The engine responds and I'm gaining speed down the runway. At 40 knots I pull gently back on the yoke. I feel the nose rise slightly and before I know it I'm airborne. I hold a climb angle of 67 knots until I reach 800 feet above ground level/1600 feet MSL. Just as I've been taught I lower the nose, look for traffic and start my turn for my downwind leg. Then, and only then do I realize/grasp that I'm alone. At 100 knots, 800 feet above the North Dakota prairie, I reach my right hand over and touch the empty seat next to me.

Holy shit - I'm actually flying solo.

But I don't have a whole lot of time to exhault in my reverie. I've got work to do. On my downwind I set up the airplane. Mixture rich, carb heat on, throttle back to 1500 rpm. At my 45 degree mark on downwind I add 10 degrees of flaps, throttle back further to idle and pitch the nose for 80 knots. I start to make my turn for my base leg. On my turn to base I look to my right to catch the field, dropping 10 more degrees of flaps and pitching for 70 knots. And then I take my turn for my final approach.

I make my turn to final, I drop my last 10 degrees of flaps, make my radio call to the tower and get the "cleared for touch-and-go" response. The throttle is back, the static of the radio, my beating heart, and shallow breaths fill my ears. I wipe my hands on my jeans. My airspeed is down to 60 knots, 50 knots; I'm reaching the end of the runway. 30 feet over the theshold I cross the numbers, a burble of turbulance as I descend. Not a sound. Look down the runway, keep the nose up.Wait for the stall warning horn; there it is. Back on the yoke, more elevator. The ground is coming up to meet you. Closer. Closer. There it is.

The wheels kiss the ground with a little burp, and the nose wheel comes down and starts to shimmy. Flaps up, carb heat in , and give her hell 'til you are airborne again. I let out a war woop over my headphones and did it all again, pride coursing through my veins. Two more landings followed (the 3rd one wasn't very pretty), and it was back to the ramp.

As I shutdown the aircraft my instructor came walking out to the airplane with a huge grin on his face. "You did it man," he said to me, "you did it!" We debriefed in his office and for the first time in my life I wrote in my logbook that I had solo'ed.

What an incredible feeling. Plus my hands had stopped sweating.

Rites of Passage

The other day I received an e-mail from one of my best friends from High School. His father had passed away and he was letting us know. He was only 67 years old. Much too young.

Brenda and Grant were off to Iowa to visit the Grandparents and help out with the Barn Tour. (Brenda's parents had their barn renovated/updated courtesy of the Iowa Barn Foundation 3 years ago). Anyhow, Stanley and I were going to be hanging out here because he's got hockey over the weekend and I was hesitant in bringing him. We'd talked about it and while he was a bit nervous, I felt that it was important to him to start understanding more about the circle of life.

The ride up was quiet, he didn't have much to say. When we entered the church I saw my friend Steve, and his wife Ana. We chatted for a while, and spent a few ,minutes with Steve measuring his emotions. He was strong as a rock - solid in his belief that his dad was in a better place. When the day comes for me to bury my parents (much later than sooner of course) I hope that I have the strength that he showed.

After we disengaged ourselves, Stanley and I took a seat near the back of the church. I asked him if he wanted to go to view the body with me, and I was mildly surprised when he said yes. We went forward and stood quietly for a couple of minutes as others paid their respects besides us. And without too much conversation we turned and walked away as well.

I don't remember how old I was when I had attended my first wake/funeral. I remember being really apprehensive about it though. I didn't take it as well as Stanley did. On the way home I asked him if had felt scared or sad. "Different" was the word that he used. I haven't pressed him about it. I'll try to draw it out of him another time.

On a completely different subject he's going to experience another Rite of Passage.

Tonight we rent "Monty Python and the Holy Grail."

Something tells me that he'll use the word "different" again.

40

I turn 40 in a few hours. A couple of years ago the number never really meant anthing to me, it was just a number. Then I realized that my father was 40 when I was born.

I don't know how he and my mom did it, taking on another child when the first 2 were already 13 and 11 years older then me. In some ways I look to my brother and sister as aunt and uncle; there were a few years in Andover when I felt like an only child. But I digress.

So now what does 40 mean to me? What about me has changed? I'm not sure I'm prepared to answer those questions yet.

Ask me tomorrow.

Waving Goodbye

In May of 1975 we moved from our house in Northeast Minneapolis to my parents current home in Andover. It was near the end of the school year and as I was anxious about it as any 6-year-old would be. I was excited about being in a brand new house with tons of space of run in. Also I knew the family across the street so I'd have some kids there that I'd know. I remember jumping in the car as we pulled away from the curb and looking back at the old house and waving goodbye to some of my neighbors.

Grant's best buddy Dylan does that today. And truth be told it really sucks.

Grant and Dylan really started to pal around this past winter. Dylan is the quiet one, while Grant is the siren. They compliment each others personalities perfectly. When Grant and Stanley are together they pick at each other and fight like brothers do. Of course the now-10-year-old doesn't want his kid brother bugging him all the time so more often then not there are arguments in the house. No big deal.

When Dylan comes over it's like a switch gets turned. Grant goes from growls to giggles and those 2 can play for hours on end, whether it's playing Batman, playing farm, or swimming in our little kiddie pool. It has been amazing watching them grow and play over the course of the last few months.

But today it's going to end. Dylan moves today. It's only a couple of hours away but Grant won't be able to look out the window and call his buddy over to spend time in the sandbox anymore.

Most all of the other kids in the neighborhood are either older kids who pal around with Stanley, or too young for him to want to play with. And to be honest, playing with mom and dad isn't what it's cracked up to be at times.

This next few days/weeks are going to be interesting for all of us. We've asked Stanley to be a little more understanding and supportive of his little brother. But we know that will have it's limits as well. Time will tell.

I remember what it was like pulling away from the curb and waving goodbye. I don't really remember the faces or the names. I just hope Dylan doesn't forget about Grant.

The Bridge

For whatever reason, the afternoon of August 1st, 2007 was maddening. I don't remember if the kids were being unruly, or if I had had a trying day at the office. I just remember being frustrated.

Then my mom called.

"Turn on the news!" were the first words out of her mouth.
"Why?" I answered back.
"Just turn it on." And so I did.

And so I stood in front of the television, dumbfounded at what I was watching. The whole bridge is in the water? All those cars? All those people?

Oh my God.

My oldest son was standing next to me watching the TV coverage and I slowly realized something....

Both he and my parents had been on that bridge that very morning. Oh my God again.

I won't pretend to know what it was like to experience what so many people experienced on that day. I hope that I never have to face a destiny like that, but who knows. 13 people lost their lives that day, many more injured physically, mentally, and spiritually.

In my selfish world I wonder what could have been.

This is what $10/gallon of gas looks like

I'm no tree hugger. Anyone who knows me will tell you that. But if you think $4/gallon sucks here is what $10/gallon looks like. Think about what you drive and how you drive. Just sayin.

Amsterdam Epilogue

I've been back for a few days now. My last couple of days were hectic but it was nice jumping on that bird back across the pond. The funny thing is that this was the first time that I had flown westbound over the Atlantic on a full airplane. Usually there are only a couple of us onboard.

When I arrived back in MSP I felt as if I had been gone for half a lifetime. For one the temperature was close to 90 degrees and I was driving a car that didn't have a clutch pedal. And I noticed how big American vehicles really are.

By the way, my family was really glad to see me.

So what have I learned from this experience? I've learned that time alone isn't a bad thing. I also know that people miss me when I'm gone. Selfish I know but that's something important to me. So what else?.....

Children grow up faster when you are gone. At least there hair does.

I appreciate home, but I also appreciate the rest of the world.

So would I do it again? In a heartbeat. I look forward to the opportunity.

Amsterdam Day 14 - Observations Part Deux

· The Dutch work at there own speed. Get used to it. Even the fast-food isn’t fast.
· If you are not used to roundabouts practice at home.
· Don’t be freaked out when you look at a ship on a canal and realize that he’s higher in sea level than you are.
· There is a lot of graffiti.
· Toilets in restaurants may be smaller than your linen closet.
· Bring your own bags to grocery stores.
· You are going to walk a lot. Bring good shoes.
· You have to ask for your check at a restaurant. They won’t bring it to you unless you ask.
· Look both ways. Twice.
· If you don’t like the smell of smoke don’t bother showing up.
· For as neat and tidy the Dutch are there is a lot of trash and pollution in the canals and ditches.
· Appreciate the fact that there is no Bud Light or Miller Lite on tap. Anywhere.
· Stroopwaffles deserve to have their own food group.
· Go ahead and laugh at a Smart Car, then look at the price at the pump.
· Americans typically stick out like sore thumbs – they dress bad, whine a lot, and generally they are the most overweight. The British run a close second.
· Take note of cultural differences, and don’t assume that yours are the best. There are rhymes and reasons for things and a couple minutes of observation will speak volumes and quite possibly change your opinions.
· Did I mention that Heineken is good? I probably did.

Amsterdam Day 12 - The Color Orange

I don't like soccer. I don't get it. Hell, even as a kid I played it. I just don't get it is all.

That's completely different here in the Netherlands. People are crazy about it. Good for them. I wish that we the same passion for a national sport in the states.

The color orange is everywhere, apartment awnings, those annoying little window flags that people stick to their cars with suction cups. Hell, I even saw 4 leggy Russian women in downtown tonight with Orange go-go boots. (The fact that the Netherlands plays Russia tonightmakes that even more curious).

It's a matter of pride here and I think that it's cool.

I still don't get the sport though.

Amsterdam Day 9 - Observations

• Bike helmets are for wimps. I've seen Dutch women with kids hanging off the front and back of their bikes, talking on cell phones through downtown Amsterdam. Cars and pedestrians on either side, not caring a bit.
• The Dutch love soccer, hell, most of the world does. As an American hockey fan I believe that every soccer player who dives needs to be beaten and be forced to watch Robbie Earl highlights.
• You can actually burn rubber up a hill in an Opel Corsa when so inclined.
• There isn't pick-up-dog-poop law. Watch your step. Really.
• Tourists are annoying. (and not just the American ones)
• Walking on a path that follows a canal is probably some of the best therapy that one can enjoy.
• Don't expect a menu in English - just go for it.
• "Beer" is Heineken unless otherwise specified.

If I think of anything else I'll let you know.

Amsterdam day 6 - Fathers Day

I missed my kids today. I missed my wife as well.

I went to a castle about 20km away and walkd around there. It was ok. there were a lot of families there with a lot of kids and while it was semi-humerous watching Dutch moms loose their collective cool, it was something I wish that I could've shared with my kids. Oh well, that's life i guess.

I don't know if I'm cut out for a life on the road. We'd have to see.

Amsterdam Day 4 - How in the hell do you drive here?

Yikes!

I know, hike up the skirt and suck it up. Good for you.

I can't say that I enjoy driving here in Amstelveen. Obviously the cyclists and pedestrians have the right-of-way, but damnit - have some sort of sembelence of order when it comes to the sequence of stop lights. Especially to an ubernoob like myself who drives a manual transmission once every decade.

I just have to suck it up and get out there. I'll survive.

Anyhow, I'm out of the Dorint now, and at the Htel here in Amstelveen. It's kind of like an extended stay in the states (look it up on http://www.htel.nl/). It beats the hotel plus I get a kitchen. So I went to a little supermarket down the road and picked up some necessities (you know - Heineken) and other stuff, cooked myself a nice meal, and am just relaxing and unwinding.

Tonight would have been an interesting evening to be down in the city. The Netherlands plays tonight in the Euro 2008 soccer tournament and it seems like the whole contry is shut down. I was briefly entertaining the idea of going into the city to join the masses but I really don't want to be the stupid American walking around Dam Square in the event that they lose. I have this thing about international incidents and making the news. I'm funny that way.

Anyhow, you could tell at the market that people were in a rush to get home, hell, almost all of the Heineken was gone. The staff at the office was pretty thin as I think most everyone who has an interest in soccer/football found a reason to tap the keg early. (Of course this is from a guy who lives and breathes hockey at all levels and ages so I'll shut up).

Since everyone is either in a bar, downtown, or in front of their TV's I might take this opportunity to drive around and practice. God knows I need it.

Day 1: Chasing an Icelandic Sunrise

From 5F in Saga class of a Icelandair 757 the North Atlantic looks pretty nice. Onboard it’s relatively quiet; it should be now that it’s 12:24am local MSP time. I’ve had my 2 hours of white wine aided sleep and as I look around it appears that I’m not the only one who has enjoyed the Icelandair hospitality.

Today started as most workdays do; up around 6ish, at work around 7:30ish, reviewing the weekend work for the fleet. Restlessness hit me earlier than normal, my desk cleaner than normal. Anxious. Pensive. Focused miles ahead. A mission to embark upon. C’mon let’s get this show started already.

I’ve been looking towards this trip for weeks now. Some reasons more obvious than others (as time moves forward I may or may not reveal more about that) I’ve been looking forward to this trip and as the days have flown and minutes dragged I’ve wanted to step forward into this journey.

I left work a little early, finalized my packing and after the bus dropped Stanley off we loaded up the car and headed to the airport. With tears in his eyes Stanley gave me his Father’s Day card. Grant gave me his with no tears as he wanted to use Dylan’s Slip-and-Slide more than he wanted to ride to the airport. Stanley and I sat on the living room steps and cried a little bit. So did Brenda.

So I got to the HHH Terminal 3 hours before departure as prescribed by Icelandair, checking in with the Sun Country staff. Behind me was a large group of high school kids, bandmates ready to head to Europe. I knew that I had to get in front of them. So I check my bags and take my seat assignment: 22E.

My internal seatmap tells me I’m in the middle seat back in steerage. Ah shit. I kindly ask if there is anything left on an aisle or window and the guy behind the counter lets me down easily saying that it’s a full flight. Hey, no biggie, I can deal with anything for 5 hours right?

So up the escalator I go, rearranging my carry-on before I head through security. I hear my named being called from behind me and there is the counter agent telling me that he thought that I was part of the band party. Oops, his mistake, his manager tells him to get me another seat and sure enough in his hand is another boarding pass for seat 7C. Emergency exit row on the aisle. Oh yeah. Things are looking up.

After a couple of beers and some wings at Fletchers I head over to the gate. The genral boarding/cattle call comes so with the others I shuffle down the jetway to the aircraft. When I get close to the entry door I notice that my particular seat is right at the main entrance aisle, and that people would have to turn around my knees if I took my seat. I tell the lead flight attendant that I’d stand to the side to make sure that the boarding process would go off without a hitch as we were already going to be running late. I also She see’s that I’m a non-rev and asks me if I want to sit in Saga Class…..well sure….why not! Let’s see – middle seat surrounded by a bunch of high schoolers? Or 1st class? Duh!!!!

Needless to say I enjoyed my time sitting in front. Wide seats. real silver. Actual glass. Something you don’t’ get too much of anymore. The only downer was the fact that when we landed in Iceland I had a head-cold.

Serves me right.

BTW, if you have the chance to fly Icelandair please do so! I’m not saying this because I got to sit in first class. (In fact I sat in the last row on the way to Amsterdam from Iceland). Fly them because the service is first rate and friendly.

Next entry: Stan learns how to drive a manual transmission in Amsterdam

17 days in Amsterdam

Monday night I hop on an Icelandair 757 to Amsterdam for a work trip that will last for 17 days. My co-worker Mark has been there being the technical rep for 2 of our aircraft since the end of April so he needs to get back stateside to unwind and bleed some Dutch out of his system.

Needless to say I'm a little bit anxious about the deal. I haven't been away from my wife and kids for such a long period of time bit all things considered it's not too bad. It's not like I'm humping a rucksack up a hill in Afganistan or anything, but still, time away is time away.

I'm overpacked and waiting to take another step out of a comfort zone. On the flip side I'm going to drink my fill of opportunity and see where this path decides to take me. As I wrote in previous entry, this industry is suddenly in unchartered waters. When I last wrote a barrel of crude was going for $110/barrel.

When I left work yesterday it was somewhere in the neighborhood of $139/barrel.

In the middle of April we were just getting set to send the rest of the leased aircraft back home and send ours. That went fine. It was stressful but we got it done. Then from out of the blue they wanted us to bring on an ex-Aloha airlines -700 on line as soon as frickin' possible. We gangbanged that aircraft and had it on the certificate in a hair under 3 weeks.

On the first day of revenue service for that airplane I took a 10% pay cut.

Am I bitter? A little.
Am I defeated? Not even close.

So what does this all mean as I head to Amsterdam? I guess I'm not sure. I'll do the job and take the days and nights as they come. I may even stop and smell the tuplips.

If anyone has any hints of what to do in Amstelveen please let me know.