The Quiet Neighbors

When we first moved into the neighborhood in December 1999 home ownership was fresh and new.

On one of the first major snow events I remember being happy and content to shovel the sidewalk along the avenue. My new neighbor was out with his snowblower and met me in the middle of the block as he had already cleared a substantial amount of "my" portion of sidewalk. We introduced ourselves, noses running in the blowing snow, and he chided me for shoveling by hand. I explained that this was our first house and I was excited by the prospect of being a new home owner and being able to shovel my own walk. I suspect he thought that I was crazy.

They had been in the neighborhood for a while, 20+ years our seniors, with 2 adult children living with them. Polite, hard working, and quiet. Nice as can be. Everything you would want from a neighbor.

As our family of 3 grew to 4 we've spent many days and nights in our backyard. Bonfires, yard parties, and the like. I can't count how many soccer balls have been bounced off of their siding. We would say hello when we were out, often they would have their dog, Misha, out on a walk and we would make small talk about the weather. Everyone once in a while the doorbell would ring and they would bring over a plate of cookies and bars to share. Brenda would often make a plate of treats to share as well.

Over the years, in the middle of frigid Minnesota nights, sun down at 4:30pm I'd be pulling my snow pants and boots on to go and shovel the driveway and sidewalk. Many times if the accumulations were more than a few inches, he or one of his sons would already be out there blowing the entire block for us. I'd wave and smile and yell my thanks over the sound of the Briggs and Stratton engine. And not once in the non-snow seasons did I ever have to pick up Misha droppings. Like I said, ideal neighbors.

Being older than us we'd see the parents start to experience the affects of aging, but they were always still able to get out and about, without relying too much on their sons. Micha was getting walked, the driveway and sidewalk were getting shoveled.

A couple of months ago, their youngest son died unexpectedly of a heart attack while working out.

And then yesterday, Fathers Day, the dad passed away.

As I write this I struggle and wonder if I was a good neighbor, if I could have done anything different. I feel like we've missed out on something more important than a few inches of snow and some rice crispie treats. It's more than a sense of survivors guilt, or sadness of one's passing.

My heart cries for a wife who has lost a husband, partner, and son.
It cries for a son who has lost a sibling and daddy.
I'm sure Misha is sad as well.

Whatever emotion I'm looking for I can't place my finger on it. But whetever it is - it sure does hurt.

Losing the Art

I’ve just poured a fresh cup of Costa Rican coffee and added some warm milk and sugar, stirring it slowly, the tink of the spoon against the ceramic echoing slightly across the open expanse of the dining terrace. It’s warm already on this cloudless morning, but I’m shaded against the sun and the breeze is fresh. I look across my breakfast table and I see a golfer taking lessons at the driving range, and further beyond I take in the beauty of the rising Costa Rican mountains as they wake to greet the day. The sounds of the songbirds fill the warming air.

But as I sit with my coffee and omelet, taking it all in around me I can’t help but feel  - oh what’s the word I’m looking for – ok – pissed off. Not at the coffee, or the breakfast. Not at the attentive wait staff or the little bird that’s hopping on the stone floor picking up tiny morsels to snack on. I’m pissed off at the majority of the people around me.  Why am I pissed at them?

They aren’t seeing what I’m seeing. And why aren’t they? Besides the family of 5 who are noisily enjoying themselves, seemingly the rest of them have their noses buried in their phones, tablets, or laptops. For the business travelers I can understand it to a certain point. Sure, I’ve been there, the need to check a couple of emails or field a call, I get that.  But what I don’t understand are the two young lovers sitting across the way, clearly enamored with each other but not sharing a word as they stare slack-jawed into their matching iPhones. Do they notice how the palm leaves rustle in the warm breeze? Do they look up and acknowledge the waitress as she tops off their coffee? Are they so focused on Angry Birds that they don’t even fully realize where they are and what they are doing? Are they texting sweet nothings to each other or writing on each other’s walls?

The dining terrace isn’t quite half occupied, with many of the diners being business people, tight lipped, travel cases at the ready. A few years ago it would have been a flip phone and a copy of the USA Today. Now it’s a smartphone with Bluetooth, with the USA Today App installed. And while we all have the fancy “phones”, people seem talk less to each other. I’m guilty like the rest, I like to turn on my phone to check to see what my friends are up to on Facebook, and to see what “interesting” things are happening on Twitter. But I don’t want to lose the more important face to face interactions that we need to have. I know I’m not the first to notice it or to say it, but the more plugged in we become, we become, well, less connected. The irony that “Facetime” is an App is not lost on me.

Not long ago at a team lunch for my nine-year-olds hockey team, the parents were sitting at one group of tables, and the players at another. Almost all of the kids were playing on some sort of hand-held/tablet/smartphone….whatever.  Many of them were their own, not their parents. My son doesn’t have one,  doesn’t need one, because as far as we are concerned, he has enough screen time. So at this team meal he approaches my wife and tells her not-to-quietly that he’s bored. Nobody is talking, everyone has their face buried in electronics. As parents I get that it keeps the kids occupied; the portable babysitter. But what are really teaching them? Soon after his comment, coach walked over to the table and told the kids to put them away. I think he understood.

A few days earlier a couple of co-workers and I took a road trip to an ocean side beach a couple of hours south of San Jose. We happened across a beach side restaurant for a couple of beers and some chicken wings. The three of us looked out over the black sand beach and watched as a kite surfer ripped up the waves, a couple of dogs running up and down the surf as they barked madly at his kite. The Imperials were cold, the wings were hot, and the conversations varied from bad work trips to good vacations.  At the table next to us were two couples, blender drinks in hand, iPhones at the ready. I could hear them talking about posting pictures immediately to Facebook, snapping self- portraits with the beach behind them as a prop. I couldn’t help but ask myself what was more important to them….the fact that they were on vacation, or the fact that they could tell everyone that they were on vacation. During the time we were there they never stepped one foot out on the sand. I suspect they were worried about losing their WiFi.

What we are losing is the art of conversation, of interaction, of looking across the table during a meal and sharing a story and communicating an idea. Pixels will never replace the look in your tablemates eyes when you tell them something funny, horrific, happy, or sad. A smiley face icon will  never feel like a hug. Maybe business today forces us into too many e-mails, too many action items, too many applications that while they are supposed to make things easier, make us pay the price of ignoring the world that exists outside of our screens. I know for a fact that my work inbox has over 4500 items. It upsets me that I know that. The irony that I’m posting this on a blog isn’t lost on me either.

I had never been to Costa Rica before, and that morning was the last morning that I was going to be there as my work trip was winding down and I leaving San Jose that day. I wanted to soak it all in and enjoy the surroundings of a place that I may not have the opportunity to visit again.  I felt a little sad as I finished the last of my coffee and stood up to leave. The little bird was still hopping from place to place, finding small crumbs. I said “Buenos Dias” to my waiter who smiled back at me. I felt the warm wind in my hair, and I heard the sharp ping of a golf ball off of a club. I noticed all of these things. I also noticed that not one of the diners around me even looked up as I took my leave.

In the blink of an eye....

The sun starts to set earlier getting into the later part of August.  I noticed that tonight as I went for an evening walk through the neighborhood.  The temps are cooler. The air is drier. And every time this part of the summer comes by I start to think that I need to pack up my things and head back up to UND.

I caught myself thinking about that tonight as I remembered that it was 25 years ago this very evening that I was preparing myself for that trip up to Grand Forks for my freshman year. Can it be 25 years already I thought to myself.  It only makes sense that we celebrated our 25th High School Reunion just a few short weeks ago. 25 years....in the blink of an eye.

I remember that last evening in Andover, hanging out with my friends. We were going to set the world on fire.  Each of us were going to conquer our own little chunk and laugh mightily in the faces of those who thought we wouldn't succeed.  Who am I kidding, we didn't have a clue what was going to happen.  All we really knew that night was that it wasn't going to be the same anymore.  It didn't matter how much time we would spend over Christmas, Spring, or Summer breaks....it was never going to be the same.

We spent some time at our neighbors across the street, and then we took a slow stroll to my house. I'd taken that walk many a time in my childhood, but the dew seemed heavier, the crickets louder, and the trail a little darker. We stood in my driveway a little while, making small talk, telling each other that we'd write, we'd call, dammit, it's only a couple of hours away so we'd all be there for each other no matter what. But then it was time to say goodbye. We hugged and shook hands, and as I think back now I guess maybe I cried a little bit.

As I watched my friends walk back across the street to my neighbors I suddenly felt alone, and that I wouldn't have that security around me anymore, and I didn't like that feeling one bit.  But in the same respect I knew that I needed to start growing up, to take responsibility, to move with purpose.  After all, I was a 17 year old kid moving 300 miles away to learn how to fly airplanes.  And grow up I did.  It wasn't always pretty, but it was was with purpose.

Part of my walk takes me around a holding pond.  In the pond are some waterfowl that I can see making ripples in the calm water.  I can feel the heavy dew in the air. I can hear the crickets loudly chirping. But my path is not that dark.  I move with purpose, with responsibility. I may not fly airplanes anymore but I know a hell of a lot about them. I'm in touch with most of that group of friends.  In our own ways we've taken a chunk out of life, and brought a new generation into this world.  In a few years our kids will be embark on their own journeys....in the blink of an eye.

So there I was....an hour out of Subang

It sounds like the start of a bad Vietnam-era movie, and the only thing I'm missing (besides a Chuck Norris cameo), is a bad '80's soundtrack.

You guessed it - another journey to bring home an airplane. It's my first trip to Malaysia and hopefully not my last.  The people are warm, the work is busy, but the brief down time is good for the soul.  This morning my co-worker and I ate breakfast outside in the pacific humidity and listened to the birds. Little things like that make it cool.

Lobby Area of our hotel

It was a long journey here.  MSP to LAX, a 7 hour layover, and then 14 hours from LAX to TPE in the back of a 747.  From there it was 4 hours from TPE to KUL and a hot shower.  There God for hot showers.  Besides death and taxes there is another certainty in life, and that everyone looks like shit after a 24+ hour travel day.

It's been a few days.  We've gotten into a routine and so far so good.  It's another few days before we take this circus back on the road to Singapore and across the deep blue sea for home.  Until then wish me luck.

Truths for Mature Humans

I think part of a best friend's job should be to immediately clear your computer history if you die.


Nothing sucks more than that moment during an argument when you realize you're wrong.

I totally take back all those times I didn't want to nap when I was younger.

There is great need for a sarcasm font.

How the heck are you supposed to fold a fitted sheet?

Was learning cursive really necessary?

MapQuest really needs to start their directions on #5. I'm pretty sure I know how to get out of my neighborhood.

Obituaries would be a lot more interesting if they told you how the person died.

I can't remember the last time I wasn't at least kind of tired.

Bad decisions make good stories.

You never know when it will strike, but there comes a moment at work when you know that you just aren't going to do anything productive for the rest of the day.

Can we all just agree to ignore whatever comes after Blue Ray? I don't want to have to restart my collection...again.

I'm always slightly terrified when I exit out of Word and it asks me if I want to save any changes to my ten-page technical report that I swear I did not make any changes to.

"Do not machine wash or tumble dry" means I will never wash this -- ever.

I hate when I just miss a call by the last ring (Hello? Hello? Da** it!), but when I immediately call back, it rings nine times and goes to voice mail. What did you do after I didn't answer? Drop the phone and run away?

I hate leaving my house confident and looking good and then not seeing anyone of importance the entire day. What a waste.

I keep some people's phone numbers in my phone just so I know not to answer when they call.

I think the freezer deserves a light as well.

I disagree with Kay Jewelers. I would bet on any given Friday or Saturday night more kisses begin with Miller Lite than Kay.

I wish Google Maps had an "Avoid Ghetto" routing option.

Sometimes, I'll watch a movie that I watched when I was younger and suddenly realize I had no idea what the heck was going on when I first saw it.

I would rather try to carry 10 over-loaded plastic bags in each hand than take 2 trips to bring my groceries in.

The only time I look forward to a red light is when I'm trying to finish a text.

I have a hard time deciphering the fine line between boredom and hunger.

How many times is it appropriate to say "What?" before you just nod and smile because you still didn't hear or understand a word they said?

I love the sense of camaraderie when an entire line of cars team up to prevent a jerk from cutting in at the front. Stay strong, brothers and sisters!

Shirts get dirty. Underwear gets dirty. Pants? Pants never get dirty, and you can wear them forever.

There's no worse feeling than that millisecond you're sure you are going to die after leaning your chair back a little too far.

Sometimes I'll look down at my watch three consecutive times and still not know what time it is.

Even under ideal conditions people have trouble locating their car keys in a pocket, finding their cell phone, and Pinning the Tail on the Donkey -- but I'd bet anything that everyone can find and push the snooze button from 3 feet away, in about 1.7 seconds, eyes closed, first time, every time!

Rogerio

It doesn’t matter how you rationalize it because no matter what you think or say, it’s going to be your fault. Day-shift crew bailed to another airplane? Too Bad. Can’t get a part? Too Bad. The guy who was supposed to troubleshoot the fuel quantity problem went on vacation? Too bad.

So you sit outside at the taxi stand listening to people talk Portuguese around you. The June, Brazilian, fall rain is cold and you see your breath rise. Looking down to the cobblestones and you see a group of ants bringing food into the nest and you chide yourself for calling them the most motivated workers at the facility. The 12 hour day is a blur and then you remember how hungry that you are. Then the thoughts of self-doubt run back into your head…. Did I forget anything? Did I do everything I could do to move the airplane on time? No matter what you do, it’s going to be wrong. The cold rain falls and the seconds on the watch face drag.

Then from down the cobblestones comes a familiar sight. It’s Rogerio. In a bright orange Fiat taxi (number 2124) he comes up to the curb, greets you with a handshake and a smile and away you go back to your hotel. Rogerio came recommended to us by a staff member of the facility because of his knowledge of the English language.

As a US citizen you’re spoiled. I mean really. It doesn’t matter where you go, you expect the people you meet to be fluent in the English language. It’s arrogant, it’s self-centered, and as a citizen of the good old U S of flippin A, by God you expect it. Oh no my friend. Direct you to a toilet? Sure. Get you a beer? Maybe. Get you proper directions to a hotel? Good luck with that. Sure, Portuguese and Spanish may sound similar but they are further apart then you think. And as someone who failed College Spanish I knew that I was going to be deep into it when push came to shove.

So back to the other side of the equator you go. It’s Minneapolis to Atlanta to Rio to Florinopolis and finally to Porto Alegre. You claim your bags and walk into the cool Brazilian air to find your contemporaries with the leasing company. Friends yes but still adversaries. They have their best interests in mind and you have your own. And standing there with a big smile and a handshake is Rogerio. You make your introductions and soon it’s off like a rocket through the crowded streets of Porto Alegre, Rogerio setting you at ease with his humor and easy way. His English is accented and at times difficult to understand, and yet, his laugh sets you at ease like you’ve known him all of your life.

On our first trip down to Porto Alegre we thought it would be self-sufficient and rent our own vehicle. Five minutes into the process we realized that we were in way over our heads. A fifteen-minute trip to our hotel wound up to be a two-hour journey in the hills and the rain. One night going to dinner we wound up following the wrong car for a few minutes and wound up on the opposite side of town. Thank God our cell phone batteries held up as we tried to remain in constant communications with our leasing company contacts. We ate and drank well that night. Lesson learned, next time hire a driver.

Rogerio took care of us. If we were working late and he was going to be off shift, he’d make a phone call and have one of his trusted friends come over and pick us up at the facility or hotel. He was always there with a smile, with a good attitude, and best of all, a clean safe ride. On our rides back and forth to work he would give us some local favor, share dirty jokes, and put us at ease. We always felt better when we got out of the car than when we got in.

For two weeks he was there, and the three of us appreciated his kindness and hospitality. When we shook hands to say goodbye at the end of our project it was bittersweet, as we know that we were saying goodbye to a good friend. The chances of us going back to Porto Alegre are slim, but if we do I know who to call for a smile and a ride. If you ever plan on going to Porto Alegre and need a taxi please let me know.

New Adventure

It was about an 18 hour journey from home to Porto Alegre. The flights were fine, the travel company is great, and the mission is quite.....challenging. This airplane needs some help. It's supposed to be in service by June 1 but buy looking at it, I don't know if it'll make July 1. But that's just work.

I've never been south of the equator before - and yes the drains go the other way. In a way it reminds me of the Phillipines when I visted 30 odd years ago. The unrelenting traffic, the cloud of diesel smoke, and the humidity that sticks to your soul. The people I've met so far are friendly, and it's really too bad that I don't understand the language. I think I'll be learning more about myself this week.

Stay tuned.

Missing AMS

The weather outside here at MSP is very Dutch-like today. It's cool and misty with more than a little late fall in the air. It feels like Amsterdam.

I won't be going this year and I'm both relieved and disappointed. We're taking 2 airplanes this year and the way the schedule works the person going over would have to be over there for 9 days. With other work committments and hockey committments I find it difficult to justify pulling myself away from home for that long.

I'll miss the morning dutch coffee and the evening Heineken's. I won't miss the ever present battles between our two companies. I guess it's a wash. It'll be strange since this will be the first time since 2002 that I haven't been there.

Damn.

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.