My Bagger Vance Transition: A Pilot Turns Writer

I can't help matching movie quotes to my own personal life philosophies. My latest selection comes from the Will Smith/Matt Damon movie The Legend of Bagger Vance. Ironic, to some degree, because it's a golf movie, and I know virtually nothing about the game of golf.

The basic story is that of one Rannulph Junuh, a demoralized WWI vet racked with survivor's guilt, alcoholism, and whatever they used to call PTSD back then--maybe battle fatigue or shell shock?--finding his way back to a fully functional and fulfilled life with the help of golf and a remarkable caddy, Bagger Vance, who appears out of nowhere.

As a young man before the war, Junuh was a most promising golfer--a true "natural," winning amateur matches with ridiculous ease. After he went off to the Great War, which provided a ringside seat to the massacre of every man in his unit but himself, golf didn't seem so important anymore--nor did much of anything else. Enter Bagger Vance to help him escape the downward spiral of his post-war existence.

As Bagger coaches Junuh on recovering his "one true, authentic swing," Junuh's old girlfriend, Adele Invergordon, organizes an exhibition match in which Savannah native son Junuh faces the towering mastery of legendary golfers Bobby Jones and Walter Hagen. Greatly frustrated by Junuh's embarrassingly poor performance in the opening round of the match, Adele asks Bagger why he isn't helping Junuh find his swing:


(Adele) Mr. Vance, what the judge is trying to determine is your strategy for helping poor Mr. Junuh find his game, because you seem to know as much about caddying as I do about driving a locomotive.

(Bagger) You all want to know my strategy? Right now my player is a little confused. See, he still think he Rannulph Junuh.

(The Judge) He is Rannulph Junuh, you damn twit!

(Bagger) Well, he is and he ain't.                                               

                                                           --from The Legend of Bagger Vance


Some life transitions are tougher than others. The big ones often leave us mightily confused about the new person we've become--until we make the necessary adjustment. Leaving the flying life was like that for me. I just could not stop thinking I was the old Rannulph Junuh (er, Amy Gardiner). I could not move forward because I had no idea how to peacefully integrate the pilot into the writer, how to effect such a grand merger.

It seemed to work just fine for Richard Bach when he left the Air Force. Oh, he was still actively flying--which I currently am not--but his career persona had definitely shifted from pilot to writer. His short stories did mention some lifestyle turbulence, though. Hard to believe that he went through a starving writer phase, too, but that's what he said.

Even though I'd wanted to write a book during all those years I was flying for a living, it was still a shock when the day actually came to hang up my headset and pick up a pen--and sit down at the computer. The most difficult time while morphing into a writer arrived when I was editing the manuscript for the eighth time, wondering if I'd ever get it published to Amazon Kindle as an e-book. I kept trying to run back to aviation, convulsed by terror and stage fright. Back to the familiar, back to flying, back to the old Amy. Like Rannulph Junuh, I was--and I wasn't--the old me.

Eventually, it got better. Someone suggested that I didn't have to completely dump my pilot persona, just find a way to accept it as a permanent part of me, albeit in psyche autopilot standby mode, if you will. Oddly enough, it quickly found its way into my writing. Suddenly it seemed completely natural that my main character, Jude Hayes, would go back to flying in my second book in the series, They Pull Me Back In. 

More of Bagger's sage advice regarded the aforementioned "one true, authentic swing" belonging to each of us sojourning on this planet:

Yep, inside every one of us is one true, authentic swing. Somethin’ we was born with. Somethin’ that’s ours and ours alone. Somethin’ that can’t be taught to ya or learned. Somethin’ that got to be remembered.

Over time, the world can rob us of that swing. It get buried inside us under all our wouldas and couldas and shouldas. Some folk even forget what their swing was like.

                                            --from The Legend of Bagger Vance


It seems that my "one true, authentic swing" is found in my writing. I've probably always known this. While I was making my bones as a pilot, I sort of forgot about my writing. Well, never really forgot about it, just allowed it to slip pathetically far down my priority list. I'd get reminded of it every once in a while when I stopped in at a bookstore while on the ground in some strange city and wondered when I'd have a hardcover on that table up front. Or when I read an especially good piece of writing in an aviation trade magazine.

But my writing was always in the background patiently waiting. And I was actually always writing something. My boss observed that I could write him an entire story on a Blackberry--about a merely routine flight--before there even existed word processing apps for that. I copy edited flight manuals and sent short-story-length emails to everyone while "on the road," that is, hanging around the airport or the hotel. Personal journal entries. All those cover letters seeking a better flying job. . .. Writing was indeed always with me. And always fun. Effortless, too. Like Junuh's "one true, authentic swing." Which he eventually found. Guess that makes two of us.

Corporate Pilots and Holiday Flying

I should never have posted about snow, about it being "appropriate" for it to snow after Thanksgiving. Just to let me know with whom I was dealing (to paraphrase Wesley Snipes in Blade), Mother Nature let it snow, let it snow, let it snow before Thanksgiving, after Thanksgiving, then a really big storm just a couple days ago. Not to mention record cold I haven't seen since the last time I went mucking around the stratosphere in a jet. Winter is here and it doesn't even officially arrive until Saturday.

The approach of the holidays has gotten me thinking about how much fun flying jobs are this time of year. It's always weird. My readers will remember that I am a business jet pilot, which means that I am--or have been--since I'm at least temporarily retired--a chauffeur with wings. Read, "on-call, all the time." Scheduled time off? Always gets infringed-upon by the flight schedule. Holidays? Usually not observed on their calendar dates.

You get used to being away from home and celebrating the holidays when you can. I'm not suggesting for a second that corporate pilots are the only people who live with this constraint, and I especially apologize in advance to anyone in the military deployed away from home. I know you folks have it much, much worse, and I thank you for your service. I guess I just want to throw out some memories to you pilots out there.

I used to to go to a small airport on the other side of the river from St. Louis where my company had a large plant. I got to know the Holiday Inn so well, I knew the reservation desk staff by their first names. I knew what the Christmas tree in the lobby looked like as well as the one in my house. When they gave me my room number, I knew where it was located in the hotel without having to ask.

Christmas shopping was done in strange malls all over the country when I had full days "off" (standby would be a more accurate descriptor) on the ground. I found some unusual gifts that way. Before the advent (no pun intended) of the internet and cell phones, I also shopped with a few Christmas catalogs and a phone credit card.

There was usually a "command performance" at the big company Christmas party. But it was kind of fun to walk up to the the CEO whom I'd been flying around all year, wish him Merry Christmas, and not have him recognize me right away because I was wearing a dress instead of a pilot's uniform.

There was wrestling the airplane onto the ground in Buffalo just before the big blizzard blew in and trapped us (which happens a lot in Buffalo). Trying to get the engine covers on as the wind really began to howl. Landing in Palwaukee with the snow going sideways across the runway, and making what Hawker pilots call "a safe landing, but not a fancy one"--as in, plant it firmly on the ground and don't fool around about it.

I thought of all the trips to refresher training at FlightSafety and CAE Simuflite where Christmas snows could be recreated in the simulators, better than the best video games you've ever played. One simulator session is always designated as the "cold" day and ground school contains a few hours devoted to "ice and rain." You sit down in your "sim" seat--which is exactly like the one in the real airplane--and the visual shows just enough light in the darkness to see a snow-covered runway and fat snowflakes slanting across the "windshield." You know immediately that the game is afoot, lots of things are about to go wrong, and it's going to be a very long afternoon.

But on another, more recent afternoon, when the Red Dog and I left my warm writing room (well, kind-of warm, about 59 degrees, post-flying budget not allowing for large expenditures of fuel oil) to walk out into the cold yard where an ominous breeze was stirring, I glanced up at the gunmetal gray, pre-storm sky, and felt like the old fire horse gazing at a house fire down the block from his comfy retirement stall. I wanted to be taxiing out in a Challenger jet with all the ice protection equipment turned on, ready to do battle with the approaching snowstorm. You see, I love to fly, even at Christmas time. But whatever you love to do has its trade-offs.

Once in a while, it's a good idea to take inventory of those sacrifices, though, and still if it's still worth it.

I would love to hear some comments about how you've managed your own life trade-offs, faithful readers.

While you're thinking, here are a few words from the in-progress Book Two of the Jude Hayes Mysteries, They Pull Me Back In:

Jonathon opened the limo door for A.J. who stepped out into the chill air catching nary a single snowflake on her shiny leather coat. I slid out after her in time to hear the roar of an old Gulfstream jet launching into the gathering storm. I shivered involuntarily thinking, better you than me, buddy, taking off into this nasty weather. Then I remembered that I was actually contemplating once again assuming just such responsibilities and sighed deeply. I must be nuts.

Jacoby Ellsbury and the Fast Food Strike for a $15 an Hour Minimum Wage

I saw two disturbing stories on the TV news yesterday which together graphically displayed the ever-widening chasm in our economic classes--you know, the monetary abyss into which our middle class has fallen?

It seems that Jacoby Ellsbury, Boston Red Sox star center fielder, has defected to the New York Yankees. Now, I'm not much of a Major League Baseball fan, but I do like grass roots baseball, I was raised in a Red Sox family, and I have a sister who's a pretty rabid Boston fan. While we haven't discussed it, I can well imagine what my sister thinks of Mr. Ellsbury's decision. DNA notwithstanding, I have nothing against the Yankees and I used to fly for one of their biggest fans. Besides, I live in New York. They lynch Red Sox fans in my neighborhood.

What does bother me about the Ellsbury signing, is the one hundred fifty-three million dollars he will be paid over a sever-year contract. Yikes! as Jude Hayes would say. But wait, I'm not actually living in la-la land. I understand that professional athletes have been making bags of money since before I arrived on the planet. I have nothing personally against Mr. Ellsbury and I try to think kindly of him since my sister so enjoyed watching him as an up-and-comer playing for the Portland Sea Dogs.

It's just that the story about his new job was immediately followed by one about fast food workers in New York demonstrating and attempting to organize for an increase in the minimum wage from $7.25/hour to $15.00/hour. That seems only a very modest increase. I mean, you can't make rent in New York State--much less New York City--working as many hours as they'll give you with two fast-food jobs! What is wrong with this picture?!

A restaurant association executive declared that if wages are raised, it will impact the employers' ability to create new restaurant jobs. Skewed logic alert! What does it matter if they create a zillion more jobs if no one can afford to live on what they pay? Perhaps they would prefer to contribute to public assistance programs instead of paying their employees a living wage. Oh wait--I forgot--giant corporate restaurants don't pay taxes, anyway. To paraphrase the modern saying about apps, "There's a loophole for that."

Isn't it ironic that once upon a time in a stadium far, far away, big league baseball was a wonderful pastime that almost anyone could come up with a few pennies to watch, and now it costs a few hundred dollars to take your family out to the ballgame. But hey, at least the Yankees are paying Jacoby Ellsbury a living wage--although I'm pretty sure those people at the concession stand selling you a dog and a beer are making somewhat less.

Ah, if we could all have an employer like A.J. Pierpont . . .. Here's my quote from Remover of Obstacles, Book One of the Jude Hayes Mysteries:

“I think we have common ground here, Jude. Elizabeth needs help separating her business from this debacle. And I do not expect you to do this out of the goodness of your heart—I am prepared to offer you an appropriate retainer.”

She named a figure that nearly caused me to swallow my tongue. “That is very generous of you, A.J., but my conscience would feel better if I charged you the discounted hourly fee I was charging DBC.”

A.J. leaned forward, winked, and said, “Humor an old lady, Jude.”

I hesitated only a moment before I laughed and said, “Okay, you twisted my arm, A.J. We have a deal.”

She smiled, satisfied, as she drew a silver business card holder from her designer handbag. “Here is my contact information, Jude. Please feel free to call at any time.” I had the definite feeling that Amanda Josephine Pierpont was used to getting her way.

The Airlines Tell Big Fat Stories

Corporate jet pilots make bad airline passengers because we know that there is a better way to travel. However, when we go on vacation or go to company recurrent training, we don't get to take the company airplane. We go on the airlines, same as everybody else. There are no "passes" such as airline employees get, either.

Corporate pilots are not especially fond of sitting in the back of an airliner. We usually prefer that superior view up front. Deprived of that, and the control over our fate that goes along with it, we sometimes become sullen and snarky, making unsolicited comments to our family members or co-workers traveling with us about the quality of the landing or the cack-handed suddenness of the descent.

We're instantly suspicious when a flight gets cancelled because we've seen the airlines lie through their teeth so many times. They like to say things such as, "due to a mechanical failure," or "bad weather at the destination," when they mean, "Oh, we just didn't have enough of a passenger load on that flight to make it financially worthwhile for us. We'll just rebook them--if it's convenient for us."

I've caught them using the old "bad weather" trick several times. It takes seconds to check destination weather in aviation weather format through an app on your smartphone. And yet they still expect people to believe this same tired old whopper. Ditto for the one about "mechanical problems." If those airliners had as many real mechanical problems as they would have you believe, the FAA would never have certified anything in their current fleets, deeming those models hopelessly unreliable and unsafe.

It's all about the money, don'tcha know. They just don't seem to be able to find enough ways to extract more from us, either. I know I'm a dinosaur, but I remember when you didn't have to pay to check bags, when free, halfway decent meals were served on multi-hour flights, when it didn't cost extra to book a flight over the phone or to change a reservation, when there was no extra fee for unaccompanied minors, and when the inflight movie was free.

Now some airlines are charging for soda, never mind alcohol--and some are actually charging for water! One airline was seriously considering charging passengers to use the lavatory--no kidding. They deliberated for a whole year before they gave up the idea. I heard a rumor that they were thinking of exempting purses from the "personal item" list, but they seem to have backed off that one. Any woman I know who carries a purse feels that it's practically part of her body. It would be like asking men to pay extra for carrying their wallets.

As a pilot, I can certainly understand that baggage increases weight and increased weight requires an increase in fuel burned, but come on--they used to just accept that as a legitimate part of the cost of doing business. Now they're simply getting greedier.

There was a time when flying on the airlines was fun and exciting. It was an adventure to take an airplane somewhere. Now it's just plain drudgery to be endured like a ride down a potholed road on an old bus full of chickens--the experience is no longer pleasant and you know you're being cheated out of comfort and convenience so large corporations can make obscene profits.

Those big, new airplanes are not so much about "modernizing the fleet" as they are about packing more people into one airplane so they can make more money per flight. If you buy the snake oil they're selling about "extra seat room," I have a rice paddy in Phoenix you might want to purchase. More likely they'll give you some extra hookups for electronics and charge you through the nose for them and the seats will be the same or smaller.

In the detective story world, the rule of thumb when attempting to solve a murder is "Follow the money." Any time the airlines advertise some new innovation, remember to ask yourself how they might be able to profit from it. Because it's not really about creating a superior air travel experience so they'll attract repeat customers, it's making it seem that way by telling us a big fat story and hoping we'll believe it if they repeat it enough times, meanwhile nickel-and-diming us to death under cover of all that hype.

Remover of Obstacles, Book One in the Jude Hayes Mysteries series, quote coming right up:

“Morning, Boss, you had a call from DBC a few minutes ago. They want to reschedule your appointment to tomorrow morning. Your schedule on the computer looked good for that, so I told them okay.”

Ming is pretty good about taking messages if he’s not immersed in a computer search. Communication has been known to suffer when he is, however.

“And you didn’t call me on my cell, why? I could have been motoring down I-70 on my way to Aspen already.” I wasn’t really annoyed, more amused that Ming was being Ming. I try to let things roll off my back when they really don’t matter. I had not, after all, already left for Aspen.

“I knew you’d be in for the doughnuts, Boss. No bigs.”

“Oh, you did, huh?” I tried to look stern and failed miserably. Ming had my number. And he had brought fresh Super Glaze doughnuts, after all.

“Mm-hmm.” He stuffed half a doughnut in his mouth with one hand and reached out for a small sheaf of paper newly emerged from the printer with the other.

“This is the business profile for Tremont’s. Kind of an amazing business. They have no long-term debt. Seems they bought the restaurant with cash ten years ago. Not even any subsequent loans for capital improvements or equipment.

“Man, how do they do it?” I wondered. I was happy to have only a mortgage, a motorcycle loan, and a car loan. I usually manage to pay off my credit card every month, through extreme discipline.

“Obviously they’re way old school. Put every penny they make right back into the business, less living expenses, which seem very modest. They don’t even have a mortgage or home equity loan on their little house over on Tenth Street. Their credit profile is a little weird, but sterling.”

“What do you mean, ‘a little weird’?”

“Well, they don’t even use credit cards much. Old school dudes, I’m telling you.”

Needless to say, this was an antiquated and barely comprehensible notion to Ming, who even at thirty, had been born into a credit economy. My grandparents used to call it “buying on time” and took a very dim view of it. Now it seemed to make the world go ‘round. Uh, well, at least until it made the world go STOP when the economy tanked in 2008.

I took a sip of the typically fine coffee—Callie’s Sillesta Decaf. “Anything anomalous in there at all that could help us, Ming?”

“Naw. A damn healthy little business.” He leaned back and folded his arms, smug and grinning. “Ming the Merciless would have ferreted it out of cyberspace by now.”

Germany, China, and The Netherlands--It's a Small World After All

In my quest to learn the ropes of blogging, I ventured into the stats section of my blog and discovered that not only have quite a few Americans landed on my blog, but some people from Germany, the Netherlands, and China, as well. That's pretty cool. Jude Hayes and the gang are global!

Maybe these readers are expatriated Americans living abroad, but maybe they're natives of their individual countries who like mysteries and the eclectic subjects I have been rambling on about. For whatever brought them here,  I'm grateful for the readers! Comments are always welcome and desired!

In my flying career, I was mostly a domestic pilot. I never got much farther outside the conterminous United States than Canada and the Caribbean. About the time I was preparing to go to Europe, I got laid off from my Gulfstream jet job. But the great thing about reading, as opposed to flying, is that the mind can go where the body cannot.

I recently read a great book about some of those ex-pats living in China, titled Big in China. Alan Paul moved to Beijing when his wife accepted a job transfer there. Off they went, just like that, with three small children in tow. Wow! That seems really brave to me, moving so far away. But China is a truly fascinating culture that I would love to learn more about. Recently I've thought about learning Chinese through Rosetta Stone or another language learning system. But which of the many dialects should one consider studying first? I need a Chinese "pen pal." Oh, wait, pen pals were decades ago. We have social media now. Guess I have to find a Chinese-American group on Google+.

Then there is the Netherlands. I live in a part of New York State that was settled by the Dutch--Henry Hudson claimed Albany for the Dutch in 1609. Towns around here are named after cities such as Amsterdam and Rotterdam. People have names that start with "Van." In the Spring, Albany has its Tulip Festival and windmills are often seen in the parks of this area. Dutch architecture in sprinkled liberally throughout Schenectady's Stockade section, some buildings dating back to the 1600s. That's pretty ancient--for America. Europe laughs at our "old" buildings.

And last, but not least, I come to Germany. I have a special fondness for things German--everything from the geography to the food to the museums to the friendly people. And Germany makes the most wonderful, technically advanced motorcycles in the world! I've had several BMW motorcycles over the last couple of decades. Sold my last one a couple years ago. Fine machines, indeed! 

I lived in southern Germany, the town of Neu Ulm, for about a year when I was briefly married to an American soldier stationed there. I had a great time trying out my rudimentary high school and college German and looking around the gorgeous countryside. I remember what fun it was to shop for crystal and nutcrackers and delicious desserts as Christmas approached. 

Years later, I returned to Germany, staying in the Allgau region with family. I saw a slightly more intimate side of the country then, and got to meet a few new friends. I found the people warm and as eager to learn about America as I was to learn about Germany. Many people in the small town where I stayed spoke only about as much English as I did German, but we managed to communicate well enough. Perhaps what I liked best about the Germans was their sort of philosophical, easy-going attitude toward life during their free time. Oh, they work like maniacs and play just as hard, but they do know how to relax and turn off the working world. I tried to learn that lesson.

Everyone walks and hikes in the hills there. A lady in her eighties walked my legs off on a steady climb for over an hour! You can go marketing at 7:00 a.m. in specialty shops in the village. Wonderful cheeses and fresh meats are often served for breakfast. Sunday dinner can last three hours. You might hear cowbells jingling on the morning air as an entire herd of cows walks patiently back to pasture. Dogs are practically revered and allowed to accompany their people into restaurants. Of course, those pooches behave much, much better than my dog. Beer can be served in liter mugs and it is as tasty as you've heard. Germany is a marvelous place--I'd love to go back.

I do plan to seek some new friends from other lands on social media. Isn't it wonderful that you can instantly google anything you need to know about another culture, and then chat online with a native of that culture? The world is truly shrinking. I've heard it said that some cultures have become dissatisfied with their way of life because they've seen others depicted on the internet and TV. Perhaps that's true. But who's to say it may not inspire them to achieve positive change within the framework of their own culture? I like to think that a shrinking world fosters greater communication and understanding. We all have something useful to learn from each other if we just keep an open mind. As the theme of the 1964 World's Fair, Walt Disney, and the Sherman brothers said, "It's a small world after all."

I remember my stay in Germany and I've made daily walks a part of my routine. Maybe when I'm eighty-something I can be as healthy as a German woman if I just keep hiking on! I can almost hear the cowbells and smell the alpine air . . ..

Here's a bit of Remover of Obstacles, a Jude Hayes Mystery:

Friday morning dawned cold and windy. I was a bag of bones and sore muscles. It was the last day of my exercise week, which was an exceedingly good thing. Tomorrow I’d sleep late, I promised myself. But I dragged myself through the routine of an extra-long run with some interval training thrown in since I was doing penance for the shrimp primavera and Simone’s sinful lemon cake.

My cell phone started to vibrate just as I let the dogs in through the kitchen door after our jog. As it was only six-thirty, this might not be good news. The number wasn’t immediately familiar but it was local, so I figured it probably wasn’t a robo-call and pressed the “accept” button.

“Jude Hayes.” I tried not to pant as my heart rate returned to resting.

“Jude! I knew you were an early riser.” A.J. Pierpont. Didn’t old ladies sleep late?

“In case you’re wondering why I’m up so early, you might remember hearing that we need less sleep as we get older. Well, it’s quite true in my case.” It was like she’d read my mind. Freaky.

“Good morning, A.J., I just came in from my run.”

“Ah, excellent! Nothing better than brisk exercise.

Thanksgiving Traditions

It's almost Thanksgiving. I know this because I plunked down my last twenty bucks for a 14.56-pound frozen Butterball turkey today. Generally I put off buying the turkey until the Sunday before Thanksgiving, but I decided that the danger existed that I'd spend the last of the grocery money on something stupid like gasoline or postage before three more days had passed.

So while I was lugging it to the car--didn't bother to use a cart since I only had the turkey, a bag of stuffing, and a couple cans of cranberry sauce--I started thinking about Thanksgiving traditions. I only have a handful, and they're pretty silly, but at least they're mine.

The first one is the Sunday buying-of-the-turkey, for which I've already jumped the chocks. Next comes the night-before-Thanksgiving. Growing up in our rambling old house in Connecticut there existed that nauseatingly traditional division of holiday labor between my parents:  Mom cooked, and Dad tended bar for the Thanksgiving guests. There was one very special exception to this pattern, however. On Thanksgiving Eve, my father would haul out the blender and make turkey "dressing," which is known these days as "stuffing." It involved creating lots of bread crumbs and mixing them with . . . something. I think it was celery, but honestly, it's been too many years to remember. I just buy the Pepperidge Farm stuff in the bag.

It seemed to take him hours to make a few pounds of dressing and he made a huge production out of it. But that was okay with my sisters and me, because we had entertainment--though there was a certain amount of that to be had just by watching Dad work in the kitchen--in the form of holiday TV. Many decades before the Hallmark Channel barrage of holiday movies, there was the Thanksgiving airing of The Wizard of Oz. Thanksgiving couldn't come unless we watched The Wizard of Oz on the night before--and unless Dad made the dressing (never mind that Mom was crazy busy making like nine hundred other things, would only catch a few hours of sleep that night and be up at dawn's early light Thanksgiving morning to get the enormous turkey in the oven.)

The Wizard of Oz has been replaced with Addams Family Values as my sense of humor has gotten . . . weirder. My favorite scene finds Wednesday Addams and her brother Pugsly doing hard time at summer camp, forced to take part in a play very loosely based on the first Thanksgiving. Wednesday plays a Native American maiden and a preppy fellow camper plays Pilgrim Sarah Miller. As they prepare to sit down to the feast, Wednesday improvises, abandoning the script:

"Wait! . . . We cannot break bread with you. . . . You have taken the land which is rightfully ours. Years from now my people will be forced to live in mobile homes on reservations. Your people will wear cardigans and drink highballs. We will sell our bracelets by the roadsides. You will play golf and enjoy hot hors d'oeuvres. My people will have pain and degradation. Your people will have stick shifts. The gods of my tribe have spoken. They have said, 'Do not trust the Pilgrims, especially Sarah Miller'. . . . And for all these reasons I have decided to scalp you and burn your village to the ground." 

                                 -- from Addams Family Values       

Very funny. Catch that scene on YouTube.

Thanksgiving morning we all paused from the food preparation duties to catch at least a few minutes of the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade. My Mom liked the marching bands best. I was a fan of any pretty horses being ridden. Now I'm the one who likes the bands best. I rate the Rockettes a close second.

A few years--okay, maybe more than a few years--went by and I picked up another tradition:  listening to Arlo Guthrie's rendition of the classic, Alice's Restaurant, on the radio. Had to be on the radio. Even though much more convenient media have appeared, I still try to listen to it on the radio. There's always some station playing it just around noon on Thanksgiving.

At the height of my flying career, an unwilling tradition of mine became sitting in hotel rooms in random cities near where we'd parked my current employer's airplane. That's one tradition I've happily let go.

On Thanksgiving afternoon, of course, there was football. Though I'm not much of a fan, I used to watch with those members of the family who were. Sometimes I tune in just for old time's sake.

In between second helpings of pie, football, and helping to shuttle various family members back to their  homes, my nuclear family always found time to snipe at the neighbors who were already putting up their outdoor Christmas decorations. Our family felt that it was positively unseemly to hang decorations outdoors--or indoors, for that matter--until at least the first of December. You can now understand my consternation in a previous post regarding my current neighbors hanging outdoor wreaths on November fifth!

Two new traditions I started last year are watching the dog show after the Macy's parade and taking my own dog for an early, long walk. I imagine the dog show will be on again this year, but the dog walkies tradition has less impact because I take my dog for a long walk every day now that I live in a neighborhood where you don't get run over if you venture beyond your driveway.

And last, but not least, comes a tradition from an old friend who insisted that before Thanksgiving it simply couldn't snow--not as in, climatologically impossible, but as in, once again, unseemly and unseasonal--before Thanksgiving. Never mind that I've seen Halloween snowstorms in the Northeast and there's already been plenty of snow in Colorado. And then there are places that have permanent glaciers and all that, but the spirit of the tradition is simply that one says, "Okay, it's Thanksgiving, now it can snow." It's a kind of welcome to the coming winter season--a timely welcome, that is. It is my replacement for that gauche tradition which I most emphatically DO NOT observe, "Black Friday." Bah! Humbug! on that one. I stay home and write. And eat leftovers.


I forgot the Jude Hayes Mysteries scene from Remover of Obstacles, had to edit the post:

“Great.” I sighed. “Well, I’m afraid it’s time to do some digging, literally and figuratively—first, the literal part.” We filled our plates from the serving dishes and found a small table set in an alcove out of the way of the action, intended for just this purpose. We settled in and tucked eagerly into the food.

Ming paused long enough to say, “Whoa, Bethie and G. outdid themselves this time. A.J.’s got nothing to complain about here. This meal would make Simone jealous.”

Clicker gave him a pointed look, “Dude.”

“Well, okay, maybe not, but she should be.” Clicker nodded agreement.

I forked in another mouthful of perfectly cooked “carpetbagger” steak—how appropriate for the moneyed set—and chewed blissfully. Finally I was able to tear my attention away from my plate long enough to say, “Before the fun started, I was telling Clicker that I ran into Roach and Ganapati in the wine cellar. They broke off a very private discussion when I came out of the wine room.”

“’Roach?’” Ming asked.

“That’s what Clicker and DBC call the wine expert. His name’s Rochambeau.”

“Definitely fits him,” Ming declared. “A bug who feeds off rich people’s leavings. And just in love with himself. It was lots of fun waiting on him.”

Clicker laughed. “Eh, no lie, Dude. Better you than me! I warned Jude.” His expression became suddenly thoughtful. “Ya know, that wine alcove’s a favorite place for private discussions. Rumor has it that other dirty deeds have been done down there, too.” He grinned.

“And you would know this, how?”

“Oh, we’ve done lots of gigs here.” He sat up officiously and hooked his fingers in his vest pockets. “Gossip is merely professional courtesy among the help.”

I couldn’t help giggling a little. “As I was saying, there’s something going on with those two. And if I’m not mistaken, the hospital big-wig who emceed was with the other two the afternoon of the murder. How convenient that they’re all at the same table. Wonder what else they have in common?”

“Nuclear egos, Boss, if nothing else,” Ming said disgustedly. “They’re real assholes who keep trying to outdo each other by telling big, fat blowhard lies. And Roach keeps ordering me around like he was a straw boss and I was cheap Chinese labor building the Transcontinental Railroad.”

“My aunt Sadie dumped a bowl of hot soup over a guy’s head for that highhanded routine—and she was eighty at the time,” I said cheerfully.

“Old ladies are mean, Dudette.”

Clicker’s timing in delivering that remark was particularly unfortunate as A.J. chose that moment to appear behind him, resplendent in a black velvet jacket and mauve skirt.

“Only when mean people cross us, Stanley.” Clicker almost choked on his steak as she patted him on the arm and said, “Oh, don’t worry, I know you couldn’t possibly have meant me, dear.”

“Uh, no ma’am, of course not—my apologies. Family story of Jude’s.” He smiled sickly.

A.J. pulled out the fourth chair at our table and unaffectedly sat down, smoothing out her formal skirt. “Now, tell me what you three have learned so far.” She fixed each of us in turn with those probing hazel eyes.

 

 

The Presidential Medal of Freedom

I don't usually tune in to daytime television, but this morning I'd turned on the TV to get the weather and major stories and just left it on while I took care of some household tasks prior to starting my writing. About 11:00 a.m. CNN picked up the ceremony at the White House for this year's Presidential Medal of Freedom recipients, and I was instantly mesmerized.

It was the fiftieth anniversary of President John F. Kennedy's establishment of the award and CNN mentioned that Ethel Kennedy, widow of Robert F. Kennedy, was in the audience. This Friday, November 22nd, marks fifty years since JFK was assassinated.

After briefly recounting each recipient's lifetime achievements, the President personally made the presentation to each and every one of the sixteen winners, warmly congratulating them and fastening one of the gorgeous decorations around each proud neck.

Executive Order 11085 establishes the criteria for selection of the annual recipients:

"(a) The Medal may be awarded by the President as provided in this order to any person who has made an especially meritorious contribution to (1), the security or national interests of the United States, or (2) world peace, or (3) cultural or other significant public or private endeavors."

Here's a list of the sixteen:

1. Ernie Banks
2. Ben Bradlee
3. Bill Clinton
4. Daniel Inouye (awarded posthumously)
5. Daniel Kahneman
6. Richard Lugar
7. Loretta Lynn
8. Mario Molina
9. Sally Ride (awarded posthumously)
10. Bayard Rustin (awarded posthumously)
11. Arturo Sandoval
12. Dean Smith
13. Gloria Steinem
14. Cordy Tindell, "C.T." Vivian
15. Patricia Wald
16. Oprah Winfrey

I'm sorry to say that I recognized less than half of them, but I was delighted to see all of them receive the award. Their faces were simply shining! Such amazing gifts they've given the world in such diverse areas as chemistry, economics, sports, entertainment, civil rights, law, the environment, public service, and world peace. It was very cool to see such icons as Gloria Steinem, Loretta Lynn, and Oprah Winfrey greeting the President and First Lady.

Several medals were awarded posthumously, and it was especially bittersweet to see Sally Ride's life partner, Tam O' Shaughnessy, accept the award on her behalf. Physics professor Dr. Sally Ride was the first American woman in space who became a role model for so many young women. She died of pancreatic cancer in 2012.

Reflecting upon the impressive accomplishments of so many authentic American legends, I could only agree wholeheartedly that they all deserved the award. I can't imagine having grown up without the trailblazing activism and eloquent, encouraging words of Gloria Steinem. Or the wonderful interviews and messages of inspiration Oprah has brought us. Or the inaugural speech full of hope for the future given by Bill Clinton.

One could simply not help being inspired by these people! Because of them, I went about my day a little happier, a little surer that I could carry on, and perhaps . . . just maybe, that I could make some small accomplishments of my own today and in the future--even if it might be just a few words added to my novel manuscript or a phrase or two in cyberspace.

Congratulations to all the recipients! Wear your decorations proudly, fellow Americans!

Here is the Jude Hayes, Remover of Obstacles excerpt for today:

“Good Afternoon, Ladies and Gentlemen. My name is Roland Chatfield. Our hostesses for this delightful luncheon, the lovely Pierpont sisters, Amanda Josephine and Madeleine, have asked me to thank you all for coming to help celebrate the opening of our new state-of-the-art pediatric wing at Grand Valley Hospital, the Steven A. Westfield Children’s Clinic, named for A.J.’s late husband, and made possible by the extreme generosity of the Pierpont and Westfield families. Its humanitarian mission to help provide children with life-threatening illnesses the care their families otherwise would not be able to afford will lift up our entire community and make Grand Junction an even more wonderful place to live and raise our families.”

“As the Chief Administrator of Grand Valley Hospital I would like to thank the Pierponts and Westfields on behalf of our hospital staff and the entire community. May we please have a round of applause for our greathearted benefactors. A.J., Madeleine, and Peggy—would you ladies please stand up.”

The Pierpont sisters and Peggy Westfield, whom I remembered was Steven’s younger sister and now matriarch of her own small dynasty, rose with dignity as the audience likewise got to its feet clapping enthusiastically. Madeleine and Peggy seemed vaguely embarrassed, but A.J. only seemed ecstatically happy—it was obvious that this project had meant a great deal to her, regardless of her other reason for throwing the party. Were she not firmly in grande dame character, I was sure I would have seen a tear escape her eye.

Figure Skating, Flying, and A Comfortable Circle of Friends

I'm excited that it's almost time for the Olympic Winter Games in Sochi, Russia. Figure skating is one of those things that I absolutely love yet have never felt any inclination whatsoever to do myself. There is a kind of freedom in just being a fan, a spectator watching for the pure enjoyment of the sport.

I've been tuning in on TV for a good many years now and figure skating has become like an old friend. Sadly, it mostly doesn't get televised until the Olympics are drawing near. Latching onto every last commercial opportunity, the TV and online providers have made it rather difficult to subscribe to the preliminary events, at any cost, not that I can afford to pay any more for TV or internet, anyway.

Fortunately, NBC came to the rescue this year and I was lucky enough to catch a bit of the Worlds in March and saw most of Skate America in October. The US Figure Skating Championships, celebrating their 100th anniversary, are in Boston this winter, starting January 5th, 2014. And, of course, the Winter Olympics start on February 7th, 2014.

Watching figure skating has become a well-established tradition for me. I remember the winter of 1994 when I had a serious sports injury to my hand and had to stay home from this big flying club banquet that I always looked forward to immensely. Luckily, the Winter Olympics had figure skating on that night. I'm quite sure I had a better time at home--at least until the pain meds administered for the plastic surgery wore off. But those daring young athletes on the ice kept me company while the rest of the family went to the banquet without me.

There were so many spectacular performances in Vancouver 2010, that I stayed up late, glued to the TV. Then I had to write about it next morning--the excellence of one young man and his joyous triumph. It inspired me to work that much harder on finishing Remover of Obstacles.

I even watch all those cheesy movies about figure skating that appear around this time every year. I know they're about as real as most of the movies Hollywood makes about pilots and flying, but I love them anyway. I can see that I might have real potential to become an "extreme fan" of figure skating--sort of like my good friend's forty-year-old son who puts on a football uniform and face paint to go to a Pittsburgh Steelers game. And yet, I've never been to a skating competition in person. I might put it on my bucket list, but the seats are really exceptionally good in my living room. And it's warmer there.

My Dad taught me to skate in the back yard on a "skating rink" made of corrugated aluminum, plastic sheets, water, and Mother Nature's deep freeze one winter when I was in grade school. I started out with his old hockey skates because my feet were so large. I'd had sort of weak ankles since I was a really little kid, and it was thought that skating might strengthen them. It actually did! I'd come home from school, whip through my homework, and head to the garage to lace up those old skates. Dad would leave me alone to practice after a few minutes of instruction. There was something cool about being out there in the dark alone with just the nearby garage lights to skate by. Sort of like my very own short program in the ice arena. I always did have a good imagination. . ..

But, as I said, I knew the real spotlight was not for me. I started skating when I was much too old and I had a body better suited to carrying passenger baggage and wrestling airplanes onto the ground in the wind than landing triples on the ice and executing flawless flying camels. I was . . . sturdy . . . with feet only a frog could envy.

As dainty and graceful as the top skaters look, I'm sure skating takes a lot of physical and emotional strength and unbelievable amounts of dogged hard work, unshakable self-confidence, and limitless intestinal fortitude. Oh, and then there's raw talent and the unnatural ability to get up at like 03:30 to head to the ice rink. The only time I could do that was when there was an airplane involved. Come to think of it, flying and figure skating have a lot in common. We all have our proving grounds. Some people have ice, and some people have airport runways.

For me, figure skating also has something in common with my books. I wanted to create a mystery series where the characters would become old friends, keeping me and my readers company, giving us all a chuckle once in a while, maybe--dare I say--inspiring us, sometimes. That's what figure skating does for me. When I get to see skating at the Winter Olympics, it's like seeing old friends and watching new ones step into the limelight. It's a cozy tradition embroidered with the beauty of the sport and the thrill of competition--brand new, every four years--showing up exactly at the appointed time. It's "A Comfortable Circle of Friends." Hurry up February--I can hardly wait!


 Here's today's Jude Hayes excerpt form Remover of Obstacles:

Ming soon returned carrying plastic bags bulging with soft drinks and stacks of plastic glasses. Thinking of A.J., I shut off the vacuum and opened the cupboards under the windows, taking a quick accounting of my office liquor inventory. Not bad—one bottle each of Dewars, Bacardi, Stoli, and Johnny Walker red, and several bottles of wine—all of which had arrived as thank-you and holiday gifts from clients. I remembered the first time I’d received booze as a business gift—it had made me feel like a real, hard-boiled private eye. Probably a good thing I didn’t drink like Sam Spade, though. In the next cupboard I found a motley assortment of glasses wrapped in paper towels and I set these out on the countertop with the liquor array. We were now officially ready to turn the airplane into heavy weather.

“The food is covered, Boss,” Ming said as he finished setting out the soft drinks. “A.J. also called Jasmine and the Tremonts and invited them all to the meeting. They’re coordinating on the food. I’ve got to run back and help with the table.”

“The table?”

“Yeah, Jasmine thinks we’re going to need her fold-up table.”

“Geez—this is like a freaking arms summit.” I shook my head, “Okay. Must be something major.” He nodded, hurrying out the door. Whatever was on A.J.’s agenda, I really wished she hadn’t gotten Elio and Simone all stirred up. They were barely holding it together through these turbulent times and they did not need to be subjected to A.J.’s theatrics. Still, I remembered the stressed tone in A.J.’s voice on the phone—something was undeniably wrong. If she wanted the Tremonts at her meeting, she probably had a good reason for it.

Being a Princess is Boring

Well, unless you're Kate Middleton, I suppose. This princess nonsense has gotten women into nothing but trouble since time immemorial. We moon around and wait around for our chosen Prince Charming to show up, thus wasting a lot of time which could have been so much more profitably spent working on our MBAs or traveling the world with the Peace Corps. Hmm. Maybe not when we were kids. But there were still soccer games to be played and books to be read and papers to be delivered--all more worthy pursuits than modeling fake tiaras and ingesting the second-class status of a female royal whose major skill is knowing how to be waited on. Think Princess Buttercup in The Princess Bride, crooning, "My Wesley will come for me." Ugh.

One worthy exception to the uselessness of princesses was Diana, the late Princess of Wales. There was a woman who gave princesses a good name. She was a genuinely lovely person, caring for the sick and the lonely, the poor and the hopeless. She made being a princess a worthwhile career. And, of course, she was beautiful. But she married a toad.

Much earlier than the 60s, our mothers, older sisters, aunts, and grandmothers were trying to warn us that this princess stuff is a crock of . . . spoiled milk or something nasty. The lucky among us have been able to really hear them. Most of us got sucked into the princess sham to one degree or another, though, before experience became a hard teacher and we shook off our princess fantasies for good.

The princess critics have been weak-voiced in the last few decades, perhaps silenced by the dominant power structure fighting back against the feminist movement of the 60s--a great treatment of which is found in Susan Faludi's book Backlash.

But some powerful women have been taking up the princess-exposure business recently. Supreme Court Justice Sonia Sotomayor recently told Sesame Street viewers that being a princess is just not a viable career option, no doubt thrashing Disney's sales figures for the quarter. Also not a princess fan is First Lady Michelle Obama. The first family is perhaps the closest thing to royals that we have here in America. But can you imagine Michelle encouraging her daughters to assume the princess role? I think not. Her staunch commitment to children's physical fitness does not jibe with princess-like ways. I mean, have you ever seen a princess sweat or high-five a teammate after the big game?

In my childhood, I couldn't see any advantage to being a princess. They didn't get to do any of the fun stuff. They had to wear gaudy dresses and do their hair all the time. It was the princes or the knights that got the horses, and the cool swords, and the shot at adventure. The princesses got to hang out in moldy, dank castles with bad lighting and creepy old men, waiting for the castle to be invaded by even more unpleasant men whom they might have to marry.

Maybe I'm just mad because no one gave my sisters and me any princess dolls for Christmas. Oh, my sisters had Barbies, but they generally preferred to pose them in Ken's Jeep and hurl them down the hallway while the song Dead Man's Curve played on the stereo. I myself got a G.I. Joe outfitted as a Mercury astronaut, complete with space capsule.

I'm not saying that this formative-years play led my sisters to become NASCAR drivers, but one did major in the rigorous physical recreation course at Springfield College and the other started a small business--seriously un-princess-like pursuits. And me, well . . . I didn't enter the astronaut business, but I did become a pilot and passed my flight instructor test on the tragic day that Christa McAuliffe, the first teacher in space, lost her life when the space shuttle Challenger exploded after takeoff.

For the parents out there, there is good news. I see lots of movies being made with strong female characters, nary a princess among them. I'm dying to see the sci-fi epic Ender's Game, which appears to have a very impressive female role model. Thank goodness all that princess-like mooning over male vampires is finally fading. And next year, sci-fi writer David Weber's long-awaited adaptation of the Honor Harrington series is coming to the big screen. She's the strongest starship captain ever, bar none. Princess dresses will soon be OUT and the white beret of a starship captain will be IN! We can only hope.

Our Jude Hayes excerpt of the day features Amanda Josephine (A.J.) Pierpont, always a lady, but never a princess.

A.J. steamed through the open office door like a battleship coming about to firing position, Bethie and Gisela panting in her wake. Her hazel eyes flashed like eighteen-inch guns firing as she said, “Sometimes I hate people, I really do!” She slapped her gloves onto the table and thunked her handbag down next to them, just missing a plate of sandwiches.

Every member of her audience was standing, watching her in various degrees of astonishment. A.J. Pierpont simply did not raise her voice. Getting control of her temper, she seemed to notice our assembled group for the first time. “Oh, please forgive me, friends. I simply can’t stand to see bad things done to good people in the name of greed.” She looked at each of us in turn. “I think we’d all better sit down—it’s a horrible story I have to tell you and we have much to figure out.” With that, she pulled out a chair and seated herself as elegantly as her state of agitation would allow.

You Might Need a Private Jet

I've always loved comedian Jeff Foxworthy's "You might be a redneck if . . ." bits where he recites a hilarious laundry list of stereotypical attributes. So, with full credit to Jeff Foxworthy, I'd like to offer a business jet pilot's thoughts on who might need a private jet.

You might need a private jet if:

1. You're so famous that complete strangers try to mob you like the Beatles coming ashore in 1964.
2. You're the President of the United States and the Secret Service teeters on en masse heart attacks when you insist that you should be flying coach on Delta.
3. You're one of the wealthiest men in a beastly hot, oil-bearing country and you've never even heard of Delta. Moreover, you've never heard of anyone you know flying on a common air carrier.
4. You're the CEO of a small-to-medium-sized company--private, not public--and you have meetings in three cities the same day--cities like Stuttgart, Arkansas, Pellston, Michigan, or Hattiesburg, Mississippi, which are not known for their regular airline service.
5. You're the CEO of a humongous company to which the label "Fortune 500" could be applied and you're so busy you need to have meetings with your senior executives while you fly. You might need that private jet/flying conference room instead of adjacent airline seats if you happen to know that the words "industrial espionage" don't refer to the hottest new Xbox game.
6. You're trying to carry a living heart or kidney in a beer cooler from Cleveland to Boston.
7. You're someone whose good deed for the year is donating a free flight to Boston to the recipient of that heart or kidney.   
8. You're someone whose good deed for the year is a free flight for some awesome Special Olympians to the Games.
9. You're someone whose good deed for the year is moving several homeless dogs from their overcrowded shelter in Texas to waiting adoptive families in upstate New York.
10. You're an American businessperson traveling to countries where ransoming American businesspeople for many units of foreign currency is a national sport.
11. You might need a private jet if you're fabulously wealthy and you "just want to be stylish," as Col. Jeff Cooper once reported to flight instructor extraordinaire Chas Harral. Oh, wait, I think that was a piston-engine airplane and the Colonel probably wasn't wealthy. Ah, same principle.
12. You just don't like arriving at the airport four hours prior to your departure time, taking off your shoes and belt in front of strangers, leaving your makeup in inaccessible luggage, having your pet left on the luggage cart as your airliner taxis away without it, paying to carry your purse on board, eating bad catering, getting "bumped" because you arrived at the gate too close to departure time, running a course longer than the Kentucky Derby through garishy lit terminal buildings to reach your connecting gate in time, etc., etc., etc.

          Here's our Jude Hayes quote for the day from Remover of Obstacles:

“Sorry to interrupt, Gayle,” Bethie sang out mischievously, “but we brought something for your seminar and it wasn’t ready until tonight.” The guys set the box down close to Sensei and Bethie enthusiastically flung the top off.

“Hey, you two are already doing way too much!”

“Oh, these are only partly from us.” She began to unwrap framed photographs, placing them on the mats. There were an even dozen and they were gorgeous. Each and every one was a picture of O’Sensei. Most I had never seen before though I’d perused several illustrated biographies of the Founder.

Sensei’s jaw dropped and she reached down to touch one of the expensive wood frames. “Do you have any idea how rare these pictures are? I saw a few of them when I trained in Hombu. Where did they come from?”

“Let’s just say that one of your secret admirers sent them.”

Sensei looked at each photo until she came to the last and gave a little gasp, “This can’t be—an original—can it, Gisela?”

“Absolutely. I framed them all myself—except this one—I had to go to the airport to pick it up. It came in by private jet and it was in some kind of very high-tech crate.” I had a sneaking suspicion that I might know to whom that private jet belonged, but I had no intention of spilling the beans.

 

Flying North to Alaska, South to Antarctica

Alaska. The name itself conjures up tales of adventure and breathtaking beauty. My high school best friend once told me that I was "always talking about Alaska." Well, at least when I wasn't talking about airplanes, I guess, which, incidentally, Alaska has more of than any other state in the Union.

When the days get short I think of how difficult it must be to live up there in the cold season. And how gorgeous--imagine being able to see the Northern Lights over your backyard every night! But the extended darkness--I know I couldn't take that. I'm already getting mild Seasonal Affective Disorder at this much lower latitude and it's only November.

I love the Alaska mystery authors Dana Stabenow and Sue Henry. I watch a goodly portion of the reality TV shows set in the far north. Ice Road Truckers is probably my favorite, though I'm also partial to Flying Wild Alaska. Flying airplanes and driving over-the-road trucks is challenging enough without having to manage weather entirely hostile to both humans and machines while dodging wild animals.

I can't speak to the trucking experience, but I'm absolutely sure that the flying up there is not for the faint-of-heart, lower-forty-eight pilots among us. They fly by a different set of rules in Alaska--because they have to. Tool kits, survival gear, guns, and satellite phones go into the back seat of the airplane up there. Often a pilot is a very long way from her support network. The best of the best are called "bush pilots," and I stand in awe of them.

Actually, these civilian pilots have a counterpart for moxie in a group of pilots that hang out near where I live. Their gang is called the 109th Airlift Wing of the New York Air National Guard and these pilots know all about the dark and the extreme cold and vicious winds driving blinding snow. They divide their missions between the lovely climates of Antarctica and Greenland. Even winter in northern Alaska probably feels like a summer day to them.

My neighbor is one of these larger-than-life pilots. His wife is also part of the unit, though I don't know her job, since I've only spoken to them briefly. I did manage to call a couple questions across the street while we were all out shoveling snow last winter. I asked how you landed as big an airplane as an LC-130 on skis in a total whiteout. He just shrugged and said, "Oh, you get used to it." Uh-huh. I think I'll just stick to my sissy Gulfstream jet.

One late afternoon a couple years ago my flying partner and I were returning to Schenectady County Airport in the Gulfsteam III, a home airport we shared with the 109th, when the tower reported that the wet and partially snow-covered runway was freezing quickly below us. As we approached the airport with some trepidation, we learned that the 109th had an airplane in the traffic pattern happily shooting touch-and-go landings on the extremely slippery stuff. Dear Pilots, read, do not try that at home, unless you go to work in a green flight suit and have a ginormous four-engine turboprop on skis for an office.

Sympathetic to our discomfort, the tower controller decided to help provide us with some very current runway information as she herded the LC-130 around the traffic pattern like a sheepdog nipping at their heels, so they would land and thus be able to give us a braking action report before we had to make our final approach to a landing.

They happily complied and cheerfully reported that braking action was "poor," as they cleared the runway for our approach. Thanks to them and the helpful controller, we had the required report and decided to land, though it wasn't the prettiest landing and deceleration. Just a walk in the park for those guys and gals in the 109th, though.

As I mentioned, I haven't had a chance to get to know my Air Guard neighbors yet, but I have noticed that in this dark time of the year, when the husband debarks for Antarctica, his wife puts a little electric candle in the window every night until he returns. I bet he can see that light through the lashing snow at McMurdo Station just like Santa can see Rudolf's nose so bright at the North Pole.

Safe travels, 109th!

The quote today is from Jude Hayes Mysteries, Book 2, They Pull Me Back In:

The insidious sound of sleet falling on the metal hangar roof assailed us as Batch opened the door. He carried a small tray with two ceramic mugs bearing the Pierpont Industries logo.

“Kind of a nasty night out there, ladies. Glad I’m not the one delivering that airplane.”

“Oh, Batch, you big baby!” A.J.’s eyes tried for humor but the sparkle was only a glimmer.

Pretending not to notice, Batch pronounced amiably, “Yes, ma’am, I am. That’s airplane-killer stuff falling out there. In its immediate past, it was freezing rain at a higher altitude. Take an airplane down in minutes if you stay in it. Don’t want any part of it if I can manage it.”

A.J.’s expression sobered even further as she asked, “Any word from them yet?”

“Yeah, just had a radio call while I was brewing coffee. They should be almost on the approach now. If they make it in. Weather’s right at landing minimums and probably getting worse.”

“Where will they go if they can’t land here?”

“Denver, most likely. The weather’s actually better there than here, for once.”

“Do they know how to find us once they get on the ground, Batch?”

“Yes, ma’am. I told them where we are on the field. And the ground controller will direct them, if they need help. And like Motel 6, I left the light on for ‘em—so to speak—I opened the door on the maintenance hangar and it’s lit up like a Christmas tree. Jackie’s out there, now, too.”

“Good.” A.J. fidgeted a little and Batch pulled out a chair.

Taking a sip of coffee and eyeing  me over the rim of his mug, he said, “So, Jude, you ready to jump back into this swamp full of alligators?”

      A bit taken aback by his directness, I replied in kind, “I guess that’s what I’m here to find out, Batch.”