The hell?

I woke up Friday before work, with the fresh memory of a dream that demonstrated a familiar old theme: I had just sighted in on my foe with my carry pistol (a 637 loaded with Buffalo Bore Plus P 158g SWCHPS) from short range, only to find that the strain of the 200+ pound trigger pull caused my aim to shake off target. As I thumbed back the hammer to single-action the brain pan of the giant man-eating hog, my sleep-time Airweight hammer spring showed so much resistance that I couldn't make the cocking notch. I finally woke up with the boar unshot, and me on a higher limb of the tree that I was in. MOST unsatisfactory, for a guy who just wanted to put dream bacon on the ground.

That super-heavy dream trigger has happened so often. I guess it's a "nightmare," but up until then, it was just exciting, not scary. With the heavy trigger, the dream grew very frustrating. I woke up right after.

But to be sure, I've had this happen in real nightmares.

So maybe, just maybe, that's the thinking behind a banner that I just found, advertising a new TV show called "Sleepy Hollow:"

I may have taken liberties with the graphic. 

But the woman with BOTH of her index fingers on the trigger of her Glock is supposed to be "Lt. Abbie Mills." 

I thought for a bit that perhaps it was a comedy, but the given genre is "Adventure / Drama / Fantasy." 

Hey, Hollywood? Let me explain something: to make fantasy work, you have to make every part of the show that is not fantastic be super-realistic. Please train your actors.

Best to take things a day at a time.

One of the most important things about dealing with a loved one who is hurt is that you cannot take a short period of "look how good he's doing!" and project that out to "He'll be just fine by  X time." When you do that, your heart gets set on X as the deadline by which good things will happen. If it hasn't occured by X, your  hopes get dashed.

It's just an arbitrary time, people.

There are undoubtedly other applications for this outlook, but right now, we're reassessing how long it will take my partner to get better. And it's going to take a little longer than we let ourselves dare to possibly dream.

Got any pocket change?

I've got five... no, six! dollars, and 37 cents.

Let's all kick in and buy a Type 42 destroyer.

Sure, the engines and the guns are removed, but think of the fun we could have. I'm thinking that, once we've got some Mercury outboards mounted, we go make a run up and down the coast of Somalia.

I know whom I'm asking to captain her.

What, me?!? Are you kidding? Give up a gunport on the rails for a spot on the conn? You're out of your mind.

Not my first time... quite.

"Are we too late?" I asked the attendant at the gate to the South Rim.

"Oh, no. Though you're probably my last paying customer," said the gate attendant in olive green, with a gold arrowhead on the shirt. "Staying overnight?" she asked, looking at the assorted gear in the back of our '89 Ford Ranger.

"Nope. Just passing through. We couldn't pass the Grand Canyon without having seen it," I responded.

"Well, you better hurry to the rim," she chuckled, giving me my change. "The sun is setting, and you don't want to miss that."

Indeed I didn't. My wife and I had been in transit from Eugene, Oregon to my house in north Texas, where we were going to marry in two weeks. This driving trip had turned into a de facto honeymoon for us. When we saw the turn-off to the Park entrance from I-40 in Williams, we stopped, unhitched our little U-Haul trailer behind a convenience store, and hauled butt north for an hour to go see it, all the time wondering if we were going to be too late, and if this wasn't a fool's errand.

My fiancee and I were a little snippy with each other, not the least because we had argued about leaving that trailer with most of her worldly possessions in it back at the turn-off. I had reasoned that it was a huge drag on the 10 year-old little four-banger, and we might save some gas and wear and tear for our side-trip. She felt that it was an unnecessary risk. When I found that the the tongue of the little van trailer, which we had loaded after putting it on the truck, was too heavy to lift, it only created more stress when I had to get out the jack to raise it off the trailer ball hitch. I am nothing if not stubborn.

The time it had taken to get the trailer tongue off the hitch had eaten up whatever savings we were going to make up in speed, so of course I had the hammer down as we flew up Highway 64, obviously consuming excess fuel, and risking a speeding ticket to boot.

So, while I chatted with the park gate attendant, my beloved passenger was silent. Go. Let's just go, was the mental message that she was sending me. So we hurried up to the South Rim from the gate in silence, and not really the good kind.

We parked close to the look-out, where there were only a couple of vehicles. As we walked down the trail into a surprisingly brisk north wind, we gasped. The sun was very low in the southwestern sky, now, and we were in the late minutes of The Golden Hour. As we came to a stop at the edge of a chasm, the eye was slowly drawn down into the deep pools of shadow, to witness the passage of a the ever-changing Colorado River. But not for long did we stare at the river below, because the long shadows of the setting sun were moving, quickly. Literally, the movement of the rays of light across the structures of the canyon rim would snatch our attention. The contrasts in color were markedly gold against purple. The distant desert horizon was a purple that filled the shadows of the canyon.

One of us ran to fetch my bride's old Canon 35mm SLR camera, and we took a couple of rolls worth of pictures. We first took them just of the canyon, then, reasonably, we took pictures of each other before the backdrop of the Canyon. In our ensuing move, we lost those rolls of film, never to be developed. I would pay a pretty penny for them, now, you may be sure.

After our most proximal star disappeared from view, we marveled at the distant river, now the star attraction. The purples became deeper, and deeper still, as the stars began to come out in the thin, dry air. Twilight gives way to full night fast in the desert. We got in the truck to continue our journey. We were silent again, but for a different reason. Awed. In love. Whatever our previous stress, it was completely forgotten.

We had been in the park for a litle more than 45 minutes.

So it is that we return, 12 years later, to see that marvelous place again. We leave first thing on Saturday morning, and I'm a little excited. If we got that kind of pleasure out of less than an hour there, what will we experience in the better part of a week?

I'm trying not to over-sell it to the kids. Because really, it simply can't be as great as I'm remembering it.

Can it?

Sleeping long.

I've always said that that you need more sleep when you work nights and sleep days. I've been adjusting to deep nights for a couple of weeks.

Yesterday morning I ended my night shift, returned home to my empty house*, and called a buddy. He and his wife had some errands planned today, and invited me to come along for lunch in their new car. I went along, and we enjoyed a beautiful sunny spring Saturday with blue skies and a high about 70 degrees. We had some Asian food, and came back to enjoy a beer and conversation on the back porch. Not wanting to wear out my welcome, I started for home.

On the way home, I thought, why not, while in town, stop for a six pack of good beer? The German deli in town offers a fine selection, and I chose Belgian white, and Dogfish Head 60 Minute IPA. (They let you mix six packs there.) As I was checking out, a girl before me walked in and ordered a Reuben sandwich before going to pick out a six pack of IPA. (No, Tamara was not visiting. I looked twice.) I stopped. Why hadn't I remembered that they made them there? The cook said he could get me a Reuben out fast. He did.

Good lord. I can't remember the last time I ate a sandwich that good.

After one IPA, I sat down in my bed to check email, at about 19:30 hours. I had been up for about 26 hours. My belly was full. I had a beer in my belly.

Sometime after midnight I woke up and folded the laptop and put it in the floor.

At a little after 09:30 this morning I woke up. 14 hours? Really? I wouldn't have thought it possible.

- - -
*Wife and kids left Friday to visit relatives for Spring Break/Easter.

6 miles away.

Five years ago today, on a Saturday morning, I finished up some paperwork at the P.D. at 0800 CST.

It was quiet. The radio was dead. I toiled on.

I hadn't paid any attention to the fact that the oldest space shuttle in our fleet was landing that morning. If I had, I would certainly have been outside watching for it, as it came across my sky. Stupidly, I still wish that I had, if only to see it for the last time it was to be seen. If I had been outside, I probably would have heard and seen the disintegration of the Columbia.

Why the hell didn't I? As I sat in a tiny little patrol office doing some inconsequential paperwork, seven men and women died, about 200,000 feet above my head.

I've never seen a spacecraft, beyond the satellites that scram across the sky (more and more you see the Iridium satellite flares), but those aren't craft, so much as cargo that got parked. I would have been happy to have watched a 22 year old stopgap spacecraft pass by.

I'm one of those who will someday pay to go stand on some ground 6 miles away from the launch pad of some other spacecraft in eastern Florida. I don't reckon that I'll ever get to go up in one, but at least I can hope to watch one go.

And if it's half as exciting as it looks through my little monitor, as I watch the the event through the lens of someone's handheld video camera, then I'm all in. Take a second and watch the launching of Columbia's last successful mission. Watch the exhaust as it passes above the terminator on its pre-dawn flight, into the the coming day.

Listen to how happy the crowd is when the SRB separation is successful. Hell, I was cheering, too, over 5 years and 1300 miles later. By that time, they were about 30 miles away from the shuttle, but they're just so happy to see that it made it.

Raise your cup to the memory of those who have gone, but don't mourn. Rather, give thanks for the hope that others may --will-- go also.

"When the ship lifts, all bills are paid. No regrets."


_ _ _
Edit: Fixed the link in the middle to show the launch of the last successful round trip of the Space Shuttle Columbia.

Marko's move to New Hampshire

Me: "So how's the move going?"

Marko: "We just closed on the house about 15 minutes ago, and..."

Me: "Congratulations!"

Marko: "Yah, thanks. I've got the keys in my pocket. Now we have to bed down for the night before finishing the last 90 miles, because of the ice storm. I'm en route right now to the the motel..."

Me: "You're driving right now? I'd better hang up and let you concentrate on the road, shouldn't I?"

Marko: "Oh yah, sure, but it's all coming back to me, now, how to drive in snow and ice. No sudden steering, no sudden braking, and..."

Me: "And keep a following distance sufficient to land a small Cessna."

Marko: "Right. You know what's fun? Suddenly yell 'Oh my Gawd!' and hang up the phone."

Me: "And that's mean. Besides, anyone who knows you knows that those wouldn't be your last words."

Marko: "Heh."

Me: "But you've got another day to get there before you unload and finish moving."

Marko: "Yep. Then I can finally sleep. I've had about 4 hours since we started."

Me: "Okay, now you're scaring me: driving on icy roads while talking on the cell phone, with almost no sleep..."

Marko: "Oh, it's fine, as long as I make it to a gaeis station; the light just came on."

Me: "Great. That's just great. You're going to either wreck out or run out of gas, now. So you're trying on a New Englander accent, now? That was pretty good."

Marko: "Yeah, I first lived up here when I came over [from Germany, where he grew up]. I'll pick it up in no time; I'm a linguistic chameleon."

Me (chuckling): "Exactly. Just like you picked up the Tennessee accent." [I hush my guffaws when I realize that Marko really does think he has a Tennessee accent. His German accent is really faint, but, he don't pre'zactly sound like he grew up with a Volunteers poster on his wall.]

- - - -

I admire Marko for many things. He possesses a razor-sharp wit. He's a superb writer, and his logical equations balance out. He's a devoted father and husband [he's moving to a house that his (beautiful) wife Robin picked out, which he's never laid eyes on, to rear the children while his wife plies her trade for the household income. Far from being a bum, he's simply recognizing their independent strengths, and not letting ego get in the way.] . He's a proud American, who grew up as a German, served his nation there, and then came here and legally naturalized as a U.S. Citizen. He has an eye for humor, and he has good friends. He has a developed knowledge of firearms and general aviation. The bastard's even better looking than I am.

I'm a little sorry to see Marko move to New England. Stupid, isn't it? The man lived 900 miles away from me, and I'm sorry that he's more than doubled that. Never met him personally, though we've talked online for years and years, and on the phone some recently.

But he'll get to build a range behind his new place, and he met the old owners today whom he said are nice, and that stuff matters when you're installing your family. "I'm just so glad to move out of suburbia," he said before we hung up.

Godspeed, buddy.


__________________________
(All photos shamelessly hotlinked from lensmaster extraordinaire Oleg Volk.)

If you could go anywhere. . .

Clairbell's mother makes her an offer she can't refuse.

"She wants to go on a trip with just me. Somewhere, anywhere. Without the boys, she says. Anywhere, for an undetermined amount of time, and doing anything as long as it’s not 'too rugged.' Not too hot, less than 100 miles."

So, if you had passports, several weeks, and a blank check to ANYwhere and back with your favorite close relative, where would pick, and why, specifically?

My wife and I play this game, but we've never even gotten passports. (Feel free to laugh and point at the pathetic hicks. We don't mind; we're used to it.)