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Something slightly loftier, pointed and hopefuly witty. |
| The ever popular question of what now comes to mind on yet another end and begining. |
| The boys were in rare form today at the veteran’s hospital. A visit to the Carl T. Hayden veteran’s hospital in Phoenix for veteran’s day is a typical practice for me and something I look forward to, although I am more of a fixture there then most. Sometimes you only need walk by to incite a verbal assault from one of the residents. One resident in particular, an old lieutenant colonel whose life now consists of paranoia and suspicion seemed to find fault with everyone around him today. Despite his outbursts I managed to maintain my composure and continue my visit with him and his family. His daughter provided a brief historical outline of this once proud man. The shell that sits before us is but that, and long gone are his courageous acts of selflessness as a US Army medic. Only he knows how many lives he saved and how many young men he comforted during their last days on earth. I sat by, quietly listening to his family try to reassure him that he was safe and among friends and got lost in the sounds and smells of the nursing ward, the colonel’s voice slowly fading as I stared into his empty blue-gray eyes. I tried to imagine the sights those eyes witnessed and how they viewed his present state. I wondered if he saw us all as his former enemy or did each of us remind him of a solder he provided aid to in the hostile environment of war? At times I would get a slight spark of the man that once was but it would quickly fade and the fear in his blue-gray eyes would return only reaffirming his solitary belief that he was indeed…all alone. A visit to the nursing wing is not always a harsh slap in the face as I soon discovered during my visit with Doris. Doris is a charming lady who makes her way about with the aid of an aluminum walker and a warm, welcoming smile. She enjoys holding hands and insists you address her as Dory. “I’m nobody’s ma’am she tells me.” I first met her last year when she was kind enough to give me a tour of her room. A typical hospital setting; electrically operated twin bed, one wooden framed chair with cushion, and bland colored off white walls were somehow transformed into a warm and homey space with a life times worth of photographs and personal nick-knacks from Doris’s long and rewarding life. One of her proudest pictures is of her, of course. Posed in her army nursing uniform, she proudly showed off her younger self, same warm smile from a time gone by. We were soon joined by Bob, a veteran of Okinawa, Japan, and Korea who took a seat opposite me and sparked quite an interest in Doris. Young love I thought inwardly as Dory began telling me what a handsome father I have, referring to Bob. I decided to leave the two love birds to chat among themselves and headed into the main dining room to help Pam, a hospital employee, set up for the afternoon gathering. Mr. Brady could be heard in the distance barking for a nurse to refill his coffee and Ernie echoing Mr. Brady’s request, not that Ernie wanted coffee, he just enjoyed hearing his voice I think. Pam and I set up the room to prepare the residents for the afternoon baking class, held each week. Today we would be baking a pumpkin loaf and reading through the Sunday paper together. We set out the stainless steel pots and baking utensils for our eager bakers and supplied plenty of napkins and gloves before turning them loose mixing the batter. George, Bill, and Edna were responsible for folding the butter and batter mix together, while Phillip, Ernie (still echoing anything Mr. Brady said) and Jerry beat the eggs. It was like heading up an overgrown kindergarten class as I thought of the ironic circle of life. We all start out dependant on the help of another and end up as we were born. At one point during our baking class we all broke into conversation, as best as can be held by some and out of the blue Phillip wondered if I was loose. Pam and I stared at each other briefly before breaking into laughter, never quite sure what Phillip was referring to, although I secretly wondered who he had been talking too to arrive at such a conclusion. Again, the circle of life was enforced by their innocence to ask anything that came to mind. The room was soon filled with the fresh smell of a warming oven and pumpkin spice as our cakes baked to perfection. We spent the rest of the time reading aloud from the Sunday paper while waiting for our cakes to bake. Mr. Brady barked and Ernie followed suit. Pam and I cleaned up from the baking session before I excused myself to continue on with my hospital visit. Next weekend we will be taking a field trip to my third place for an afternoon of coffee. That should be an interesting trip. |
| The hypnotic majesty of the open Arizona sky, with all of its splendor and mystery has kept me occupied for the past couple of days. With space shuttle Discovery circling earth in graceful harmony with the International Space Station, it has been a star gazer’s paradise. I wanted to step out of my story-telling persona and share with all the WDC readers about some very exciting celestial viewing opportunities taking place this weekend, if you are willing to give up a little sleep in exchange for some breath taking sights. Read on for the details and grab your blanket, a thermos of hot coco and a pair of binoculars and enjoy the show. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ On Monday morning, Nov. 5th, anyone willing to step outside before dawn will see a fantastic display of stars and planets—and maybe a couple of spaceships, too. Venus is the ridiculously luminous "star" hanging low in the east. You can’t miss it—especially because the crescent Moon is hanging nearby. The closely-spaced pair is as lovely as anything you will ever see in the heavens. If you can, tear your eyes away from Venus and the Moon. Just above them hangs Saturn, a delicate yellow beauty that cries out for the attention of your telescope; even small 'scopes reveal Saturn's breathtaking rings. And above Saturn, almost directly overhead, shines Mars. It is bright, distinctly orange, and for reasons science cannot fully explain, a little hypnotic. You won't be the only one looking at the planets. Orion the Hunter is there, too, outlined in the sky by an hour-glass of first magnitude stars. Joining Orion is Castor, Pollux, Regulus, Aldebaran and brightest of all, Sirius, the blue-white dog star. This stellar sprawl frames the planets in a scene guaranteed to spellbind—that is, until something comes along to break the spell. The two orbiters are due to fly over many US towns and cities on Monday morning. If things go according to plan, Discovery will undock from the ISS at 5:32 am EST (updates), which means the two ships will appear as distinct points of bright light, side-by-side, gliding together past Mars, Sirius, Orion, Venus and the Moon. Amazing! Check NASA's Skywatch web site for spotting times. What comes next may strain the credulity of some readers, but it is true. In addition to the stars, planets, spaceships and lunar close encounters, there is also an exploding comet. Comet 17P/Holmes burst into view last week when something happened to the comet's core -- a collapse, a fracture, a comet-quake? No one knows!—causing the comet to surge in brightness almost a million-fold. It is now visible to the unaided eye as an expanding fuzz ball in the constellation Perseus similar in brightness to the stars of the Big Dipper. To find the comet, first face Mars and then spin around 180-degrees: sky map. It's a must-see target for backyard telescopes. by Dr. Tony Philips, NASA |
| The moon’s huge pale face rose out of the eastern sky; the mountains silhouetted in its brilliance as it chased away the remnants of the day. I watch it take its place in the sky and think of the men and women currently in orbit around our planet. For the past few days I have been glued to the footage being transmitted back from the International Space Station and Space Shuttle Discovery as they orbit the earth 230 miles above the ground while traveling at over seventeen thousand miles per hour. When you think about the forces at work and the hostile environment, it’s hard not to be impressed. I have always been in awe of mankind’s achievements regarding space travel. The shear brilliance of the scientists and mathematicians who thought it all up mystifies me to this day. Seeing our home planet from space takes my breath away; its shimmering blue oceans and massive cloud formations, the transitions from orbital night and day, and the star light-like reflection of the night earth portray a peaceful setting. I try to imagine how it must look in person; I add it to my list of things to do before I die. Thanks to today’s technology we are no longer limited to second hand reports of the NASA missions in space. Looking back with the aid of an externally mounted camera on board the International Space Station (ISS) the first glimpse of Discovery comes into view. Twelve statue miles in distance, the shuttle appears to be a distant star as the crew of Discovery receives a “go for burn” to close distance in preparation for docking to the ISS. A ring of light expands outward from the shuttle as the engines come to life and quickly fades into the darkness of space, Discovery now making noticeable progress towards its target. Discovery pursues the ISS, the earth a majestic backdrop as both vehicles travel over seventeen thousand miles per hour, closing distance, the crew of Discovery make subtle adjustments in pitch and attitude, a view through the aligning sight shows the docking location on the ISS. Now six hundred feet in distance, the shuttle slows to perform a Rolled Pitch Maneuver (RPM) which will rotate the shuttle head-over-heels to allow the crew of the ISS to inspect and digitally photograph the heat shield material for damage that may have occurred during launch. The shuttle noses slowly upward with the grace of a ballerina, the strobe lights of the surveying equipment reflecting off its belly; earth passing quickly by in the background. The chatter of all involved could be heard guiding the shuttle into position as it now makes its way closer to ISS. The final feet close distance until you hear the commander, Pamela Melroy, call out “capture.” A view from the ISS’s Canadian mobile arm shows both vehicles mated as one, both in orbit over earth. The crew of both vehicles perform a couple procedures to insure a “tight” seal on the coupling device before opening the hatch that brings them together for the first time in over 140 days. They embrace each other like long lost friends reunited and celebrate their long journey before having to carry out the mission of deploying the “Harmony” module, a newly developed section, which will expand the International Space Station providing added living area for future astronauts and perhaps even...me. |
| They couldn’t be further from those yellow foot prints or from home. The Marines of the 24th MAU, Marine Amphibious Unit, were now calling Beirut, Lebanon home, at least for the time being. Years of civil unrest in the region had forced our government to offer aid and security to help restore order and assist the citizens of that beautiful country. It was dubbed a peaceful mission; a humanitarian effort and for most of them it was their first deployment to foreign soil, and sadly their last. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ I woke to the sun beaming through the slits of my window blinds and a soft breeze of morning air. I chased the sleep from my eyes and started to mentally plan out my day of remembrance for my brother Marines killed twenty-four years ago today. Not being able to attend the official memorial services in North Carolina I decided to pay a visit to the Carl T. Hayden Veteran’s Hospital in Phoenix. I have always felt a close connection with the older generation service members and enjoy hearing their stories and memories. I dressed in my Marine camouflage greens, dusted off my boots and gave myself a brief inspection in the full length mirror before heading out. I was greeted by a cloudless sky opening over the city in various hues of blue and paused to let the warmth of the sun caress my face. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ I stopped for my morning coffee and headed to my former reserve unit for a visit with the staff there. Bulk-Fuel, “C” Company is located in the west valley, just a short drive up the I-10 from my home. They are responsible for the installation and maintenance of fuel bladders which get buried under ground and serve as fueling stations for the tactical equipment during deployments. I was a member of Headquarters platoon which provided the communication service installed along the “pipe-line” as well as security patrols that protected the men and vital fluid everyone depended on…fuel. I met SSgt. Blecman, the motor-t chief, enjoying a morning cigarette just outside his office. He has been around since I served there, four years ago, and has become a close friend. We exchanged some small talk as he shared his “things haven’t changed around here” speech with me. Active-duty service and reserve service are completely two different animals and most of the Marines in “C” Company, including myself have done both. He asked if I would be interested in being the “A” driver for the upcoming Veterans Day parade, which I gladly accepted. There’s not much to this duty other than being a “back-up” driver and helping to guide the vehicle through close obstacles. Otherwise you sit shotgun and wave at the people that line the parade route. We parted ways and I headed inside to add my name to the duty roster for upcoming events. Each year the Marines at “C” company take part in the annual Toys for Tots drive and collect and distribute thousands of toys to needy children all over the valley. It’s a rewarding effort and a way for me to give back to my community; having been one of those needy children growing up. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ I arrived at the medical center which consists of a hospital ward and an assisted living wing which is where I would be visiting today. The assisted living quarters houses the permanent residents who can no longer care for themselves and require special needs most family members can not manage. I signed in with the receptionist and was issued my visitors badge before heading into the assisted living wing of the hospital. Because most of the residents have diminished capacities, and are free to roam from their rooms to the recreation center and court yard, the ward is secured for limited access which requires a key-code to enter and exit. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ You pass through two wooden double-doors, the hospital-like odor being the first thing that strikes the senses, to see a small army of wheel chairs, walkers, and electric scooters. Most are parked along the length of the halls and in various rooms, their sleeping operators hardly aware of their surroundings. I head to the nurses station to announce my arrival and check-in with the staff, my green uniform in drastic conflict with the hospital gowns and slipper-socks worn by most of the residents. I arrived just in time for chow as I notice a steady stream of residents making their way to the dinning room. Rows of serving carts line the outer hall containing the individual meals of each man and I pitch in to help get everyone seated and comfortable. The nursing staff is wonderful, never questioning my actions and treating me as one of their own. I do try to keep from interfering with their duties, but seldom feel in the way. One of many long time residents, Mr. Brady, spots me and starts calling for me to get him some water. I hurry to his “rescue” only to be told it’s not cold enough. Another resident, Ernie, speaks very loudly as he greets me and starts regaling me with a story as the company gun-smith while in Korea. It always amazes me that they remember me each time I visit yet sad they can’t remember telling me a tale just moments before. Needless to say, I hear a lot of repeat stories, but I don’t mind. I work my way around the room helping the others put on their bibs or cleaning up the occasional spilt glass of juice. Bob, an old WW II Navy man calls for me while another man asks for help turning on his “dancing” flower pot, a battery operated music box of sorts, and soon the room is filled with the tune “You Are My Sunshine.” Most of the residents are able to feed themselves, while others need help. They carry on with mumbled conversations or just eat in peace. Mr. Brady calls again but this time to ask me to join him for an after lunch cigarette. The afternoon continues in similar fashion, listening to the stories of our hero veterans and sharing a few of my own. These are proud men and I never tire of our visits together. Soon the men return to their rooms for their afternoon naps and then the whole process will start over again at dinner time. It’s a day of rituals for the men within these walls and a place where time no longer exists as they wait for their final “duty call” and leave behind a legacy of honor and pride for us to remember. |
| A crescent moon hangs above Phoenix; its crisp glow punches a hole in the dark blanket of the night sky. A soft breeze drifts across the patio of my third place which quickens my senses and takes with it the stresses of the week. I mentally tap out a beat in my head while trying to drawn out the conflicting sounds of the live band playing across the parking lot and the music coming from the little speakers of Starbucks. The arrival of our cooler temperatures has created a population explosion at my third place making it a challenge to secure “my” favorite table from night-to-night, while giving me plenty of people watching opportunities. I met Eugene during one of my observation “sessions” about four years ago. I had noticed him coming in during my lunch time breaks and decided to strike up a conversation with him. What makes Eugene unique and what ultimately sparked my interest was that I had always seen him walking around town where he would eventually end up at Starbucks. This in itself holds no special qualities except Eugene is 88 years old. Eugene is a frail and gentle man and speaks with a soft wisdom and friendly voice. He walks with the aid of a cane and stands just about 5’5” and can’t weigh 100 pounds, if that. He is normally seen wearing a white button-up shirt and tan trousers topped off with a hat; the kind the men wore in the forties. Over the years I have come to know him very well and hold great regard for this gentle soul. He is always willing to offer assistance to those around him, but will never except a hand out. He served in the Army during WW II and was part of the D-Day invasion that landed on the Normandy beach, but he doesn’t share much of those experiences with me, just to say he did what he had to do, what “we all had to do.” Eugene’s never married, has no children and has never owned a car. He is all that remains of his siblings having outlived his older sister and younger brother. I feel a certain amount of sorrow for him when he talks about his lonely life, but I also admire his spirit and positive attitude. He lives on his own in a small one bedroom apartment, not far from Starbucks, and not in the best of conditions. From time-to-time I will drop in on him with fresh laundry and groceries and sit for a visit. He seems to enjoy the company, and I enjoy bridging the generation gap of over forty years. |
| For every Marine before me and those that come after there is probably one thing we can all describe very well; the two yellow painted foot prints outside the receiving barracks of Marine Corps Recruit Depot. This platoon of painted yellow feet is arranged on the black asphalt in alignment with their matching counterpart in four rows of twelve and is the first thing a new marine recruit sees when he arrives in the night. Up until that point, everything is relatively calm and quiet, everyone having just arrived from destinations across the nation, brought together for one common purpose; to become United States Marines. We are met by a marine Sergeant who barks a stern but brief speech, having something to do with our mothers are not here and from this point forward, the first and last words out of our mouths will be sir, “do you girls understand?” he asks. A few of us manage a meager “yes sir” which is met by this marine yelling that he did not hear us as we wail out another, louder “yes sir.” This little exchange goes on for a few moments longer before finally taking us from the airport to MCRD. We all sit in silence as the bus makes its way up California Interstate 5, our fate unclear at this point. Some of the guys slept, their crooked heads bouncing off the glass windows of the crowded bus while others just observed. I was one of the observers as I took a silent head count of the people I would most likely come to know quite well. Young men from all over the country, from all walks of life had been assembled all hoping to earn the title of Marine. A tall lanky guy, Mallory, took up most of the seat, his knees coming just to under his chin, sat looking confused and misplaced. He would later earn the nick-name “Lurch” not only for his height, but his odd resemblance to the television character of the same name. We used to all laugh when the drill instructors called for him. He was required to respond in a deep monotone voice, “You rang sir?” Another guy, Foster, was from Chicago and had these huge glazed eyes and permanent grin on his face. It was hard to tell if he was sleeping or not because his eyelids never really closed. He was obviously the class clown in life and would pay for that “honor” by spending many-a-day with his face in the dirt doing push ups until exhausted. I decided right then on that bus that I would not bring any undue attention to myself. I would do what was required of me and nothing more. The bus passed through a large arched gateway and came to a halt in a dimly lit parking lot. We sat trying to see the landscape of our new home, the sergeant sitting behind the wheel of the bus like a statue. You could hear the heartbeat of the man next to you as we waited for something to happen. Time had stopped in that parking lot as we waited, just sitting in wonderment, our thoughts racing when the doors of the bus burst open, the wait was over. Another marine sergeant had come aboard to welcome us to MCRD, although it didn’t sound so welcoming. He barked at us in a string of colorful metaphors, some words I had never heard of before and gave us ten seconds to get off his bus. We all scrambled out of our seats, like an emergency evacuation of a burning plane, we headed for the little door of the bus where we were met by more yelling marines. The confusion was overwhelming as we tried to figure out where they wanted us and what we were doing wrong…already. “Fall-in you pukes” said one marine, while another just glared as we rushed by trying not to make eye contact. “Get on the yellow foot prints” they yelled. We all found a pair of yellow foot prints and stood on them waiting for the next evolution of profanities and instructions, which wasn’t a long wait as the marines went through the ranks of civilians, screaming in our faces to look forward and stop “eye-fucking” them. I was reminded of comedian George Carlin performing a skit on the many uses of the word “fuck,” but I seem to have missed this particular meaning, “eye-fuck.” It’s not found in the Webster dictionary, but means to stare. We would hear that combination of words in the months to come and it would become part of our vocabulary, among other choice sayings. From the yellow foot prints we were introduced to the NCOIC, non-commissioned officer in charge. A gunnery-sergeant immerged from the shadows to welcome us to MCRD. In a stern but quite voice he explained the night’s events which would include haircuts, uniform issue, the packing of our civilian cloths and medical exams. After each evolution we would report back to our yellow foot prints before moving on to the next phase. As chaotic as it seemed to us, it was well organized and moved like a precise machine. We wouldn’t sleep that first night at MCRD. Instead the marines would keep us active with tests and questions about our past, making certain we each were issued the proper number of uniforms and constant head counts, all from our little yellow foot prints. Three days later we would be introduced to our drill instructors and the nameless receiving marines would move on to the next group of wide-eyed civilians. For us, it was all just beginning. |
| It was a mission of honor and remembrance I recall as if it were yesterday. The risk was low but we had built it up to give the participants more of a sense of urgency. Some time ago I had acquired a sixty foot by thirty foot American flag from the car dealership I worked for and up until a few weeks before “D-Day,” I had no clue how I was going to use it. The first anniversary of September 11th was approaching and I cooked up this scheme to hike it to the top of Squaw Peak Mountain where we would deploy it in the cover of night for the city to see by first light. At the time I was riding with a local motorcycle club called The Rough Riders. We were a veterans club whose name was taken from Teddy Roosevelt’s Rough Rider volunteer outfit during The Civil War. The members were mostly Air Force guys, me being the only marine and also the only combat veteran, at the time. Our main purpose was the support of veteran affairs in the valley and we were also the first official motorcycle club to take part in the veteran days parade in Phoenix. I wanted this to be something we could be proud of so we formed at our club house to discuss the mission and get a list of volunteers who would actually do the hiking. “Chops” and I did a few recon missions during the day to scout possible sights to place our flag, how it would be secured, and which direction it would face prior to D-Day, or night, as it was. A part of being in the bike club was the handing out of “road names.” This took place after our prospect period, or hazing, at which time we were given the patch for our jackets and issued a road name. Usually, road names found you, you rarely chose yours, and mine was “Shadow.” I had been a master of hiding and appearing when everyone least expected it, and based on my marine recon duties, I guess it stuck. There were worse names, like “Trash,” because he worked for Waste Management, or “Raunchie,” because he was just vile. “Chops” got his name from his chop-style side burns he fashioned and then there was “Q-Ball” for being as bald as a new born baby. Here we were, a group of grown men acting like a bunch of teenagers. But, for the most part it was fun and they were a good group of people to know. Back at the club house we finalized the “battle” plan, secured a Navy medic friend to be on stand-by in the event of injuries, some radio communications equipment from another guy we knew and assembled a security team to act as cover from the park rangers. We had no idea how this would be accepted. We were trespassing after all, but as I mentioned, it was in the name of honor and remembrance, so we felt untouchable. “Chops,” thought it might be a good idea to leave a plaque in the general area of our flag as an added sentiment, so he asked that I write something catchy and patriotic and he would have it etched onto something nice. We purchased some climbers rope and anchors and other climbing paraphernalia and started holding weekly practice sessions and dry runs. The strongest climbers were elected to hike the folded flag using a military duffle bag, while others carried the tools and ropes that would be used to hoist our massive flag into position. Ideas flew across the table for erecting some type of scaffolding or flag poll of sorts, but some fears rose about a low flying aircraft hitting our unlit flag and getting tangled in a huge web of red, white, and blue, so that was out. During one of our recon-scout missions, we found two buttes at the summit of Squaw Peak that would be perfect to stretch our flag across and that became the official plan. D-Day minus-one, the clan gathered to pack the over-sized flag into the olive-drab sea bag and do equipment checks on our tools and radios. The security team consisted of “Raunchie,” “Shotgun,” and his wife and “Q-Ball’s” wife Melissa. Their mission was to keep visual watch over the climbing team and to act as buffers in the event the park rangers became suspicious. The weather would be perfect for our mission. Cool and clear with a brilliant moon to guide our way up the rocky mountain path. D-Day had arrived and all was ready. We rallied in the Basha’s parking lot at 2200 hours near 16th Street and Glendale Ave and transferred the flag and equipment into “Shotgun’s” truck. Then the team was transported to Squaw Peak Park where we off-loaded our equipment and started up the mountain. The soft glow of the moon lit our path as our shadows danced before us with each step. “Trash” and “Hillbilly” were suffering from chest colds and found the 1.2 mile ascent a struggle forcing them both to make many unscheduled rest stops. Of course their idea of a rest stop was to sit on an out cropping of rock and have a Red Apple. The rest of the group was making good progress as the sounds of night set in. The soft breeze filtered through the cactus and sage brush and the cries of a distant coyote echoed of the canyon walls. The first of the group reached the summit and started unpacking the tools and equipment while the rest of us labored the last thirty feet or so where we took a head count and received some word from the ground spotters. The park rangers were making their final sweep of the park to clear out parked cars and make certain all hikers were off the mountain, but we had just reached the summit and the park was now officially closed. We were trespassing. “Chops” and I broke out our flash lights for the first time and illuminated our proposed work area while “Hillbilly”, “Hawk”, and “Trash” started stringing up the guy lines and ropes that would support our massive flag. The clank of our hammers echoed down the slop and off the mountain-side homes causing a stir to the residents. I was surprised at how noisy our construction project was in the still of the night and we hurried along making certain all anchors and ropes where in place. Finally, after our frantic efforts the flag was deployed making certain not to let it drag on the earth’s surface. With a group count-down, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1; we let it unfurl and old glory was flying, draped majestically over the south-west face of Squaw Peak Mountain, just over the hiking path for all to see. As an added tribute, the plaque I wrote was placed in a conspicuous grouping of boulders and rocks and we all breathed a collective sigh. Mission complete, we packed our gear and headed down a back trail that took us to a neighborhood cul-de-sac, where waiting vehicles swept us away, never having stirred any suspicion from the park rangers, or so we thought. Operation 9-1-1 was a success and the group couldn’t wait to see our handy work in the morning light. In the excited aftermath of our mission, stories and tales where told once we rallied back by the Basha’s. Apparently, the park rangers were called by one of the residents who reported seeing flash lights and hearing what sounded like “cries” for help, when in fact it was just our not-so-tactful group hanging an American flag. The report came in as stranded hikers, so as an added twist, Phoenix Fire was also dispatched to our “rescue.” Our group of security members did a wonderful job of holding the responding public servants at bay, but eventually were forced to tell all and much to our surprise received a curious smile approval before packing up and giving the “all clear” to headquarters, leaving us to our good deed. By day break, the local news media captured our memorial by air and showed all of Phoenix our proud flag as it greeted the valley and gave the residents pause to reflect on the events that occurred one year earlier. We have since disbanded, some having gone to Iraq while others choosing to explore other hobbies. Sadly, “Hillbilly” was killed in a motorcycle crash coming home one night by a car that crossed into his path. He was one of our only non-veteran members, but you would never have known it because as he always told us, “I’m American.” I will never forget our hike with old glory and the pride it gave us all that cool September night. The Plaque This flag placed here in memoriam to those who lost their lives in New York City, Washington D.C, Pentagon, and Pittsburg PA. on 11 September 2001, @ 0846 hrs. 11 September 2002 ROUGH RIDER MOTORCYCLE CLUB PAPAGO CHAPTER "We are Patient We are steadfast We are resolved We will not tire We will not fail" President G.W Bush Let's Roll |
| When the opportunity presented itself to work at the airport, I leaped at the chance. I manage a small three-man repair shop that provides technical repair services for various airlines at Phoenix Sky Harbor International airport. For the past four years I have enjoyed being part of the aviation industry and the excitement that goes along with it. It is a non-stop, fast paced and sometimes hectic environment which allows for some very interesting behind the scene experiences and allows me ample chance to rub up against some of today’s hi-tech aircraft and add to my working knowledge of flying. In order to gain access to the airport I had to undergo an extensive back ground investigation and finger print check by the FBI. It’s not as intrusive as it sounds and provided you’re not a serial killer or chain saw murderer, you stand a fairly good chance of being approved. Because of the nature of my business I was issued a red badge which allows me full access to any manned gate around the perimeter of the property. Once I pass through the gates I am free to drive, within certain boundaries, among the planes and ground equipment making my way to any given destination. During peak travel times it can get very congested and confusing to navigate around the terminal. Planes of all sizes, from Boeing 737’s to Airbus A-320’s are in various stages of arrival or departure and it takes some practice to move about the roadway and taxiway’s without hindering the flow of aircraft traffic. It’s an organized chaos of planes and tractors, belt loaders and food service trucks all moving in dissimilar directions at similar times, all with the mission of turning the flight in as little time as possible and getting it flying again. From the approach end of runway 26R the morning sun peaks over the Superstition Mountains chasing its own light across the desert floor. The peaceful morning is suddenly shattered by the roaring engines of an inbound Boeing 757. The underbelly of the plane soars right over my parked truck, the landing gear outstretched, as if reaching for the fast approaching runway. The powerful twin engines generate a turbulent disturbance of air and heat as the graceful giant makes first contact with the earth. A blue plume of smoke rises from the huge landing gear tires and gets sucked back into the wake of the now reversing engines, as the plane slows and works its way onto the taxiway. Before the smoke from the 757 settles another plane, a McDonald-Douglas, screams overhead in similar fashion to make its graceful arrival to the dessert. It’s an exhilarating sensation to be within such close proximity of these massive flying machines and I never tire seeing them in action. The smell of kerosene and burnt rubber hangs in the air and I move to follow the 757 along its short journey from taxiway to gate. It’s met by the ground crew who take up positions around the aircraft to guide it to its resting place. A volley of service vehicles and ground personnel wait ready to burst into action once the engines shut down, the spinning blades of the General Electric engines clatter to a stop. In unison, the ground crew and service vehicles rush to the aircraft, others open access panels, hook up ground power supply units and portable air conditioning equipment and the loading bridge makes it’s slow jerky journey towards the passenger hatch of the plane. Before the first passenger has gotten off, the ground crew has already offloaded a good portion of the luggage and cargo, preparing the plane to take on a fresh load of passengers, luggage and cargo. The fuel truck pumps pound after pound of Jet-A fuel into the massive wing tanks while the food service truck transfers fresh beverages and snacks through the rear hatch of the aircraft. The first officer takes a brief walk around the aircraft, inspecting for any damage or leaks. He peaks into the mouth of the engine bell carefully inspecting each blade for signs of impact or wear. He “kicks” the tires and runs his hand along the belly, as if thanking it for a job well done. Before long, the plane is ready for its next leg of the journey and is hooked up to the push tractor that will guide the plane away from the gate. A small crew of three sees to this process; two wing-walkers and one driving the tractor. The wing walkers act as the eyes of the tractor operator and make certain the wings clear any possible obstacles as well as warn other traffic to yield to the moving plane and running engines. Once in place, the wing walkers rush to unhook the push tractor from the aircraft, close another access panel and give the flight crew an “all clear” salute, waving them in the general direction of travel. The captain gives a wave and throttles up the engines to get the big giant moving along the taxiway and to the departure end of the runway. Distant flickering lights break the horizon marking the approach of an inbound plane. The massive 757 waits for clearance before making its way onto the runway. I make my way to the little dirt road and park to watch the departure of my new 757 friend. The air is distorted from the heat of the engines as full power is applied, the ground shakes and I get a powerful blast of hot air as the plane slowly makes its way down the runway before gracefully lifting off the ground, leaving a trail of disturbed air on its way to anywhere. |
| I have always been fascinated with flight. The freedom of soaring through the air and having a bird’s eye view of the world has always taken my breath away. I have been working towards getting my pilots license for some time now; as one of the hundred things I do before I die. The ultimate dream would be to fly a charter plane some where in Italy and live a simple, quiet life in my grandfather’s hometown. My first flight was sometime ago as a young boy. My father’s boss, Mr. Brooks was a pilot and offered to take me flying one summer afternoon in his Cessna 172. I must have been ten at the time and remember being so excited. I had never flown before that memorable day. We met at a small airfield in Crestwood, Ill. which doesn’t even exist anymore and headed for the hangar to perform a pre-flight inspection. He showed me all the instruments and switches and explained what each one controlled and how everything worked. I recall thinking how small the plane was up close and how frail it seemed as I caressed my small hand across its surface. I was too anxious to remember everything Mr. Brooks was telling me and just wanted to get into the sky. He buckled me into the co-pilot’s seat, put on my headset and started making adjustments here and there; flipping switches on and off and pushed in and out on the control stick. As he did this I watched intently, imagining having to “take over” in case of an emergency, I would want to be prepared. I had a very active imagination back then. We were finally ready and with the turn of a key the propeller started rotating in a jerky fashion causing the small plane to rock in place. Mr. Brooks pulled out on a knob and pushed a few more buttons and the engine came to life. He let the engine warm and then we performed another check before being cleared to taxi. We called the small control tower and requested clearance for take off. They spoke in another language about runway numbers and departure altitude and compass degrees. I was completely confused but it didn’t matter, I was going to fly. Finally at the ready we sat on the runways edge, the engine humming, flaps set and brakes on. Mr. Brooks gave me a thumbs-up and told me to hold tight as he pushed in on the throttle controls. The engine roared as the propeller disappeared into a soft blur. The small Cessna fought the brakes as the RPM gauge continued to climb and then with a throw of a lever the brakes were set free and the small plane launched down the runway. I watched out the tiny window as the hash lines on the runway passed quicker and quicker until they were one continuous line. Mr. Brooks eased back on the stick and the small plane started its climb into the heavens. I watched the ground slowly fall away, the cars getting smaller as we continued our climb. We followed a course along the Calumet Sag channel flying over a barge pushing four containers full of coal. The water shimmered in the sunlight and we could see small rainbows in the breaking water’s mist. Once clear of town Mr. Brooks told me to take over and crossed his arms waiting for me to react. I put my shaking hands on the controls as he guided me, instructing me to be gentle and feel the plane. I pulled back slightly on the stick and then pushed forward making the plane climb or dive, my stomach desperately trying to keep up with the sudden loss of gravity. I was having the time of my life as we turned to head back to the airport. The runway appeared in the distance, the flashing red and white lights guiding us along our course looked the size of a postage stamp. We reduced power and set the flaps, the plane reacting in due fashion slowing as it reacted to the outside air. The control tower soon radioed our clearance as we passed over the main road and the traveling cars, the ground coming up faster and faster, and with a small squawk of the tires we were back on the ground, slowing to a near stop at the end of the runway. I wouldn’t fly again until I was traveling with the Marine Corps, but I never lost the taste of my first flight and would one day return to pilot my very own plane. |
| A common phrase used among Cubbie fans. Maybe next year. I have been saying that since I was able to talk and deflecting the Cub insults and jokes that go along with being a Cubs fan. I was giving this some careful thought over the past few mournful days and asked myself what would Cubs fans have if they actually won the World Series? Aside from one hell of a city-wide celebration, there would no longer be the "curse" to over-come and the jokes would end. The anticipation of going to the World Series would no longer be a factor. What fun would that be? There is a certain comfort in knowing they won't make it mixed with the excitement of hoping they go all the way the following year. Cubs fans want nothing more then to say I lived to see the Cubs in the world series. Shirts could be made; like the "I survived" series of shirts you might see after ridding a scary roller-coaster, or surviving a memorable earthquake. A Cubs victory would be that monumental. Right up there with the Son of God returning to take us to paradise. Cubs fans and religion have allot in common. Both take a great deal of faith. So, thank you Cubs for another exciting year of disappointment and the ability to still be able to say... Maybe next year. |
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