The
recent post from my Vietnam era was a heartfelt and a quick
reflex when I came upon the video I had made years ago. I found it
tucked into old photos on an old computer. I get big lumps in my
throat sometimes and that old video did just that. I wanted to share
it.
I
grew up with the notion of being born too late. I wished I was timed
right to fly P-51 Mustangs, P-40's, P-38's, the gull wing F4-U or the
like in war.
It
was not war that drew me, but the flying in the most freedom of
flight. I may not have lived to tell stories of
heroes and exploits flying in that era, but the dream to fly those large horsepower
piston engine driven fighters is sewn securely in my soul.
How can the starting, taxiing and flying one of these old birds not
light a fire inside someone? The sound of a piston engine loping, as
each of the 18 cylinders catches, thumps places deep inside me. Say it with me; “R-2800, 2804
cubic inch, 18 air cooled cylinders arranged in two rows.” Makes
the old “56” Chevy a little wimpy.
President
Nixon decided that experienced Vietnam helicopter pilots needed to
return to Vietnam in 1969. I had been flying border patrol in Germany
and was content to finish my tour of duty there. Then the paper work
arrived and I was to be sent back to Vietnam for my last year of
obligation. I decided to transition into the Huey Cobra and spent
that last year flying Cobra gun ships. Good flying and stories. Sitting on the tarmac at idle, canopy open with a full load of
munitions. Yea! Good stuff but still not big piston engine flying.
I
could always be found on a flight line where ever we were stationed.
Quite often, I would see a flight of two or a single A1-E
Skyraider circling to land and I would stand as close to the runway
as I could when they turned final approach and landed. Little pilot(s)
sitting in this massive flying engine and wings. That airplane could
carry an aircraft carrier in munitions. Several times, I had the
wonderful opportunity to pick up where they left off on a given
mission or to bring them in after we expended our ammo. The air force
quite often had layers of fighters over head as needed. But to see
one of those pilots dive to a target, let go with what ever they were
using and then perform an effortless, hard-climbing turn with wingtip vortices etching their place in the sky and painting aviation art masterpieces. You will soon see that I am easily distracted by anything that flies. I digress!
My "after" here in this blog refers to an inner concern of being ready for the big
flood, fire, earthquake, nuclear exchange, market crash, zombie
advance, empty store shelves, flag-hating, national anthem hating,
hating, UN crowding our cities and streets, meltdown, some of our
lives not mattering and you know. Shall I add more here? Nope. But
you know I could fill this post with nothing more than these kind of
examples. I sense a good portion of the populations now have been
soaked in the same stew for so long that we are over-cooked and
are looking to climb to the rim of the pan for fresh air and a look-see how far it is to the counter top. I am not alone in this stew and that carries no comfort.
Roma tomatoes are in their last throes of life here, returning the love. Each tomato plant was given a cracked raw egg, placed 8” down hear their roots. The bride found this information and I tried it. Nitrogen/iron? Our results have been an explosion of tomatoes.
Mother
nature cares not our daily routine nor interruptions. She dumps our
planting and growing efforts in our lap like a micro burst. Since she
is ahead of me on taking care of this bounty, I have found that the
tomatoes are warm and red ripe. Bursting with color and flavor. A
group in boiling water for about a minute, the skins pull off and the
hard core is trimmed out with a sharpened paring knife. In a few
minutes a full pot of tomato sauce begins. The bride picks green
peppers, peppers, garlic, onion, basil leaves and other herbs.
Crushes and chops two cups and adds to the pot. A minute or two with
the handheld emulsifier and the bright red sauce appears. All homegrown. Canning today and then another batch to start. Maybe a couple dozen jars when completed. I have been talking to our plants
all summer now and they have come through. How can I not follow
through saving all they offered this season.The drained tomato juice from this cook is shot-glass worthy. Every flavor of the garden that completes with a little heat. And yes, I do swirl the cooled juice around in the glass, whiff the fragrance and finish with the audible "ahhhhhh."
The
big rock still sits in the trailer. Not like there are not enough
rocks here. The builder had to blow the top of the hill off when they
build our house years ago. Ledge. Lots of small rocks then and now.
But we found someone giving away large rocks and the bride wanted them. I
have a plan on to drag it off with the tractor, but just have not gotten
to it yet.
Woodpile outback getting smaller and woodshed filling up. Still weeks
behind compared to years past. Usually by now, I could sit a while and
survey my completed woodpile work. Behind on so many things.
And instead of outside working in the cool morning air, I sit here and write.
Plan to do better with more of The After stuff. Not OMG OMG nor ###, but just writing out loud. I should open up comments and am getting a little closer to that. Not sure what my hang up is.
For The Fun of it.
I planted the cut-off end of a celery stock in the corner of the raised garden a month or so ago (upper left of photo). Then another a week ago (middle of photo). Read they would grow again. Dirt and water!!
A gallon of water is still 50 cents this Labor Day weekend, bread $0.99. Twenty-nine ounce canned peaches are a dollar, lights turn on, water pump runs, car starts, sun rises, cooked chickens are cheaper than whole raw chickens. Milk and dairy products fill the shelves to the front of every row. Store aisles overflow and Monday mornings can find a dozen folks re-stocking local markets. Day-old breads, pies and cookies can be had for songs and gas is $2/gallon. The deli is flooded with cooked food and fixins' for any kind of sandwich/salad with any kind of condiment you like. We still travel freely to and from, a happy meal just minutes away, moms make apple pies, the national anthem puts tears in my eyes and turns others into haters. We have off buttons, mother nature reclaims what we neglect and there is order in the world. For now.
The sounds of a B-17 flying overhead, coming in low (during airshow weeks) does it for me. Gotta take one of those flights, before they are gone.
ReplyDeleteSadly, I think too many of our fellow citizens enjoy the warm water in the pot, while only a few of us sense the incremental temperature increase.
Please keep writing. Your posts are appreciated.
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