The Graph Of Knowledge vs. Ignorance

As I perused the sheets of my notebook tearing out pages, lots of pages, of incoherent thoughts, scribbling and half-baked ideas…I came across this musing.  

 

I have always considered myself a person of logic or at least tried to be. Everything should make sense.  There should be a formula or axiom explaining all phenomenon…like Newton’s law.  Proven axioms like the gravitational pull between two bodies. Rules like…for every action there is an equal and opposite reaction.  Formulas like Einstein’s law of relativity. 

 

I like math.  Math has a set of rules that always remain the same. Two plus two is always four, now and forever. Liberal arts, language and history are all far too nebulous.  In my little OCD brain I want everything to be two plus two, no fuzzy math for me, thank you.  I just can’t handle that abstract stuff.  I believe that on the imaginary chart of knowledge versus stupidity there is a point where the lines cross and knowledge is equal to a big zero. 

 

Where knowing everything equals knowing nothing.  Where wisdom and foolishness equal the same thing.  

 

Perhaps this is where faith and hope come in. Where there is no real understanding of the principles involved.  I like to think I understand stuff like how airplanes fly.  But do I?  What is all that mumbo-jumbo about air moving faster over the top of the wing creating a low-pressure zone that sucks the wings up into the sky?  Really? I can’t see the air molecules or what ever it is doing whatever…but I know it works.  Why?  Why should I believe that gibberish?  I have proven that it works… many times I have slipped the surly bonds of earth and danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings.  I have no need of faith; I have the proof…even though I don’t understand how it works.        

 

I have decided to go with the belief in God.  I accept God and his Word…hook, line and sinker…all on blind faith...whether I understand or not.

 

Clearly, I don’t have to understand something for it to be true. 

 

  

High Flight   by  John Gillespie Magee Jr.

 

Oh! I have slipped the surly bonds of Earth
And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings,
Sunward I've climbed, and joined the tumbling mirth
Of sun-split clouds - and done a hundred things
You have not dreamed of - wheeled and soared and swung
High in the sunlit silence. Hov'ring there,
I've chased the shouting wind along, and flung
My eager craft through footless halls of air.
Up, up the long, delirious burning blue
I've topped the wind-swept heights with easy grace
Where never lark, or even eagle flew.
And, while silent, lifting mind I've trod
The high untrespassed sanctity of space,
Put out my hand, and touched the face of God.

 

FLYING BACK IN TIME

Like a magnet attracts iron my eyes are pulled skyward when I hear the distant droning of an aircraft engine as it passes overhead.  My thoughts are drawn back into the past as I recall the trips, adventures and marvelous sights I experienced over my years as a pilot.  The challenge of planning flights, dealing with navigation, prognosticating the weather and communicating with ATC (Air Traffic Control) was a source of unexplainable euphoria.  

 

In the summer there is something about weaving your way through columns of cumulus clouds as you watch the warm moist air condense into snow-white cotton balls as it rises above the dew point.  

 

I can’t explain the peaceful joy of cruising the winter skies in flawless smooth air with the steely blue extending into outer space.   

 

There is nothing like the feeling of a silk smooth landing.  I always preferred to credit it to skill rather than luck. 

 

Flying was a hobby but a hobby like a cancer that I could not cure.  Getting the ratings: private, instrument, commercial, instructor, floatplane, multi-engine, and aircraft mechanic was all consuming.

 

The floatplane license in Alaska was an incredible experience.  I had a hard time concentrating on the flying for all the amazing scenery; crystal clear lakes rugged mountain cliffs and pristine forests cluttered with wild life.  

 

Moose Pass, Alaska

I enjoyed instructing students.  Getting the student to land the plane without killing us was the ultimate accomplishment.  The challenge of sitting on my hands and telling them what to do and when to do it was more fun than actually doing it myself.

 

They say flying is hours of mind numbing boredom punctuated by moments of stark terror.  Those moments, those “Never Again” lessons, those mistakes are learning experiences, but small mistakes can be fatal in aviation. The more I learned the more I realized how much I didn’t know.

 

I had the privilege of logging something north of 4000 hours without killing myself or anyone else.  I loved ever minute of it, all 240,000 minutes of it, but it was time to quit.

 

I’m old and gray, I look to the sky

Where eagles soar and angels fly

I have to thank the Lord above

Who kept me safe in all His Love.

Amen.

 

Nashville, TN

My 1st Airplane, C-150

Fort Yukon, Alaska

Traveling The Back Roads Of My Childhood Memories

  At the suggestion of my sister we decided to visit our soon to be one hundred year old aunt who had fallen and broken her hip.  In spite of the obvious statistical probability of a poor outcome…she came through the surgery fine. 

So, we set off on a trip to the land of my ancestors, Hessmer, Louisiana…the land of swamps, rice fields and bad roads.  Aunt Vivian, my father’s youngest sister, was so glad to see us, so gracious, so warm, so welcoming but she had no idea who we were.  Time had erased her memory.  Our visits were short as she tired quickly.  The fact that she had no clue who we were made it difficult to carry on a conversation.  Even a conversation of days gone by challenged Aunt V’s memory.  She could not remember her brother, my father, or even her own son.  But when we recited the Rosary she never missed one word…not one prayer did she forget.  

  Between several short visits we went about looking at the old houses of our grandparents, aunts and uncles recalling fond memories of the days of my childhood.  

  We poked around in the cemetery digging up recollections of all those relatives with all the different personalities, quirks and idiosyncrasies.

We wondered about the people and events of the past wishing we had asked more questions back then.  And now there is no one around to give us the answers.

  We had questions about Aunt “Zoe”, Uncle Dennis, Momma’s house and lots of questions about Papa.  Papa, my dad’s dad, my grandfather, Papa Sam the man we didn’t know and no one talked about.  I always wondered if he was some sort of government secret agent. And now we’ll never know.

  And then on to Crowley, LA, my mother’s side of the family, the home of Grandpa, Grandma and Aunt T.  For my entire childhood I thought her name was “T” only to find out they were saying “Auntie”.  Her real name was Ophelia. 

Anyway we toured the cemetery and checked out the headstones.  We drove past the old boarded up appliance store (214 2^ndSt) grandpa used to own and (2nd and N Ave) where Auntie's house used to be. Sadly her house had burned to the ground some years ago.  We meandered passed the Rice Hotel, no longer in operation, but the sign still announcing it’s existence.  Aunt Ophelia worked there as the switchboard operator as long as I can remember.

  Traveling the back roads of my childhood memories is always an introspective journey.  Now I’m the one approaching the end of the road and wondering if I should leave some sort of bread crumb trail, some documentation, something more than a patronizing tombstone epitaph. Possibly some of my descendants might have questions. 

Hessmer, LA

Papa 

Auntie

214 2nd Street

Grandma & Grandpa