Today, June 11

 Today 58 years ago is the day I lost my parents and sister in a plane crash. Today would be Mom and Dad's 58th wedding anniversary. They were married for 27 years and I was present for some 20 of those years. They were a team that could not be separated. Although I try my childish best to play one against the other it never worked. My dad was a disciplinarian and I was a rebel. It is only as I look back in time that I appreciate my father.

Today’s Sunday Mass intentions were for the three souls of that plane crash. 

I love you Dad, Mom and Susan. 

 

PS. My Father’s sister’s birthday is also today. Happy 101st birthday Aunt Vivian. 

Mother’s Fruit Cake

Each year I search my mother’s old cookbooks in vain looking for that Christmas fruitcake recipe, a recipe lost in time. I remember as a child that once a year she would prepare this culinary delight that took a couple of months to properly season. Each day she would remove the round tin from it’s hiding place, pour a jigger of Jack Daniels best over the cup towel wrapped cake then return it to the closet’s top shelf, out of the reach of children.  

This year’s attempt at replicating her masterpiece again fell short of my expectations.  Maybe I have embellished my recollections or just perhaps it is missing the love and care mother bake into this special treat.

Merry Christmas, 

Mom 

Young Women and Classic Cars

 I find myself attracted to young women and classic cars with their timeless body style and stunning appearance. 

 

But then I have to remind myself that both are a source of unending problems.

 

Under that bonnet…that hood…looms a monumental amount of maintenance.

 

That’s when a grin creeps across my face and I realize that I’m perfectly content in the company of my older wife with her fantastic personality and my newer car with no personality.

 

And so it is…my on going battle with concupiscence.

 

Thank you Lord for all my blessings.  Especially the amazing Miss Mary you put in my life…not to mention a reliable vehicle.

  

Amen.

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

The Other Side Of Maturity

I find myself regressing back to a child like state.  Both mentally and physically I am aging,  getting old, becoming elderly. 

I catch myself wondering if my fly is unzipped in the middle of church.  

 

My birthday count has exceeded my moronic IQ.  All my conversations are about aches and pains or my latest medical operation.

 

No matter how you put it…when your brown hair turns gray and your gray matter turns to a mushy brown substance you have to start wondering about what comes next.

 

I’m not really worried about leaving this world…as most of the items on my bucket list have been checked off.  I’ve never missed a meal…I’ve definitely been blessed.  But…my concern is “Judgment Day” and the all-just God.  I am not interested in receiving a just reward.  I am hoping that an all-merciful Jesus will step in and give me an undeserved reward.  

 

 

Selfishness is not the thing to do.

Of your rules I had no clue.

I wanted to have and eat my cake.

Finding true happiness far too late.

 

Forgive me, Lord, for what I messed up.

Give me courage to drink from the cup.

When I arrive on that big day.

Mercy is for what I pray.

 

Amen

Philosophy and Funerals

As my birthday count gets closer to the three-digit category I’m starting to recognize more names in that section of the paper toward the back.  

 

As of late I’ve attended a plethora of funeral and perused numerous obituaries of folks in my age group.

 

All of this has given rise to thoughts of my own departure from this planet and how my obituary will read.

 

I can only imagine it will be nothing more than a blank page with two dated separated by a dash and a small footnote than reads.

 

“He came into the vineyard at the very last hour of the day in the hope of receiving an undeserved reward…even though he had no grape picking shills.”

I’m Not OK

Rain or shine I get up every morning and do the same routine. I stumble to the bathroom, climb onto the scales in the hope that I’ve lost a few pounds during the night, dress myself and ingest that handful of pills required for old people. Then I’m off to 6 AM Mass. Maybe it’s just a habit because I seem to do lots of daydreaming and thinking about everything under the sun instead of paying attention to what is going on at the altar. 

Then from out of left field, without fail, I’m jerked back into reality by some uncontrollable feeling that washes over me causing me to hold my breath and clinch my teeth while a tear creeps down the crevasses of my wrinkled face.

 

I may be crazy but it is in that moment that I realize that I’m NOT OK but God loves me anyway. 

Thank you Lord for your love

I’m so glad you sent that Dove

I am week but you are strong

So always let me sing your song. 

Amen.

Aches and Pains

When I get these little twinges…these little reminders of my age…I can’t help but think of my grandmother, my father’s mother. She wanted us kids to call her “Mama” because she said “Grandmother” made her feel old. I was just a child at the time while Mama was probably in her late 50’s. I recall her constant complaining about aches and pains. Us kids thought she was just a grumpy old lady. 

 

But now as I approach my 80’s I can really appreciate exactly where she was coming from. The mere process of getting up from a chair requires a lot of mental determination. 

 

I’m convinced these little aches and pains are God’s way of making me to think about the future…the eternal future…and where I want to spend it. Do I want to spend eternity without aches and pains or the place of aches and pains…a place of weeping and gnashing of teeth?  

 

I say I believe…but…am I doing God’s will or am I just saying “Lord, Lord”?

 

Mathew 7:21

“Not everyone who says to me, ‘Lord, Lord,’ will enter the kingdom of heaven, but only the one who does the will of my Father who is in heaven.

 

A child was I with no need of the cane

I ran about and knew no pain

But now as I circle the drain 

This old body is my bane. 

 

It seems a bit insane to me

To spend a painful eternity

When The Lord has paid my fee

By hanging on that dreadful tree. 

Amen.