May The Force Be With You

This story starts with the pungent, earthy smell of onions and garlic and sun and dust saturating the air, causing you to pause, partly to drink in the smell and partly because it is just to hot to move quickly. Rich, brown friendly faces greet you with a Buenos Dias, and indeed, it is, because there are olive and almond trees, and a large cool swimming pool, and its all lovely, even when the wind shifts and the smell of cattle and manure reminds you that Harris Ranch, with its long red brown Spanish Hacienda hotel, really is a working ranch.

This story has a small 3300 feet long runway. Shortly after taking off from this runway, stock yards come in to view, and the only thing to be said is WOW, because the stockyards are HUGE, and 18-wheelers in the parking lot look like little toys next to huge-ness of the yards. The stock yards are so big that maybe you really don't want to think about how big they are because then you'd think about how our beef gets to market and you'd never want to eat a steak again.

Stock yards north of Coalinga, Ca.

Fortunately, the immensity of the San Joaquin valley spreading out in all directions easily takes your eyes and mind away from burgers on the hoof, and you are in awe of how vast the patch-work of dark-green, variegated, brown fallow fields are. If you knelt down in a field in northern California, and shot a marble out of your fist with your thumb, and you aimed the marble straight south, it would roll all the way down the valley, past irrigation canals, past almond and olive orchards, and onions and garlic, and huge combines and tractors and trucks loading produce, and roll all the way past the friendly brown faces saying Buenos Dias at Harris Ranch, past the Coalinga stock yards, and all the way to Mexico, where it would plop into the Rio Grande River. The valley is that flat and wide and vast.

San Joaquin Valley

The Sierra Nevada mountains appear in the middle of this story, across the valley floor. You can't see them right away, because of a forest fire south of Mammoth, which is on the eastern side of the mountains, but the smoke from the fire has risen over the top, shed down off the mountains, wounds its way over foothills and into the valley. There is a moment of tension when you worry that the airport you are looking for won't be visible at all. Keep calm and turn the page. Sure enough, there it is, under a haze, sloping across a plateau, surrounded by trees. There is a rental car waiting at the airport in Mariposa, for driving in to Yosemite National Park, since its very hard to fly directly IN TO Yosemite without creating a ruckus with the all kinds of federal agencies, although that would make for a much more exciting story than driving a Prius.

If this story were a compilation of even shorter stories, the Visiting Yosemite National Park story would be entitled "Sore Neck From Looking Up and Saying WOW All Day", or "Disney Land Meets National Park". Both are equally descriptive, and its so incredibly beautiful that you really don't mind the sore neck from staring up at granite cathedrals, and it's fine hopping on shuttle buses and walking up trails with hundreds of your closest friends.

We were all there to look up and say Wow in at least 6 different languages, at the vast, god-sent unbearably stunning granite peaks, worn gray and smooth and round by ice and water. We were all there to witness it together. If any of us had arrived alone, it would have been a silent meditation, an inner aaahh, a breath that would meander around boulders, and make its way past silent deer, and past the silver branches of birch, past ferns and over the bubbling river flowing from the lake.

Instead, we, made a multitudinous, mufti-lingual song. The song reverberated with the adventurous laughter of children climbing rocks in the lake, and the cautious calls of parents, and the chatter of teenagers poking and daring one another to jump into the glassy water, and athletic young couples in short tees and hiking boots snapping pictures while laying on the ground because its the only way to get a decent shot of the vastness of Half Dome. The song reverberated off cathedral granite cliffs, and amplified in its joy.

At the end of this story, a young Japanese couple asked Roy to please, bowing head, bowing head, take their picture please. They are adorable, arm-in-arm together, under the canopy of half-dome. Roy hands them back their camera, and they bow thank you, and bow again. The young man is wearing a Star Wars T-shirt.

I like your Star Wars T-shirt, I say.. He stands erect and grins broadly.

May the Force Be With You, he says.

And Also With You, I reply.

We smile at each other, then look up again at Half Dome. Blessing given, blessing received in this sacred place.

Lots of People

It was a day with Lots of People

There were lots of people in the room where we slept – 14 others, to be exact. People of various ages and nationalities, snored and snoozed in white metal bunk beds that lined an old church basement room of the Monterey Youth Hostel. In the morning, our 14 bunk mates joined more people from the men's dorm, and women's dorm and the family rooms in the large, bright kitchen for breakfast. Myself and a woman from Sweden, gave Thomas, a tall blond young man from Germany a tutorial on how to make American-Style pancakes with Krusteze and an electric griddle. Two young Italians sat at a table nearby spreading nutella on their dollar-size hotcakes. I followed Thomas's lead and sprinkled my pancakes lightly with sugar, followed by a gentle dollap of carefully spread strawberry jam.

There were Lots More people on the bus going to the Laguna Seca racetrack. We passed white-washed clay brick buildings, lined with ornate painted green railing. Monterey has stayed rich in its Spanish history - those fevrent, abusive, conquistadors. 

 There were EVEN MORE people – Roy says about 45 thousand, at the race track. We threaded our way through a barely organized human mass to watch agile, superhuman conquistadors of the motorcycle world zoom by at 200 miles an hour. 

We sat on metal bleachers, our necks cooled by the breeze blowing off fog on the bay and ate hotdogs in baguettes. Thank goodness Americans have started to catch on to this wonderful treat. We sipped outrageously priced mediocre beer, and cheered with the crowd as Marquez slipped passed Rossi. We cheered more when Rossi maintained a solid third. Bright yellow flags emblazoned with the number 46 from the crowd as he crossed the finish.

Finally, after we stepped off the bus that was the wrong bus, and were walking the final one and a half miles to the youth hostel, past old Monterey, past the sailboat filled harbor, it was just Roy and I, two harbor seals, and cold, clear water splashing on caramel colored rocks. And the fog and the quiet. 

This Is Not a Wordy Blog Post

This is not a long wordy blog post

This is just settling the cushy rubber of the headset over my ears, and adjusting my ball cap.

It is sunscreen on my nose, and sun reflecting off the silvery wing of the plane.

It is the humming rhythm of the engine pulling us off the runway, up to the cloudless blue sky.

It could be lots of words about how we took out the trash and put away dishes and wrote a list for my daughter of all the things to take care of around the house while we are on our airplane vacation.

Instead it is a wide green, yellow winding blue river valley opening in front of the plane, as it climbs to 11,500 feet.

It is dark green hills, rolling up to mountains so jagged they look like hands, fingers, reaching out of the earth.

It is a three quarter moon rising above three white peaks, nestled together.

It could be a telling of going to California to visit friends and see places, and about hotel and restaurants, and it might be that later, but not now.

Instead it is mountain peaks falling away in to a winding lake, that was once a river, and now is clay-red streaking away in the wakes of ski boats.

It is an airport on a plateau, and a friend waving from a taxi way.

It is a blood red sunset over the mountains we just flew over.

It could be a long, wordy blog post.

Instead it is sipping cappuccino, next to the swimming pool.

It is men's voices talking about airplanes, and a yellow biplane, streaking across and endless, open blue sky.

Lake California Sunset

You Have A Wondeful Life

You have a wonderful life, you know that, right

     - Ward Stroud

My hairdresser and I do not have light conversations The first time I went to Ward's salon my hair was the longest it had been since I had breast cancer ten years ago. Now it was the requisite 10 inches to become a wig for someone else undergoing chemotherapy. I sat in front of the mirror, plastic drape across my shoulders, and Ward gathered my hair, entwined his fingers in it, and let it fall this way and that through his hands, and across his wrists, combing it with his fingers. Then he gathered it all in a thick pony tail, and cut it off with one clip of the scissors. For a flash, the head that looked back at me from the salon mirror was bald from chemo. Ward placed his hands on either side of my head, little thatches of hair sticking out between his fingers. He leaned his cheek next to my ear, and whispered, You are very beautiful. And we both cried a little.

During a recent visit, he stopped in the middle of trimming my bangs, and whipped his phone out of his pocket. Want to see something really cool? He danced from foot to foot. He played a video of a bright yellow Frisbee soaring through the air, then gliding down into a chain basket as if placed there by hand. Ward's voice was in the background of the video, whooping and yelling with pure joy. I got a hole-in-one, he beamed. I think that's the coolest thing I've ever done. He pocketed his phone and turned his attention back to my hair. What's the coolest thing you've every done? He asked. I shut my eyes as little flecks of straw-dry hair fell into my eyelashes. I had to think; there have been some pretty cool things. I blew bits of hair out of my mouth. Pufts of air. Of course!

Well, I began, My boyfriend and I were flying to dinner recently...

Ward held up his hand. Wait – did you say you were flying to dinner? How do you fly to dinner?

In our little plane, I replied, fumbling in my purse for my phone. I showed him a picture of our shiny, silver RV-7A, with its large, black tail numbers, N174RT.

Ward studied the picture. Wow, that is so cool!

Yes, it is. Roy built it, I said proudly. As I was saying, we were flying to dinner, but it was early and the sky was so clear and beautiful....

So, where do you fly to, he interrupted again, and how do you get to a restaurant once you get to wherever you are going?

Most of the time we go places where there is a restaurant at the airport or close by. Sometimes airports have courtesy cars we borrow, but most of the time we walk. That evening, we were going to Albany for dinner. There is a great chinese restaurant there.

Ward shook his head. Wow, you just fly to dinner. That is very cool. He turned the chair so I faced the mirror started snipping away at the back of my head, shaking his head in amazement. Yep, that is pretty awesome..

But that’s not the best part, I continued. One evening last week we took off from Hillboro. There was Mount St. Helens was right in front of us, like huge, upside down vanilla ice cream cone. We had some extra time, so we decided to fly around the mountain.

All hair cutting activity stopped. Warded turned the chair so I was facing him, and sat down on a black rolling stool in front of me. He rested his forearms on his knees. You flew around the mountain, he repeated, making sure he'd heard correctly.

Yep, I nodded, we flew around the mountain. It is so pale and peaceful on the south side, especially when its covered with snow, but when you peek around the north side, there is sheer devastation. The crater drops away, and it looks like a dragon chewed the top of the mountain off, then clawed out the sides. A trail of rubble spills out of its side, and tumbles down in to the valley.

I paused for a moment, remembering shards of sunset reflecting off the wing of the plane, as we rounded the remnants of the peak. There was no background sound to capture the joy of seeing the sunset light up the rim of the crater and the peaks beyond. Even in the plane that evening, Roy and I shared it with the reflection of light in our eyes,and the warmth of his hand in mine. 

That really is amazing, Ward said, bringing me back to the salon.

The best part of it is the inside of the crater, I continued. The mountain is still active. You'd think with all the devastation it would be quiet...defeated. But its not. I counted at least five steam vents, and there is a huge bump in the middle of the crater that is growing. The mountain is rebuilding itself.

Ward reached out and fluffed my hair with his fingers.. He turned the chair and held up a mirror so I could see the back of my head. That happens to people, too, he said softly. In the aftermath of devastation, we can rebuild ourselves. He smiled down at me. Look at your hair. Do you like it? I ruffled my fingers in it and smiled. Yes, I said. It's amazing.

Ward looked down at me. You have a wonderful life, you know that, right? I nodded, and we both smiled and cried just a little.

 

You'll Experience Some Discomfort

You'll experience some discomfort, then you'll have the Ah-ha

Alan Hardy

Climbing out of bed at 5:30am on Saturday isn't on my fun list. After a full week at work, when my body aches for rest, its just plain uncomfortable. So I might have been a little – OK, a lot, grumpy when Roy rousted me to help cook for the monthly EAA 105 pancake breakfast.  Roy reminded me that if we wanted our choice of jobs, we had to get there early. I'm not cooking bacon, I declared. If I get that job, I'm coming home. My ride was his plane so I had no idea how I'd actually get home, but my sleepy brain insisted on voicing objection somehow.

Moisture soaked through my tennis shoes, as we trundled across damp grass from the plane to the hangar at Twin Oaks. I hate wet socks. And now I'd have to stand in them all morning. The hanger bustled with industriousness, under a bright yellow glow. I felt like I needed sunglasses. I snatched up the nametag for Pancake Maker. It was the perfect job. All I had to do was make pancake batter. I wouldn't have to talk to anyone.

A couple bowls of batter later, the hangar was full of bacon smells and conversation and laughter. I was still not awake, and my soggy feet were cold. My friend Benton stopped at my workstation to visit. I uttered something intended to sound cheerful. It sounded more like a growl. He smiled and nodded, and asked how I've been and if we've been flying. I pointed out the window to 174RT. Benton has an Aeronca Champ. He said its not a sports car like Roy's plane. It's cruise speed is more like 80knts. I flashed back to a biplane flight a few years ago, wind in my hair, earth above or sky below. I love low, slow flight, I say. Benton brightens, and despite my sleepiness and wet socks, I do too. He asks if I'd like to go for a flight in a Champ. His plane is not flying, but his friend Dave has one, and he'd take me for a flight if I asked. Sure, I say, feeling a wave of shyness. I don't think I could just walk up to someone I don't know and request a flight in their plane. Sure, I say, maybe sometime.

By the time my shift is over, I looked like pancake batter attacked me. It was it in my hair, crusted on my arms, and on my shoes. I wanted to go home, shower and nap.  Instead, I stepped in line with Roy, and tried to make my cheeks do something that looked like smiling. A tall fellow in a red Stanford sweatshirt motioned me over. I hear you'd like to go for a ride in a Champ, he says, saving me from stumbling over my shyness.

Uh, sure, but I'm a bit grimy today, I replied showing him my pancake battered arms. He smiled. No problem, he says, just meet me out by the plane when you're done with breakfast.

I finished up my coffee and grits and found Dave standing by a little yellow tail-dragger. It was adorable. Roy stood by, arms folded across his chest, grinning as I slid in to the rear seat. My cheeks did not have to work hard to smile back.

We taxied out and whoosh, popped off the runway, over the trees, ponds, llamas and greenhouses, up in to the glorious cloud scattered sky. I felt my breath slow, and I slid back in the seat to enjoy the scenery. Then the back of Dave’s head said, OK, its all yours! What?! Suddenly I'm awake, a wash of adrenaline thumping in the back of my throat. You can fly the plane, he repeated, can your feet reach the pedals?

Pedals? Uhhh, no, I stammered, I can't. For a moment I thought I was off the hook.

Here, I'll slide them back for you. Dave tapped the toes of my soggy, batter stained shoes.

The plane did a quick little jog side to side as I settled my feet. I wiggled the stick to get a feel for how the plane responded. The adrenaline turned to a rush of excitement. I'm turning to starboard, I tell the back of Dave's head. I banked the plane, and spring green field floated by below. This must be what birds feel like. I leveled off, and floated past clouds. Ahhh, my brain says, finally releasing its frown. I felt a smile spread across my face. The light came on in my head, like midday sun breaking out from the clouds. Sometimes we experience discomfort. We get up early, wrestle with pancake batter, reach beyond our shyness. Then there is the Ah-ha. It’s about pancakes and friends and the simple joy of low, slow flight.

Sandy and Dave, just back from flying in the Champ

You Inspire Excitement

Spring is coming to the Willamette Valley. Its hard to see it when the days are spent going from house, to car, to office, then back again. Until Sunday, when there is a moment to pause. Outside the window, shoots of green things are coming from the earth. The sun breaks through over-sized fuzzy rain-filled clouds. The Pilot sits at the dining nook table, checking weather on the computer. You are seated across from him, the cat purring in your lap. The endless list of house things jump around asking for attention. You clear your throat to get the pilots attention. The Pilot peeks over the monitor.

Fly to breakfast? It's like asking if he'd like sex.

Fifteen minutes later the plane is out of the hangar. Thirty minutes later, the Hillsboro tower gives the word and runway 3-1 drops off behind. If you could reach a hand out of the canopy, it would swirl around in a thick layer of mist. The sun is up there, stretching to break through. The earth four thousand feet below is bubbly, pastel sketched, keeping the faith that spring is indeed, coming.

The sun was winning by the time we landed in Albany., and it felt great. I held my face to the sky and took a deep breath. I laughed, noticing Roy was doing the same thing. The Original Breakfast restaurant was a short walk north of the airport, across the freeway overpass. The outside told of line-cooked pancakes, fried eggs, buscuits and gravy and gum-snapping, teased hair waitresses. The inside said something completely different. Warm booths and pendant lighting, granite counters complemented an imaginitve, well thought-out menu. This place was run by people who love good food.

A pixie with dark eyeliner, tattoo, and hair piled in a careless bun, filled our coffee mugs and asked what we are going to do with on this beautiful day. We could prep for the upcoming kitchen remodel, or clean the boat canvas, or the garage. Thats what we should do. My friend Kitty says you should never should on yourself. Roy's eyes met mine, serious, questioning. My god, it is sunny outside. I reached across the table to rest my hand on Roy's.

Maybe could go fly some more?

He grins. The shoulds have been replaced with excitement. I don't need to ask twice.

I have a tickle of excitement too, partly from the omlette filled with slow-roasted pork, pepper-jack cheese and smothered in salsa verde, but mostly from the thought of spending an entire day flitting about in the airplane with my sweetie.

Later that day, a layer of clouds persisted over the still snow-capped hills of the coast range. They draped over forests and ice-speckled lakes, pushed up by a breeze off the ocean, and held there by the high in the valley. From five thousand feet, we could see the beach was clear. Soon we were over Siletz Bay, then over the ocean, then dropping behind the tree-covered berm to land. Another walk, this one through trees, past a pond, the chickering birds, and we arrived at the Side Door cafe in Glen Eden Beach. This funky, upscale hippy place is one of our favorites. Ask anyones who's been there, and they'll say they've never had anything less than a very good meal. Most of the time it's great.

Another pixie – this one a bundle of muscular, blond and efficiency, paused to talk about Roys favorite topic – you guessed it – planes! She recognized us from our many visits there, and has stopped offering an adult beverage to start the meal."Eight hours, bottle to throttle", she recites. She has taken flying lessons, and wants to fly. She sails. Ah – boats! My favorite topic She has grown up with boats. Her father built a sailboat. We could spend the entire day sharing our excitment for these things. Instead we turn to food. She's also heard what everyone says about the food, and agree's the Tuna Melt especially is heavenly.

There were bright, red tulips in the windowsill next to us. They made a great backdrop to photos of the delicious fare on our plates. Outside, little green bits with tiny white f lowers are poking through cracks in a low, stone wall. Our check came with sugar-dusted fortune cookie's. The message inside one read "You tend to spark the flames of enthusiasm in people". Did it refer to the Plane or the food, or the waitresses, or the bright spring day or the tulips in the window, or Roy smiling at me or me smiling at him? It didn't matter. It was in every way absolutlely and completely true.