⌚ Gunners Informative Essay: Pearl Harbor

Friday, June 25, 2021 10:00:48 AM

Gunners Informative Essay: Pearl Harbor

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Pearl Harbor: The Last Word - The Survivors Share - History

And then there is Jasper. He became a TV icon in his own right. We came to know him. And love him. He was only eight. Dog lovers are a tight-knit community in which the loss of one is a loss to all of us. However, cliches become cliches because they always contain an obvious element of truth. I routinely go for a month during which I break down at least once during the day. It has been said that the reason dogs are given such short lives is because if they were longer, the grief would be fatal. And I believe that. The joy is worth the pain.

We all identify with what Dana is going through and why someone is substituting for her on the two shows she does each day. I truly feel for her. I hope she realizes what a wonderfully positive factor Jasper became in so many lives besides her own. The TV in the living room is chronicling the count down in Afghanistan. And I can hear Marlene sobbing. Almost unable to talk, she came in to show me Facebook images of one of the young Marines who died in Afghanistan yesterday.

A beautiful, happy young man. And I choked up too. I tried to rationalize it as just another young man lost to the ravages of war. It always is. It was a glaring, heart shredding example of what happens when politicians start making military decisions. Especially politicians that see everything through a political, rather than a tactical, prism, which is basically all of them. They have no right to be in this game. It was to be a reduction in force. A nice way of saying a retreat. A safe way of saving people. The US-Dunkirk supposedly terminates in four days, on Tuesday, and that knowledge points out one of the drawbacks of having your office at home, as I do.

And in the US. Mothers, fathers, loved ones, siblings wait behind closed doors on both sides of the world, fearful for different reasons. One of theirs has died. The entire family and tons of friends are now part of the martyrdom of the gold star. In hundreds of places, thousands actually, spread throughout Afghanistan, mothers, fathers, siblings also dread the knock on the door. For them they know the time is coming when they will be discovered.

And dragged away. Or savagely beaten on their own doorstep. Or bullets will tear into their bodies. Or blades will cross their necks. The smothering feeling of being alone. Of being ignored. Or forgotten. There are no roads that lead to safety. And the knowledge that no one will be coming to help has taken over their psyche. The disbelief of what is happening to them must make it impossible to think of anything else. I know that because even those of us who are safe within our own homes can think of nothing else.

We try to carry on our lives. Try to work. I try to create informative, enjoyable aeronautical thoughts on a computer screen, but nothing wants to come. It all seems so meaningless. We will get you out. Each number is a person. Some of those numbers are targeted because they are Americans. Many more are slated for much more severe consequences simply because they helped Americans. They have no one to take their side in any conflict. Essentially, they are dead. How did we get to this place? What has happened to our America? What has happened to the America the world has always trusted and depended up on?

I just had to vent. The sights and sounds that dominate newscasts on every station, regardless of political leaning, are unbelievable. All I can do is vent. Maintain the existing, hopefully over-powering, fighting force on-site to support the evacuation. Use that force to create avenues for evacuation of civilians. Do not reduce the force until all operations are concluded. Maintain a solid base of operations that is well equipped and well defended 5. Do not, under any circumstances arm the enemy with abandoned armament and support equipment. Above all, do all planning far, far in advance and assume the evacuation process is going to take two to three times longer than anticipated.

How many of the above were done? Not a single damn one of them! What kind of idiot pulls its entire fighting force out while the civilians they are there to protect are still home and have no idea they are about to be abandoned? And, if you are going to cut and run, how much effort does it take to drop a grenade into every abandoned vehicle, airplane and computer system? Not only did every weapon, armor, communication and intelligence system we had built into the Afghan army fall into enemy hands, so did our biggest base and everything it included. All of it in pristine, ready-to-be-used-against-us condition. I have nothing more to add.

Just more bitching. God help those caught in the middle. Then, as per my usual custom, sat down to watch the news while sucking down my oatmeal and coffee. The news! I actually had tears running down my cheeks as I watched the Afghanistan debacle. The original blog will have to wait. They are trapped like animals. They have been reduced to the Jews during WW II who know they are being herded down a chute towards torture and probable death. The feeling of being abandoned by the US must be palpable. The anger they feel must be on the same level as their fear. How could we?? We knew we were going to have to get out of Afghanistan at some point.

Nations have to learn to stand on their own two feet and fight their own battles. I understand that. So, our exit had to be carefully choreographed. But, it has! Our leaders have failed the entire world in not orchestrating our pull out better. That would fit the way this Administration seems to think: If you wait to face a crisis long enough, it will abate and the media will avoid making us look like the idiots are until the public furor has abated. Damn, damn, damn it! In truth, we owe them nothing yet they want everything. We owe them! Forget about pleasant seating. Get the people on board and out of danger. Use the airliners available for the same thing.

This has to be done quickly and completely. Will the Administration do any of the above? Forget feeling embarrassed by our actions! Embarrassment means nothing. What we should feel is guilt. And we should act on that and act on it right now. Every hour is critical. Do it, dammit!! This thing is moving so fast that, by the time you read this, everything I've said above may well be moot points.

Maybe, however, today, Monday, the Administration will get their head out of that dark, moist place they store their heads and do what should be done. And Should You Really Care? The following came out of WebMD, is by Cathryn Conroy and seems to say that the concept of being a workaholic is seen, in some circles, as being a really bad thing. The final paragraph of this session of Thinking Out Loud, sums it up for me and so many others that I know.

Still, this makes for interesting reading. Answer "yes" to just three or more questions and you need to stand up and introduce yourself as a workaholic--or at least recognize that you're on your way to becoming one. Take this quiz to find out if you're a conscientious or compulsive employee. It may change your whole outlook on work. Do you get more excited about work than about family or anything else? Are there times when you can charge through your work and other times when you can't get anything done? Do you take work with you to bed? On weekends? On vacation? Is work the activity you like to do best and talk about most? Do you work more than 40 hours a week? Do you turn your hobbies into money-making ventures?

Do you take complete responsibility for the outcome of your work efforts? Have your family or friends given up expecting you on time? Do you underestimate how long a project will take, and then rush to complete it? Do you believe it's okay to work long hours if you love what you are doing? Do you get impatient with people who have other priorities besides work? Are you afraid that if you don't work hard, you will lose your job or be a failure? Is the future a constant worry for you, even when things are going well? Do you do things energetically and competitively, including play?

Do you get irritated when people ask you to stop doing your work to do something else? Have your long hours hurt your family or other relationships? Do you think about your work while driving, before falling asleep, or when others are talking? Do you work or read during meals? Do you believe that more money will solve the other problems in your life? Workaholics need to take a look at the fact that their life is not balanced, and learn how to make time for relaxation, education, culture, friends, and family that are neglected because of their work habits," Dr, Filewich told WebMD. Jacks says it best: A master in the art of living draws no sharp distinction between his work and his play; his labor and his leisure; his mind and his body; his education and his recreation.

He hardly knows which is which. He simply pursues his vision of excellence through whatever he is doing, and leaves others to determine whether he is working or playing. To himself, he always appears to be doing both. And, that, sports fans, hits the nail right on the head! A goodly portion of my mind is still wrapped around struts and wires, spinners and prop blades and most important, the warm, never-ending, and always hysterical, insult-fest that is ongoing between close friends. The psychological intertwining of the Internet and Oshkosh does some pretty cool things, when it comes to friendships. In fact, it was as if we were finishing stories we had started two years ago. The entire group is talkingat least three or four times a week.

As I was hoping, the outside world mentally drifted into the distance for the entire week. I doubt if politics came up more than twice. Memories of all kind were very much in evidence. Covid masks were seldom seen but were sometimes discussed. As a group, pilots are a pretty independent bunch so Type A personalities flowed to the horizon. The grounds had been hugely expanded and every square inch of the grass was covered with airplanes. The number of airplanes were not to be believed. You count them by the acre. If you believe my phone, I was averaging about 5, steps a day or right at two miles. This even though I almost never got out of my golf cart.

I was glued to it. And my kidneys. And L-3 and L However, it was better than walking. When it came time to come home, I found myself neck deep in transportation drama courtesy of Southwest Airlines. Three hours each way. When I got my boarding pass for the return trip 24 hours ahead of time, the departure had been moved up to and I was an hour and a half away from Milwaukee. An early morning launch was called for. Then I looked closely at the boarding pass: My three-hour direct flight home was now eight hours and fifteen minutes!

You have to be kidding me! I learned later, they were routing me through Fort Lauderdale. Gimme a break! Plus, if I had decided to pick up my boarding pass at the airport, rather than the day before, I would have missed the flight entirely because they were thinking and I had in my head. When I hit the road the next morning at , I was mentally prepared for a terribly long day. This after spending a week getting beaten to death by a Cushman golf cart for hours a day, nine forums and a bunch of meetings.

It was fun, but I was dead on my butt. I generally just gut it out. I grabbed the pass and took off in as much of a sprint as a thoroughly-trashed gray dog could muster. Unfortunately, I had forgotten about security! Shoes, computer, belt, cowboy hat, denim jacket, wallet all in different trays. Would I make it? As I passed the hands-in-the-air X-ray, they stopped me to wand my ankles for some reason. Come on, come on, let me go!!! I wadded all my stuff, including my belt, wallet, etc. Might have been a lope. Not sure.

Bless her heart! Anyway, I made it to Vegas, miraculously the departure gate was right next to the arrival gate so it was no sweat from that point on. My eight-hour flight was cut almost in half. A big one! I wonder if they read my blog? PPS - By some miracle, my bag not only made it but was one of the first ten on the carousel. That put a perfect end on an imperfect day.

So, Thinking Out Loud will miss two weeks. This year will be my 53rd time headed for Av Mecca North!!! The first four were in Rockford before it was moved to Oshkosh in And downright frightening for those of us with severe acrophobia. Oshkosh is very much the same. One big difference, however, is that The Canyon hits you right between the eyes the instant you walk up to the rim because one view point covers most of it. The expanse hits your brain all at one time. It goes and goes and goes. The main runway is 8, feet. The other runway is 6, ft long, has airplanes parked 30 or 40 deep on both sides. Approximately one out of every ten airplanes in the US is parked on Oshkosh or the two satellite airports at Fond du Loc or Appleton at one time.

There are so many Vans designs on the field that they are measured by the acre, not by numbers. The experience is mind numbing. And totally exhausting! Like I said impossible to imagine without actually being there. But many of us do see each other once a year at Oshkosh. Little by little, a group of eight or ten guys that I digitally talk to on a daily basis has evolved out of, or possibly into, the little posse that hangs together at OSH. Either or. Makes no difference. However, I also know a couple of new guys are going to be inserted into the group. One of the best things to come out of the week, and it affects everyone, is that for that entire time we put the rest of the world on hold. Invariably we finish the week physically spent but mentally rehabilitated and ready to take on the world again.

I know that everything I do on a daily basis suddenly becomes easier and moves faster after I return. That is, however, after I spend a day or two wading through the several thousand e-mails that have piled up. I cherry pick the important ones each night at OSH and ignore the rest. We date stuff as having happened before and after OSH. Our year starts and our year ends that week. God knows we need, and deserve, The Oshkosh Week. Far too many answers were disturbingly ignorant. And I was surprised to see how apropos they are to our national situation today. I was even more surprised to find that part of my mind found itself applying the principles to both sides of the political aisle, not just the side I, as a hard core Independent, clearly lean towards.

Read this and see what you think. This is a transcription of the Declaration as it was written. It says a lot about us and our national attitudes. When in the Course of human events, it becomes necessary for one people to dissolve the political bands which have connected them with another, and to assume among the powers of the earth, the separate and equal station to which the Laws of Nature and of Nature's God entitle them, a decent respect to the opinions of mankind requires that they should declare the causes which impel them to the separation.

We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness. Prudence, indeed, will dictate that Governments long established should not be changed for light and transient causes; and accordingly all experience hath shewn, that mankind are more disposed to suffer, while evils are sufferable, than to right themselves by abolishing the forms to which they are accustomed.

But when a long train of abuses and usurpations, pursuing invariably the same Object evinces a design to reduce them under absolute Despotism, it is their right, it is their duty, to throw off such Government, and to provide new Guards for their future security. Such has been the patient sufferance of these Colonies; and such is now the necessity which constrains them to alter their former Systems of Government.

The history of the present King of Great Britain is a history of repeated injuries and usurpations, all having in direct object the establishment of an absolute Tyranny over these States. To prove this, let Facts be submitted to a candid world. I think that the much-publicized dislike for America, The Flag and the other party is a flashy, newsworthy veneer floating on top of a still-solid America that still appreciates its freedom and the values it was founded upon.

Some of which we're still working on. Governments are instituted among Men, deriving their just powers from the consent of the governed, --That absolutely says it all. WE are the government, NOT the politicians. Prudence, indeed, will dictate that Governments long established should not be changed for light and transient causes —This is where we are today. We're fighting over nit noids. We just need to clean government up a bit, not trash the whole thing. But, given enough time, we set things right. We have a way to go but we're working on it. But when a long train of abuses and usurpations, pursuing invariably the same Object evinces a design to reduce them under absolute Despotism, it is their right, it is their duty, to throw off such Government, and to provide new Guards for their future security — So, we knew from the beginning that we can put up with crap from our leaders for only so long before we need to do something about it.

More reason for the ballot box to be verified to stillbe viable. That should be our single most important national goal. The bottom line to the Fourth of July is that we remember what our founders saw as the need for our Independence and what for m that independence would take. If you feel like re-reading the original Constitution here's a link. Ignore where I sourced the info.

The subject that popped up a couple days ago was a huge study that said that certain characteristics of our sleep determine our mental health and happiness. Too often sleep is far from being just plopping down, passing out and awaking to chirping birds, a perfect sun and morning coffee. Modern life has, for many of us, really raised hell with our sleep patterns. I found myself most creative late in the day but more analytic early in the morning.

Then, I moved to AZ where I had responsibilities for a work force that hit the floor at , so I wanted to be there at That forced me into changing my sleep patterns to an wake-up and a bed time. Now, post-Pandemic pressures force me out of the sack at and I try to get to bed by 10 pm, but seldom do. I seem to have adjusted nicely, which is surprising to me. Then I read the following thing about how our body clock can dictate our mental attitude. This one I absolutely believe.

Why friends are the key to our health and survival Sure, lovers and children are great. But friends are more than ever the heart of happiness, of family and of love itself. Which I have a hard time believing. Peeing at night could cost the United States' economy billions In March, a team of scientists at the RAND corporation estimated that shuffling to the bathroom at least twice each night could be costing the United States economy billions of dollars. Or more. Many of those still got a place in our little town while working on the farm. Again, not sure what that says about us. Enough bathroom philosophizing for the day. That, in turn, has caused me to realize that, as measured by the rest of the world, I really am from a small town.

It was just MY town. According to Wiki, when I graduated in the population of Seward, Nebraska was 4, This is larger than I expected, but, courtesy of song lyrics, I guess it actually was quite small. Today, it has ballooned to over 7, and it feels positively huge. So, excuse me, if I pontificate on a subject a few readers may not relate to. Others, however, will totally get it.

To put a few things in perspective, Seward Country, Nebraska is the first county west of the capital city of Lincoln and is square miles so it is roughly 24 miles square. Most of the downtown area sits on a huge, wide, flat hill that overlooks the confluence of the rivers. Incidentally, all Seward County license plates start with the number You can tell which cars in Nebraska are from which counties because the first number on their license plates were assigned in They were based on where a given county ranked in the hierarchy of the number of licensed vehicles in the state.

Omaha is number one. Lincoln number two. Seward was 16th in the state, hence the license plates. I never actually knew that. Thank you, Wiki! I started thinking about my old hometown as I was driving to the airport for the umpteenth time this week. My students and I most are bunking with us try to be there at so we can get in the air and beat the build-up of traffic in the pattern. So, I try to beat them to it. During one of the recent commutes, while listening to my country station, it dawned on me that not once in my adult life had I lived anywhere but in a major metropolitan area.

Unfortunately, PHX is five million people and growing. Fortunately, only a couple dozen of the locals are on the road at between me and the airport. On the run to the airport the day before Memorial Day, Seward, Nebraska was heavy on my mind. As it will be again come July 4th. As a youth, both days were periods during which the town came together to recognize what the days meant to us. In my younger days, Memorial Day found me as part of the crowd gathered around a flag, listening to noted speakers, in the middle of the smallish cemetery north of town.

Flags were everywhere you looked in town. Thank God, the same is still true today. National pride is very much alive in the Midwest. July 4th is an amazing period for small towns, but especially for Seward. It has been entirely too long and I sorely miss my roots. Never a negative. The concepts of self-reliance and personal responsibility were givens. The feelings for the flag and the country were part of the surroundings. Side notes on the Class of There were 66 in my graduating class. Like I said, nothing is small about a small town. She said I was crying, sobbing actually, in my sleep. I was having a bad dream.

Or, as I reflected back on it, maybe it was a good one. I was running back and forth between the garage and the main hotel lobby trying to find someone to help. At the end of the dream, I was standing in the lobby frantically punching numbers into my phone and someone walked past me to lean against the opposite wall. I ignored him. Then, I flicked my eyes up and focused on him as he did the same and our eyes met. Recognition flashed through both us and we rushed forward and wrapped ourselves around each other, both sobbing.

It was my brother, Gary, who had left us at the age of 41 from a massive heart attack. It was at that point Marlene shook me back into the real world. At that moment, I re-ran the morning of November 2nd, It was in the morning, when the phone rang. Then, as I picked it up, I rotated up to sit on the edge of the bed. The voice on the other end was my brother-in-law. Our Gary! Do something! And raw. It has been 36 years since I got that phone call and I jotted down those words and they are as true today as they were then. When you lose someone, they are never actually gone. They just hide within us to resurface, when we need them most. And in this case, we learn from the times they come back to visit.

Love never dies. The late fall sun was barely out of the sack when I twitched my wrist and felt the cool, fat air above shove me away from the runway. It was a fantastic time to be alive. The cockpit of the Pitts fit like it always did. Like an old shoe. A comfortable feeling. I was going aloft with a dear old, somewhat raucous, friend. I was home, but at that moment I didn't know exactly how much a home it was. When it came, I really wasn't prepared for it. Going through feet, as I climbed away from the pattern, I felt it well up inside of me and suddenly I was sobbing.

Not just misty eyed or crying, but I was racked with the deepest, most gut-wrenching sobs I've known as an adult. Maybe ever. I was alone for the first time in a week and I was suddenly faced with the true knowledge that my brother was gone. I wasn't wrapping my arms around my mother trying to comfort her. I wasn't holding his wife Betsy, feeling our tears run together.

I was alone. In my entire life I had never felt so alone. It had been exactly one week since that awful call had come in the middle of the night. It wasn't supposed to happen to my family. The stories about men dying in their prime, at 41 years old, were about other people Not Gary. Not tall, good looking, so damned sensitive, Gary. It just wasn't supposed to happen. But it did. And there, at feet, I knew the set had been broken. I would never again know that feeling of walking into a room as The Davisson Kids.

We were a pair. Now I was alone. Somehow through the numbness of the week I managed to grieve the only way I knew how, with my arms around another loved one who hurt as much as I did. What I didn't know was that I was grieving not for Gary and not for me, but for those he had left behind. For Betsy. For his three step-kids. For the literally hundreds and hundreds of people he had touched in his life, every one of whom knew they had met someone special. Through our entire adult life, it was almost embarrassing the way he could get inside somebody's head in a matter of seconds. If you met Gary for five minutes, you knew Gary.

And what's more, try as you might to hide, he knew you. I guess that's why he became a shrink, a PhD in cowboy boots and Levis who practiced the art and theory of love and made it work for other people. Especially kids. Most especially kids. I pushed my way through the week. The trip was punctuated with tidal waves of hugs and tears. With kind words and kinder caresses. It was one hell of a long, hard week.

And then I was home and it was an absolutely beautiful Indian summer day, It was a day made for Pitts Specials and one I wasn't going to waste. As I was taxiing out, I had forgotten my first impulse of the week before. Seven days earlier the phone rang in the dark and I answered. The shock and disbelief took their toll and, without thinking, I started to put on Levi's and my leather jacket and head for the airport. As the sun came up, the press of having to be someplace else in a hurry and the dense ground fog combined to make me forget why I was walking around the house in a flight jacket. I forgot a lot of things that morning.

Then, a week later, as I pressed my head against the side of the canopy and let the pain exit my body anyway it wanted, I remembered where I was headed that morning. I had wanted to be alone. I wanted to be where it was just me and nobody else. Where I could let go of my emotional control and wouldn't be embarrassed at the consequences. Still, I was surprised, and relieved at the strength of the sobs, the profusion of tears. And the sound of my own cries over the Lycoming. Oh God, how I hurt! He was gone and, at that moment, climbing through the early morning sun over Andover.

New Jersey, I let myself believe that fact for the first time. And I didn't like it. I've never been a true romantic about aviation. I've heard a million people say they get up in an airplane and all their troubles disappear. I've never really felt that way. When I'm flying, it's an experiment, a challenge, to see if I can fly better than I did the last time. In a way it's a competition in which I'm the only contestant Flying is a long way from being work for me, but it's not necessarily a mystical experience either.

Not usually anyway. That one flight made me realize that I didn't have a clue as to how important flying was to me. Gary, in his always subtle way, had made me reach inside to see how the pieces really fit together. For the first time, I was seeing how the emotions actually dovetailed without the sugar coating of logic or rationality. I was seeing that flight was much more important to me than I had ever known. Damned, I wished he'd picked an easier method of analysis! One of the real tragedies of my life is that I really didn't get to know my brother until we were in our late thirties.

Being less than two years younger than me, it shouldn't have been that way. Brothers being what they sometimes are, however, we were so different it took half a lifetime to grow together. And the tragedy is I didn't have time to learn from him nearly what I could and should have. He taught me two very serious and useful things in his passing; The first is that, in the final analysis, when all the hugs and rituals are over, you grieve alone. That's the grieving which really counts. The second thing I learned from Gary that day is I now know where I have to go to be alone. I now know how to visit those private places which exist only within my own mind.

Gary and I were never big on good-byes. We'd hug and mumble ". It was too final then, and it's too final now. I don't know how many more flights it's going to take to work that one out, but at least I know where to start. The same statistics exist for the American Armed forces going back to These are typical. Not atypical. There are 58, names now listed on that polished black wall, including those added in The names are arranged in the order in which they were taken from us by date and within each date the names are alphabetized. It is hard to believe it is 57 years since the first casualty. The first known casualty was Richard B. Fitzgibbon, of North Weymouth, Mass. Listed by the U. Department of Defense as having been killed on June 8, Richard B. Fitzgibbon III, who was killed on Sept.

There are three sets of fathers and sons on the Wall. The largest age group, 33, were 18 years old. Thirty one sets of parents lost two of their sons. I wonder why so many from one school. Beallsville, Ohio with a population of lost 6 of her sons. West Virginia had the highest casualty rate per capita in the nation. There are West Virginians on the Wall. The Marines of Morenci - They led some of the scrappiest high school football and basketball teams that the little Arizona copper town of Morenci pop.

They enjoyed roaring beer busts. In quieter moments, they rode horses along the Coronado Trail, stalked deer in the Apache National Forest. And in the patriotic camaraderie typical of Morenci's mining families, the nine graduates of Morenci High enlisted as a group in the Marine Corps. Their service began on Independence Day, Only 3 returned home. They lived only a few yards apart. They played ball at the adjacent sandlot ball field. And they all went to Vietnam. In a span of 16 dark days in late , all three would be killed. LeRoy was killed on Wednesday, Nov.

Kennedy's assassination. Jimmy died less than 24 hours later on Thanksgiving Day. Tom was shot dead assaulting the enemy on Dec. The most casualty deaths for a single month was May - 2, casualties were incurred. For most Americans who read this they will only see the numbers that the Vietnam War created. To those of us who survived the war, and to the families of those who did not, we see the faces, we feel the pain that these numbers created. We are, until we too pass away, haunted with these numbers, because they were our friends, fathers, husbands, wives, sons and daughters. There are no noble wars, just noble warriors. Please pass this on to those who served during this time, and those who DO Care. Some for the good.

Some not so much. What follows first is a tale that is being repeated across the nation and has nothing to do with politics. It has to do with an age discrimination protocol that threatens the very soul of aviation. Although even the top dog at AVEMCO Insurance has said that there is zero data that says age is playing a role in accidents, those of us over are in the process of being removed from aviation via the insurance route. Better yet, let that executive try to follow me around for a day and see how long it is before his tongue is hanging out. Some will be ancient beyond their years and will clearly show their age. Others will be a long way from fitting the profile the insurance folks are attaching to that age.

In some cases, a very long way. Okay, that was the bad news of the insurance thing. There was some good news. Sort of. Basically, I ignore my flight time. So, I officially have 7, hours in Pitts Specials. For a lot of pilots, like airline jockeys, 10K means nothing. Also, about 8, hours and most of the Pitts time is comprised of approximately six or seven landings an hour. Do the math! I, like everyone else, clearly remember my first solo takeoff. Mine was in in a Piper Tri-pacer that was brand new and smelled like it. I can still feel my hand wrapped around the cylindrical throttle of my first Mustang, absolutely enthralled with the ensuing cacophony of sound that was flowing over me.

The awesome feeling of four negative Gs slowly bleeding off as I settled back into the seat on the top of my first outside loop. The smell of the jungle as I stepped out of the Evangel deep in Brazil occasionally wafts through my imaginary nostrils. It was sobering knowing that we were on the edge of the world. Civilization was many hundreds of miles away. Further, the tiny, breach clouted natives coming out of the edges of the miniscule runway were real and not a photo in Nat Geo. And on, and on, and on. This after something over 25 years of being beaten to death by God knows how many major projects.

This happened at about in the morning. Five frigging hours!!! One way or the other, every soul on the planet is in the process of learning to live a new life. Will the small business folks who lost it all try again? Will those who lost loved ones regain their balance quickly or will the scars be too deep? Will the super-big tech companies who gained total control of our communication and much of our lives while we were all suffering be challenged and brought into a semblance of balance? Will our political pendulum swing too far and start back in the near future? The questions ahead of us are numerous and challenging. However, the truth is that it is all going to be livable because the aero-faithful will once again be converging on Oshkosh in July.

Knowing that makes the rest of the challenges both bearable and beatable. Grassroots: In the Beginning The signs had been everywhere but that morning in the motel room I knew we had crossed a major threshold. Early sun was pouring through the windows, as bright and clean as the high altitude of Prescott, AZ could make it. I was putting off the inevitable lurch out of bed for my hop as long as possible.

The Pitts and a student would be waiting. As I lay there, floating in that delicious semi-conscious state between sleep and wakefulness, I caught The Redhead staring at me. She arched her eyebrows seductively. But, I didn't. I wasn't even close. She smiled, "It means I remember Jim Clevenger saying he had enough extra steel tubing to start building the fuselage for our Desert Hawk.

Talk about words a man dreams of hearing! My redhead had popped out of sleep with visions of round-motored airplanes dancing in her head. I had died and gone to aerial heaven! Too much information, you're saying? Maybe so, but I had to share the incident to remind us all how much effect the first few hours of flight instruction can have on a person. Learning to fly often changes a person's outlook on life and it's always for the better. The day before, The Redhead had taken her first 2. What I was seeing that morning was the result of her first now-you-are-a-real-student instruction.

The effect was immediate. And intense. And, I think we will find in the long run, it's super beneficial. What I was seeing in my lady was typical. The first steps through aviation's door almost always have major effects on a person's mind. The Complete Guide for People With Parkinson's Disease and Their Loved Ones helps make sense of what comes next and what can be done, not just for those suffering from the disease but for their family and friends as well. A trained nurse and primary caregiver for her mother, who was diagnosed with Parkinson's disease in , Lianna Marie draws upon over twenty years of education, research, and direct experience.

Written in straightforward and easily accessible language, this essential guide aims to help patients better understand their role in their treatment so that they may continue to lead happy and hopeful lives. Topics covered include nutrition and exercise, alternative and complementary therapies, medication and treatment, and what caregivers can do to help. Written by an international expert on Parkinson's who has confronted the disease firsthand, The Complete Guide serves as the go-to book for comprehensive, easy-to-understand information for all Parkinson's patients and their loved ones.

The new Second Edition features: " wo new chapters: one on the impact of urban education on urban health and another covering the elderly and health equity " pdated and enhanced coverage on men's health, demographic data, the importance of cultural proficiency, maternal mortality and Black women, and much more. It looks like you're using Internet Explorer 11 or older. This website works best with modern browsers such as the latest versions of Chrome, Firefox, Safari, and Edge. If you continue with this browser, you may see unexpected results. Welcome Browse the book shelves of the new materials collection in the LRC!

Read contents and summaries of the new items. View the book jacket. Click on the title to link to Logan's catalog to view the item's location and availability. Recommend new materials for purchase. The guide is updated monthly so check in often to see what's new in the LRC. Featured Items Fascial release for structural balance, revised edition This thoroughly revised edition of the authoritative reference Fascial Release for Structural Balance brings the book up to date with all of the most current research on the role of fascia and myofascia in the body, and how treatment affects it. The power and the grace : a professional's guide to ease and efficiency in functional movement.

Quick Questions in the Shoulder "Quick Questions in the Shoulder: Expert Advice in Sports Medicine provides a unique format of concise and to the point responses with clinical application, backed by the latest research on shoulder injuries among athletes.

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