Doing what's right vs. Doing what I want

 I just finished a big, well maybe 6 oz. glass of cold orange juice.   I love OJ, I have some nearly every morning before the coffee pot starts up.  It's refreshing.  It helps me think. I guess I could use that as an excuse for having some tonight, shortly after 11 p.m. on this Monday night.  

I could say I have a dilemma, but that is not exactly right, that would be an insult to dilemmas.  I have two choices in front of me.  One is clearly, 100 percent the right thing to do.  No question, and I am confident when all this self-examination ends, the right thing is what I'll do.  But here is the kicker.  I have no desire at all to do the right thing.

Now for all of my church-going friends out there, and I know who you are, this not a question of right or wrong, sinning or not sinning.  No this is a matter involving individuals and considerable time and travel.  To tell you the truth, I'm tired and don't want to do it.  I'd rather stay home.

All of us have been in a situation like this.  Do what we want to do, or do what would be a better, more appreciative thing to do.  Again, I know the answer to the question, and so do you.

To be honest, I'm a little surprised at myself.  I have talked to M, and another close friend, hoping they would say, "you know Dalt, you're right, you really don't need to do this.  Stay home and watch some college football and grill yourself some salmon."  But they didn't say that.  Not even close.  M went so far as to remind me this was my choice, and mine alone.  Ugh, why is it so hard being a grown-up.  Why can't I just sit in my boxers and a t-shirt and watch Looney Tunes.

One reason is because I keep thinking what would Jesus do?  Yes, the old WWJD makes a comeback from the recesses of my brain.  I cannot look Jesus in the eye and say, "I'm sorry, I don't have the time or the desire to do this."  He didn't really want to go to the cross either.  No, no sympathy there.

The second reason is my dad.  My dad had been gone for 15 years, dying of cancer in 2009.  Many years ago, when I was still in grade school, maybe junior high, I did something that was wrong, very wrong, borderline illegal.  It is amazing I didn't wind up in jail.  It wasn't anything where someone was going to get hurt physically.  But quoting one the three knights from the third Indiana Jones movie, "He chose poorly."  I chose poorly.

But the thing I learned from that momentary lack of reason was my dad's reaction the following day.  When he got home from work, he came to my room to serve justice.  Or so I expected.  Instead, he just looked at me for several long seconds and finally said, "I cannot tell you how disappointed in you I am."

Some things you never ever forget.  Now, several decades later, I am an adult, a husband and a father. Those words are a daily reminder of the responsibility I carry as someone who is old enough to know better. 

Generally speaking, I have a pretty good attitude on a daily basis.  I have been blessed my whole life, and I see the positive in all things.  But for some reason, I have had a case of me.  This is not what I want.  Where is the fun in doing this?  Where is the reward?  Why do I have to be the grown-up?

The answer is simple.  So simple that several years ago Max Lucado wrote a book about the answer.  "It's Not About Me."

I know I will do what I really don't want to do.  Afterall, it's not about me.

Overgrossed? Nah, looks good to me

 First things first.  No more political posts/blogs from me.  Actually, I think I only did one.  That was one too many.  There are just too many narrow-minded folks out there who evidently have been vaccinated against common sense.  So I say here and now, no more political posts.

Ok, now that we have that out of the way what shall we talk about?  Food?  Always a good subject.  I have a lot of airplane stories and a lot of baseball stories.  I could also talk about my numerous traffic tickets, but since my mother reads this blog, I don't want her to stroke out or anything, so I'll just say I have had more than one, but less than 30.  I think that is vague enough.

Nah, I think I will go back to the land of Ozark Airlines, and a story that may make some of you never want to fly again, and others just marvel at how well these airplanes are built.  Also I feel safe recounting this story because it happened in September 1982, which was 42 years ago.  I also feel pretty confident that statute of limitations has expired.

I was hired by Ozark Airlines in April of 1981.  At the time I was spinning records and writing news and doing play-by-play for KSER AM-FM in Searcy, Ark.  I had been there a couple of years and actually like my job.  

But going back another decade, my mother had gotten a job at Ozark as a clerk in September 1971.  I was 14 at the time.  Yes the stories are true.  employees, their spouses, parents and dependent children could fly free.  Well it might as well have been free.  Because of this nice perk, by the time I was no longer considered a dependent, just a few years ago, I had been to Hawaii a couple of times and Europe a couple of times and to the Caribbean.  I liked this perk.  In other words, I was spoiled.

Well mom called me one day down in Searcy and said, "hey, Ozark is getting ready to hire some ticket agents.  Think you might be interested?"  Well, she didn't have to ask me twice, I started brushing up on my resume and learning my airport codes.  I had an interview with Ozark in St. Louis a few weeks later, and they offered me a job the following week.  So I said goodbye to Searcy and moved 300 miles north back home to St. Louis.

But the job was contingent, I had to successfully pass three weeks of Ozark U.  Where I learned everything to how to write a ticket, handle air freight, learn about restricted articles, learn about weight and balance (more on that in a few paragraphs).  You see my point.  They weren't going to hand you the job and the flying privileges, you had to earn them.  

So I survived the three weeks, making great grades, finishing fourth or fifth out of a class of 30.  Now supposedly, we were going to pick our assignment at the end of the three weeks.  Tops in class got first pick.  "I'll take Nashville."  Second then would say "I'll stay in St. Louis," you get the picture.  But a funny thing happened on the way to the employment at Ozark.  President Reagan fired the Air Traffic Controllers for striking.  Consequently, the airlines severely cut back their schedules, and since they were flying fewer flights, not as many agents were needed.  So after graduating from Ozark U., we were all laid off.

I finally was called to work in early December of 1981 and was assigned to Fort Dodge, Iowa.  I was there in December and January, and it gets cold there.  Then I was transferred to Marion, Ill, then they closed the station.  Out of work for a month, then sent to Omaha, Neb for a couple months, then sent to Big D, Dallas, Texas, the largest (land-wise) airport in the free world.

This is where our story (finally) begins.

I was working a Saturday afternoon at DFW, and you know summers in Texas are hot.  It was about 98 degrees.  Also if you know anything about aircraft and engine performance, the hotter it gets, the less power they have, meaning not as much lift.  Lift is a good thing if you want to fly.

This particular Saturday afternoon, in addition to a few Ozark flights, we had a "Live" charter.  Live meant there were passengers on it.  This particular charter had come out of Mississippi and was heading for Twenty-nine Palms, California.  It was carrying 110 hot United States Marines heading to the desert for training.  I know there was 110 because it was a DC 9-31.  At the time Ozark flew nothing but DC-9's.  the "Dash 30's" held 100.  All of them.  No guesswork there.

Ok, back to our story, which is true to best of my memory.  The charter stopped at DFW to re-fuel.  The DC-9, unless it had extra tanks, and this one didn't, could not fly non-stop cross country.  So, after landing, there was nothing to unload, just refueling, in airline lingo, this was going to be a quick "turn around."

But a funny thing happened on the way to departure.  The fueler put on the desired fuel as prescribed by Dispatch and the DFW Weight/Balance (W/B) agent.  But the temperature in the middle of the afternoon at DFW was a lot hotter than it was in Mississippi a few hours earlier.  Remember what I told you about aircraft performance earlier.  All of a sudden, the aircraft was way too heavy.  For more than one reason.   

On a normal Ozark flight, each passenger was assigned, for W/B purposes, a weight of 176 pounds.  Many weighed ore, many weighed less.  It was an average.  But this was 110 Marines.  They all weighed more than 176 pounds.  Let's consider the luggage.  This was not Samsonite and backpacks.  This was 110 duffel bags and various other pieces of luggage necessary to this mission that greatly affected the bottom line.  And the bottom line was this, we were, this Ozark DC 9-31, was about 4,000 pounds overweight.

There were two options.   Unload 4,000 pounds of baggage, which American had graciously offered to fly to Los Angeles several hours later.  Or we could de-fuel.  But if they decided to de-fuel, they needed a tanker truck and it would be at least an hour before one was available.  Final option was leave everything om board, take off and fly to say Albuquerque, and load up on fuel again.

After much debate between W/B, the ramp manager, STL Dispatch and American Airlines, it was decided to take the bags off.  So I, one of the five-man ramp crew, and the others, started unloading bags and putting them in a cart to take to American for a later flight.  We were about five minutes into this exercise when a colonel came running down the jetway stairs (unescorted and without proper ID I might add) yelling, screaming, wanting to know what in the @#$%&*@ we were doing with his bags.

This is where it really got interesting.

The five of us unloading, knowing we were severely outranked, stopped unloading.  Fortunately, the W/B agent was there with his paperwork to show our Colonel the problem, that severely overweight aircraft do not take off.

One note, remember the movie Apollo 13.  The ship is in trouble and all the NASA engineers are using their slide rules and good ole arithmetic to figure out if the command module could make it back to earth?  Of course you do.  Well, welcome to the world of Ozark weight and balance in the early '80's.  We used pencils, multiple charts and an adding machine to get the correct number.  Computer W/B was still several years away.

So our highly qualified W/B agent is trying to explain that if the lane took off, it would be landing in Irving.  This was an unsatisfactory answer to our friendly Marine Corps Colonel.  He repeated, in rather colorful language I might add, that the United States Government had paid for this charter and Ozark was responsible for getting men and materiel to California on the same plane.

After watching this exchange with great interest for several minutes, a third player entered the discussion.  I wish I could remember his name, but I honestly can't.  He was overweight, wearing a short sleeve shirt, his tie, his tie was who knows where.  He was wearing wire rims and had a toothpick in his mouth.

"Boys," the captain interrupted, "what seems to be the problem?"  Now he knew exactly what the problem was.  He may have been a hick from south Texas, but he did not just fall off the cotton wagon.  Chances are he had been a military pilot himself.  As the captain, the ramp crew, those sitting on the that side of the airplane and anyone listening on KRLD heard, the colonel and the W/B agent presented their cases of what was going on and what needed to be done.  Obviously, there was some disagreement, and any chance of compromise seemed remote.

But at this point something remarkable happened.  The captain asked for the paperwork.  The W/B agent handed him the paperwork and couldn't resist pointing out the bottom line showing the aircraft was roughly 4,000 pounds over grossed.  The captain is studying the paperwork like he's trying to pick the winner of the third race at Belmont.  Finally, and this totally blew my rookie Ozark mind, the captain reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a pencil.  He erases the bottom line and writes in a number that makes the plane in balance, at least on the paperwork.  Then says to everyone standing with their mouths hanging open, "Looks fine to me, get this crap back on here and let's go."  The stunned W/B agent said, "I'm not signing that," Meaning once NTSB investigators went through the charred wreckage and found the paperwork, they would know who to blame.   The captain smiled and said, "no problem, I'll sign it."

It only took a few minutes to load up the aircraft, the bins were closed, the jetway came off, and the plane was pushed back.  With the southerly breeze, the charter took off from Runway 17R, which today is over 13,000 feet long.  I don't remember how long it was then.  But we all watched from the ramp, and he used about 99 percent of the runway before rotating and heading to California.  

Takeaways.  Captains know the structural limits of the aircraft pretty well.  After thousands of hours flying, they know what it can or can't do.  Second, you never know what will make a good story.

Thursday Morning Quarterback

 I am not a political writer, but I do follow politics.   I once ran for mayor in a small town, but I am not a politician. I am not going to try and change your mind about the two main candidates from Tuesday's election, so please don't waste your time and try and change mind.  If you are my friend, I don't care if we have wildly different, varying opinions.  That is not what made us friends.  Politics and all things political do not define who I am.  At least I hope it doesn't.

In the 1976 election, I was 18 years and five months old, so I could legally vote for the first time.  I voted for Gerald Ford.  He lost.  Oh well, that happens.in every presidential election from 1976 through 2008, I voted for the republican.  Some won, some didn't.  Some of the Democrats who won turned out to be decent presidents.  Some of the Republicans were less than what I expected.  It happens.

I have always (since 1980) considered myself a Reagan Republican.  Strong defense, keep the government out of the way of business and the electorate, Promote a strong economy.  Back then it wasn't so much a big deal what party you were a part of.  To be honest, for the most part, there wasn't a thumbnails worth of difference in the two parties.   Sure they disagreed on some things, but the differences were not so great that a good compromise couldn't keep the government running.  

I remember when Reagan was President, the Democrats controlled the House.  The speaker was an Irishman from Boston, Tip O'Neill.  Every Friday, or whatever day was convenient, President Reagan and Speaker O'Neill would get together at the White House.  Frequently, weather permitting, they would sit on the Truman Balcony, overlooking the south lawn and Washington Monument, have a beer or two or three, and discuss the fate of the nation and how things were going and how they could work together better.   That is how the government worked.  It was perfect.

Somewhere in the early 2000's, the Internet found its footing.  Websites and blogs with no pedigree popped up everywhere, with individuals spouting their idea of not only how the government should work, but also how we should believe.  All the while hiding behind some sort of anonymity, spouting statistics and quotes as if they were Gospel.  An electorate, especially those under 40, tired of the 30 minutes of the evening news and the morning paper, flocked to these websites, these blogs

Many of these the authors were names nobody knew.  Just someone with a far left or far-right idea, with a computer and a knowledge of how to post their ramblings.  Some became famous like Rush Limbaugh, whose sole purpose, other than make money, was to stir the emotions of their followers, to make the other side appear to be the devil himself.  Yes, Bill Clinton made some mistakes, but he did some good.  I actually came to admire Barack Obama a lot more than I thought I would.

But cable television and the internet, social media if you will, made it their job to separate us.  Choose sides it was implied.  You are either for us or against us.  Reason, or having a willingness to compromise, was viewed as a weakness or a willingness to cave in to the other side.  MSNBC had a decidedly left slant, Fox News was so far right it nearly went around the block.  CNN was not quite as bad, but still there was an edge.

It was a new era.  The way we treated those who opposed us went from "I'm sorry, we just disagree," to full blown disdain and name-calling.  Questioning the sanity of the person with a differing opinion.  At the same time issues have attached themselves to the two parties.  Citizens rally around these causes as if our survival as a republic depends on it.  I've got news for you, it doesn't.

But I don't want you to think today's blog is all negative, because it is not.  I believe there is hope.

I was thrilled Tuesday night when exit polls showed the issue that concerned the voters most was not abortion, not immigration, not the economy.  No, the issue that was at the forefront of the voters who cast their ballots was the state of the democracy.  Praise the Lord, common sense is returning!  A full 34 percent said the democracy mattered the most when they cast their vote.  Government, political science and civic teachers everywhere could be heard rejoicing.  For weeks all we heard about on the news and on social media was abortion and immigration.  Are these important issues?  Absolutely, but they are not the ONLY issues.  I really don't understand individuals who are one issue voters, that is make their decision on who to vote for based on one issue.  But that is just my opinion.

But abortion and immigration, the two hot topics.  Of those polled two days ago, 14 percent said abortion was the issue foremost in their minds.  Eleven percent said immigration was the most important.  This is astounding.  We have been told for months these were the most important issues, and they are, to one-fourth of Americans.  That means to three out of every four voters, an issue other than abortion or immigration is the most important.  Imagine that.  At the same time, 37 percent, nearly two out of every five, felt the future of the democracy was the most important.  That is more than abortion and immigration combined.  Just let that sink it for a bit.

Look, I no longer consider myself a Republican, but I don't consider myself a Democrat either.  It is not my intention to be negative, though in some paragraphs that may be hard to believe.  I do believe that we as Americans can do better.  Our candidates need to be better, there needs to be mutual respect for the other side of the aisle, and social media needs to quit stirring the pot just because they can.

The voters have spoken.  We need to be concerned about our republic and the democracy we enjoy.  Otherwise, there won't be any more elections.

Two Fat Sisters

 There are about 15 or so individuals, all me, standing outside the front door of the restaurant.  It opens at 6.30, just 10 minutes away, but already, these regulars of Two Fat Sisters, are jockeying for position to be one of the first ones in should they unlock the doors early.

Two Fat Sisters sits on the south side of Hwy. 72 between the turn-off to go to downtown Tuscumbia (or my house) and the turn-off to go to Muscle Shoals.  They are only open for breakfast and lunch, but it is the breakfast crowd that is the subject of today's fascination.  The parking lot now has about 20 or so cars in it as a few more brave souls get out of their vehicles and congregate near the soon-to-be-unlocked door.  Most all ware wear jeans.  Some have camo tops and hats, while others are wearing plaid/flannel shirts.

It's cool on this partly cloudy Saturday.  My phone says it is 57 degrees and will be in the upper 70's by this afternoon.  I can live with that.  It is now past 6.30 and a few of the natives are getting restless.  Some rub their hands together like we are in the Canadian Yukon, while others alternate their balance from their left foot to their right.

'She's coming," one or the ones near the door hollers to those gathered round.  There is a little grumbling, and one person mutters a "'bout time," under his breath, but most are just hungry and want some coffee. As the doors open, the patrons hear to their assigned seats, or so it sems.  Within a minute, the 30 or so patrons who have been waiting have found seats that suit their needs.

Within seconds, one of the three waitresses on duty, i don't recognize any of them, has brought me a mug of coffee.  You know the kind, white stone wear that are as sturdy as Gibraltar.  She asks if I need cream.  I politely decline but do tell her I would like some water with my coffee.  She asks if I am ready to order and I tell her I am.  Without waiting, I order a sausage/cheese omelet, hash browns with grilled onions, (I know, I almost asked for them smothered like that place with the yellow lights that is open 24 hours) and some sourdough toast.  

I'm sitting in one of the corners and obviously cannot hear everyone's order, but most appear to be some combination of bacon and eggs.  One poor soul order grits and whole wheat toast.  His friends look at him like he in his death bad.

One of the owners is working the room like Sinatra at the Sands.  A pat on everyone's shoulder, some small talk and then heading to the next table.  She stops at my table.  She knows me and immediately says, "where have you been?  I haven't seen you in ages."  I recognize her, I have been through this routine before.  I tell her that M and I have been on vacation, then I got sick for a week.  She asks where we went, and I said Hilton Head, South Carolina.  She knows of the place, but confesses to having not been there, she has been as close as Savannah, which is about 30 miles.

As our discussion winds down, my breakfast arrives, and she excuses herself to go visit someone else. I look at my plate and it is pleasing.  The plastic oval shape is half-filled by the omelet.  The hash browns take up a large share of the plate as well and I can tell be the aroma they were generous with the onions, while the toast is just hanging out on the side hoping to be noticed.

I am just about to bow my head and quietly give thanks for my food when my waitress stops to top off my coffee.  I thank her and continue with my prayer.  I give thanks for my food, pray for M and much of her family who are in Guatemala for a nephew's wedding, my mother and stepfather, who are having aging issues, and for a good friend whose father is having surgery this morning.

After my prayer, I quickly find the pepper and the strawberry jam.  There is pepper sauce on the table but no hot sauce.  Next time she comes by she has sone Tabasco in her hand, which I liberally sprinkle over my eggs and hash browns.

The food, as always, is delicious.  It is filling and satisfies the soul.  My bill is just over $11 for this feast.  I pay for my breakfast and leave a four-dollar tip.

Before I go, I should mention their meat-and-three is a wonderful lunch, particularly for Sunday dinner.

Well, my day is off to a great start.  Time to watch some football.