Iron Modeler

Category: Well, I don’t like to talk about me….

  • To Quote the Rossington-Collins Band…

    Howdy, again!

    I've heard from some people about my latest post:

    "Why are you so against new kits"?

    "If we didn't get new kits, we'd still be building wood models!"

    Don't misunderstand me.  I love seeing new kits–from any manufacturer, of any subject, in any scale–whether it falls into my wheelhouse or not.  I hope they sell boatloads of them.  Why, if a new kit isn't my cup of tea, do I care? 

    Let's use the new 1/48th scale Airfix Westland Sea King as an example.  It looks to be a neat kit, but being a 1/48th scale kit, it doesn't fit in my rotary wing collection–I build helicopters in 1/72nd scale.  But my take is this–if the kit sells well, it puts money in the bank for Airfix.  With that money, they can later produce other kits.  At some point in time, they will produce something I will want to buy and build.  Its as simple as that.  It goes for any manufacturer–keep producing kits that sell well, so you can invest the money in even more new kits.  Sooner or later, there will be something I'm interested in.

    Another comment–"I don't like to wrestle with ancient kits, I'd rather build a State-of-the-Art model!"

    What makes you think I find wrestling with a rough kit fun?  I know where this person is coming from–they're "kit replacers".  For example, they had several Otaki P-51's in their stash when the Hasegawa kits came out in 1991.  So, they sold off their Otaki kits and replaced them with Hasegawa kits.  A few years later, they repeated the exercise when Tamiya's P-51 came out in 1995.  The scenario was repeated again with the Meng kit, the Airfix kit, and, most recently, with the Eduard kit.  And look, I'm cool with that–your model, do what you want.

    I still have at least one each of the Hasegawa and Tamiya kits hanging around here, but that did not stop me from buying a couple of the Airfix kits and the "Chattanooga Choo-Choo" version of the Eduard kit.  And I'll probably buy more, as the need arises.  But at some point, I'll probably still drag out a Hasegawa or Tamiya kit and build it.  Why?  I have it in my possession–I don't need to spend more money to get a decent Mustang model.  Same goes for the Grumman Wildcats and Focke-Wulf 190's (a few Tamiya and Tri-Master/Dragon kits rest in the stash, but I have one or two of the Eduard kits, too) and Mitsubishi Zero (Hasegawa, sure, but I also have the new-ish Tamiya kits.  An Eduard version isn't outside the realm of possibility, either…)…

    Quite honestly, a new kit doesn't always make an older kit obsolete.  I give you the Trumpeter F-105's in 1/72nd and 1/48th scale.  They may not fill a magazine rack, but they still have issues.  Frankly, I still find the 1/72nd Revell and Monogram kits (I divested myself of all my 1/48th scale Thuds) to be better in all aspects than the Trumpeter kits–raised panel lines and all.  And again, here we are–yo' pays yo' money, yo' takes yo' choice.  Some people will do anything to avoid a kit with raised panel lines, and will opt for Trumpeter, warts and all.  And again, that's cool.  As I've said before, there are as many different ways to enjoy the hobby as there are people enjoying it…

    Whether a newer kit is "better" than the "ancient" kits of the same subject is a personal matter.  I say the same thing about modelers who brand people "rivet counters".  Without the "rivet counters" (and I loathe that term, by the way), we wouldn't be seeing these wonderful new kits.  Whether or not you personally buy and build them, or stick to the older kits is your choice.  Whatever you do, enjoy the ride. 

    ~~~~~     ~~~~~     ~~~~~     ~~~~~     ~~~~~
    If you've paid attention, the 2023 IPMS/USA National Convention was held in San Marcos, Texas last week.  Two items of note:

    1.  Apparently, there has been a rash of Covid infections amongst the attendees.  While I hope everybody affected gets well soon (I am just over a very mild case, myself), I have some heartburn here.  We all saw the same thing play out after last year's Convention–no sooner did people get home, reports of Covid infections started to hit the forii.  This year, as the photos from San Marcos started to roll in, I noticed that there was nary a mask in sight.  Didn't we collectively learn anything from the Vegas show?  C'mon, guys and gals…

    2.  "Cell Phone Guy" has probably become a popular meme.  In case you missed it, a photo of a judge holding an armor model over his head while examining the underside using his cell phone light is making the rounds.  It has spawned bushels of debate.  So…

    I get it–the IPMS/USA Competition Handbook says clearly that judges will be allowed to pick up a model.  However, Cell Phone Guy had to do some fancy juggling to get the model in the position shown in the photo.  Plus, he was bare-handing the model–no gloves, just his naked meathooks.  I don't think this meets the "greatest care" clause in the CH.  Apparently, this guy was also absent from the Judges' Meeting.  Why he was allowed to judge is a mystery.  Why no other judges called him out is even more curious.

    In all the comments, it has been also brought to the world's attention that several (I've seen as many as a dozen or more) models were damaged during judging.  One had a prop sheared off when a judge dropped his flashlight.  One figure fell off the base when the judge decided to see if the modeler painted the underside of something.  A few aircraft had landing gear or landing gear doors sheared off.  

    If I were a modeler walking in to the display room on Saturday and found my model damaged with a Post-It note that only says, "Sorry", I would be livid.  

    All of this could be avoided by two changes:

    1.  Contest staff members do not touch the models.  At all.  Ever.
    2.  Judge the model as presented by the modeler, i.e., as it sits on the table.

    There is no reason at all for any judge at any model show to touch a model.  None whatsoever.  Never.  Ever.  

    You can try to debate me on that all you want, but you will be wrong.

    "But we're trying to find that one thing that separates 1st from 2nd…"

    Of course, this stems from the IPMS/USA "triage, 1-2-3" judging system.  The judges have to compare the models to each other, and if they can't find anything on the readily visible areas of the model, they have to dig.  Upturning models, sticking those million candlepower TactiCool flashlights up exhausts and down inlets, using 20X magnifiers, measuring wingtips with a caliper–that's why these stupid methods are employed.  Heaven forbid there ever be a tie in the IPMS squared circle…

    This is yet again being used as an argument for juried exhibition style shows.  But the IPMS Purity Posse won't budge: 

    "It says 'Contest', what part of that don't you get?"  I dunno, I don't understand the bloodlust some modelers have to get some trinket that proclaims that they are Number One on that day for something they do as a hobby.

    "We've always enjoyed this healthy competition!"  Healthy?  I've told this story before, but when a modeler threatens to beat six shades of s*** from a contest judge because "My model shoulda won!", that's "healthy"? 

    I like the Shep Paine approach.  "Wanna compete? Go play tennis…"

    At our show–a juried exhibition–judges are reminded that if a model needs to be moved, we will find the modeler and let them move their own model.  We do not pick models up during judging.  We allow flashlights to illuminate the visible areas of the model–face it, most venue lighting is piss poor.  We do our best to judge the undersides and hidden areas, but the mantra is "if you can't see it, leave it be".  We do not allow magnifiers (reading glasses, yes, if the judge requires them), we don't allow judges to measure anything–either with a measuring gauge of some sort or the old "finger ruler" or "pen gauge".  Why?  Because we don't see the need.

    All participants are reminded to be careful of camera straps, hanging jewelry, and hats.  We don't use lanyards for ID badges.  All that dangly stuff can wreak havoc on a table full of models in a nanosecond.  We also remind judges not to hold lights or pointers (we prefer laser pointers or bamboo skewers) directly over a model–if they drop is, it has less chance of becoming a missile.

    I can tell you this–I've been judging model shows (of all types) since 1989.  In that time, I have never picked a model up, turned a model over, or damaged a model. Why?  There's simply no need to do so.  If you don't touch the model, the chances that you'll break something are minimized.  There's never a 100% guarantee, because stuff happens, but the  danger is minimized.

    ~~~~~     ~~~~~     ~~~~~     ~~~~~     ~~~~~
    On a positive note, I am overjoyed to see the Madison guys working to have dedicated space for non-competitive groups–Special Interest Groups, Group Builds, and Display Only–at next year's show.  It just might get me to go to the show next year.

    ~~~~~     ~~~~~     ~~~~~     ~~~~~     ~~~~~
    As I said above, we're getting over a few mild cases of Covid at the house.  My wife got the fever, headache, sort throat, and cough.  I got the mental fog and lack of energy.  I'm just now, two weeks later, starting to regain a little spring in my step.

    I shudder to think what it would have been like had we not boosted our immunity via vaccines…

    Covid is still with us, and a new variant is making the rounds.  Please be careful.  It might not be as deadly as it was in 2020, but it'll still knock you in the dirt.  I don't know about you, but I don't like being sick.

    Thanks for reading.  Be good to one another, and, as always, I bid you Peace.

  • More Reunion Stories

    Howdy!

    Something I was not aware of before I arrived in town for my class reunion was that the Navy’s newest San Antonio-class amphibious transport dock (LPD), the USS Fort Lauderdale (LPD-28), was in Port Everglades for her commissioning ceremony on the same weekend.  Had I known, I would have tried to visit the port to see what I could see…

    Ft. Lauderdale is, generally speaking, a Navy town.  The Ft. Lauderdale-Hollywood International Airport made a name for itself as NAS Ft. Lauderdale, where naval aviators were trained—one of the most famous was George Herbert Walker Bush, who would later fly TBM Avengers in WWII and become the 41st President of the United States.

    Most of the smaller airports that dot the landscape around Broward, north Dade, and southern Palm Beach Counties were outlying fields, or satellite fields, to NAS Ft. Lauderdale.  The Navy visits every year for Fleet Week, and it was a popular Liberty port.  In the mid-1970’s, the HMS Ark Royal made port for a visit as well, and other navies have visited the city as well.

    Throughout the years, there have been naval vessels named after many cities in Florida and after the State itself, but up until now, the Navy had never named a ship for my hometown.  Initially assigned to a littoral combat ship, the name was reassigned to the LPD in 2016.  The Fort Lauderdale and the next ship, LPD-29 (USS Richard M. McCool, Jr.) are the final Flight 1 ships of the class, and are transitional—the first ships in the class featured large, boxy composite masts, while the last two feature more traditional steel pole masts.

    So, what’s an LPD?  In short, it transports a Marine Corps amphibious landing force.  The ship can carry one Landing Craft, Utility (LCU) or two Landing Craft, Air Cushion (LCAC) amphibious landing craft along with two MV-22 Osprey tiltrotors.  The ship features a well deck from which the landing craft are launched.  The ship also features 2 each 30mm cannon and 2 each Rolling Airframe Missile (RIM-116) air defense missiles. 

    She will call Norfolk, Virginia home—but I imagine she will be no stranger to her home town.

    Bless you, good ship, and all who sail with you.

    And, for those who know me, yes, there are kits available.  They’ll need work to convert them to the proper configuration, but when has that stopped me before?  At some point in time, a 1/350th scale USS Fort Lauderdale will join my kits of the USS Florida and USS Miami in the queue…

    ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

    Last time out, I told you about the fun and excitement there exists when organizing a large event. 

    We were busy.  Aside from our normal reunion committee duties, we were housed off premises.  We shared a nice little airbnb that was quiet and secluded, which was fun.  However, that means that everything we did required driving to one venue or the other.  There were things we needed to do at certain times.  Our schedule looked something like this:

    Thursday: Begin decorating the Friday night venue (we started around 2PM), grab some supper, and move into the house.  By the time we were finished with all that, it was 10:30.  By the time my head hit the pillow, it was close to midnight. 

    Friday:  Up early (6AM).  Finish decorating the Friday venue, go pick up a rental van (we ran a shuttle between the host hotel and the Friday night venue) and a rental car for a classmate, drop a few items off at the hotel, and try to grab a quick lunch.  Go back to the house, clean up, and head out to the Friday night class mixer.  By the time we were back to the house, it was close to 11.

    Saturday:  Up early (6AM).  Return the rental van, decorate the hotel ballroom, return the rental truck, go shopping for a house party (that never happened—it was a great idea, but by that point in the weekend we were all exhausted) and get some lunch.  Back to the house, get dolled up, and head to the reunion for the 5:30 cocktail hour.  We left a little early, but didn’t get to bed until close to midnight.

    Sunday:  Up early (6AM—again).  Pack the bags, load up the car, do the required tasks for the cleaning crew, and close out the house by 10AM. 

    (To be clear, I made the decision to stay "off-campus", as it were–it was by no means a requirement of the job.  So I'm not complaining–only describing.)

    What that means is that any catching up time I had with my friends was limited to the event itself.  And because both the Friday mixer and Saturday reunion encompassed multiple class years, there were a lot of people to see/meet. 

    Remember, too, that I had not seen the majority of these folks for 40 years.  There was so much catching up to do, and far too little time in which to do all of it.  Pictures?  I've seen a lot from everyone else, but I think I took maybe five of my own.

    I managed to spend a few hours with my brother and sister-in-law on Friday night and Sunday morning.  I also managed to meet with a couple of my old IPMS/Flight 19 friends for lunch on Thursday before everything got rolling for the reunion.  Again, far too little time was available.  Even if we had a week-long event, I don’t think there would have been enough time.

    If I got to see you, or if I finally got to meet you, I cherish the time we had together, however long or short that time might have been.  If I missed you, I’m sorry.  If I saw you but seemed dazed, confused, and distracted, well, that goes with the “running the event” territory and again, I apologize…

    A palpable buzz has developed, and I hope it continues—a lot of us reconnected with old friends, and want to continue to get together on a regular basis.  I know I have some ideas on getting together with a few of you before the end of the year.

    Time will tell.
    ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
    One of my classmates who reads this blog on occasion walked up to me at the reunion.  She said, “You barely spoke four words to me in the four years we were in school together.  How did you get to be such a storyteller?  And where did you get your style?”

    There are several components to the answer to the first question.  The first is maturity.  I was the “painfully shy” kid in school, and frankly, I didn’t talk a lot to many of my classmates.  I had to do a lot of “growing up”.  Once I started to break out of my shell, though, I became a little more talkative.  As I said during my Welcome address at the reunion, I was given three minutes.  40 years ago, three minutes for me was an eternity.  These days, I can barely get warmed up in three minutes.

    My other answer to the question is experience.  How can you tell stories if you haven’t experienced the event, or at least know someone who experienced an event?  Most of my stories are based on me—things I’ve done, people I know, places I’ve been.

    As for a style, I have no particular style.  I always liked the way Justin Wilson (the chef, not the racer) always wanted to “tol’ y’all a story”.  But really, I just start typing, and edit as necessary.  You should see some of my first drafts—they’re all over the road.  And because the reunion has been somewhat special to me, I have tended to veer into the “writing for me” territory, i.e., it gets rather personal.  That means I have to re-edit, and that usually means I lose a large swath of my story. 

    The size of my usual blog entries varies.  A lot depends on the subject of the post, and how long it has been since the previous post.  Sometimes I have a lot to say, sometimes it is just to say “Hi!” and let you know I’m still (as the song goes) Alive and Well and Living In…

    As I type this, I am on page 3 of a 1,575 word essay.  At one point, it was closer to 5 pages/2,000 words, but as I said, I had to cut out a lot of the "too personal" items.  Most of my blog posts run around 1,500 words.  In that space, I hope I can adequately tell the story I want to tell.  Sometimes I succeed, other times, not so much.

    Now, when I get a nice juicy research, history, or scale modeling piece under way, that can easily run 3,000 words or more.  In those cases, the extra text is required to cover the topic. 

    Why not give it a whirl?  Everyone has stories they should tell.  Open your word processing program and start to type.  You may need to edit from time to time, but eventually you’ll get the hang of it.

    Let me know how you fare.  And if you really like it, share it…

    ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

    That’s all I have for this installment.  Maybe I’ll tell a few more reunion stories next time.  Hopefully, I’ll have an update on the F-16’s—I finally ordered the paint and supplies I needed on Thursday.  Or, maybe I’ll tell you another Hangar Story.  To paraphrase Mr. Gump, “You never know what you’re going to get”.

    Be good to one another, and, as always, I bid you Peace.

  • Adventure in Moving

    Howdy, all!

    You may recognize the header—it was a long-time marketing slogan for the U-Haul truck rental company.  I’ve used them four times, and each one certainly was an adventure.  The most memorable event came 20 years ago…

    We had moved that January, and used a small U-Haul.  Given that I’m a bit of a pack-rat, and given that working at a hobby shop for credit has pluses and minuses, it took several trips in that little truck to move things from one end of the county to the other (plus a load in my pick-up truck, and another in my then-girlfriend’s car).  This one was more a pain in the ass than it was an adventure—I had a lot of stuff, and was moving from a small first-floor apartment to a third floor apartment (with no elevator), so the adventure was more on me than on U-Haul.

    When I had to move again eight months later, I was better prepared for what I would need.  I had pared down a lot of the stuff that I had taking up space, and had given one of the couches away to a neighbor, but I still hedged my bets with a larger truck.  I’d rather have a little unused space than have to decide what to take and what to toss in the dumpster.

    Oh, did I tell you this was happening two weeks after the September 11th attacks?  Yeah, I guess I needed to add that excitement to the trip as well…

    I reserved the truck with a pick-up of Monday, 24 September in the afternoon.  A friend dropped me off.  I went in, and they couldn’t find the reservation until one of the managers, who was covered in grease and soot, came in and told the kid behind the counter where it was.  As I walked out to the truck, the guy covered in dirt told me it had “a little crack in the exhaust manifold”.  Great.  I reminded him that I was travelling nearly 700 miles in this thing, but was assured it was quite sound and could make the trip easily.  Okay, sure, I guess.  My friend left, and told me he would be back the next morning to help me load up.

    I got the truck to the apartment complex, and had to let the resident idiot know that I needed to park by the stairwell, and he that could park his Ford F-whatever, soot spewing, Deep-Stroke-diesel engined, jacked-up-suspension-and-knobby-tired penis substitution somewhere else for one night.

    I spent the rest of the day finishing up with the packing.  Fortunately, we had already figured out that we would be moving in a few months when we moved in, so we left a lot of things in boxes.  The big things that needed to be packed were the kitchen and bedroom.  My girlfriend had already moved her stuff a few months earlier, which also made things a little easier.

    Tuesday was loading day, and getting all that stuff down three flights of stairs was not going to be fun.  Fortunately, my friend helped me get the big stuff downstairs and into the truck without a lot of drama—gravity working for us was a great help, as opposed to when we lugged it all upstairs in February. 

    The rest of the stuff was easy, and I was about home free when I, while carrying a stack of boxes, missed the last step on the last set of stairs and went tumbling to the ground.  I tried to get up, but my right ankle wasn’t having any of that.  My buddy got an ice pack, and after a few minutes I could at least stand and hobble.  We had two loads of stuff left, and we managed to get it all in the truck. 

    I would be staying at my parents’ condo overnight—so I locked the truck, locked the apartment, and drove over to see the folks.  My father, after seeing me hobble about and hearing the story of how I hurt my ankle, rolled his eyes and said “Well, I guess I’ll be driving a truck tomorrow!”  Mom and I knew the act was for show—he would have loved driving that truck, and secretly hoped that I wasn’t able to do so in the morning so that he could.

    I assured him that I would be perfectly able to make the trip—with the ice pack, the ankle felt fine, and there was only a little swelling.  Mom made supper, we sat up and talked about the move, and eventually we retired for the evening.

    As I figured, a night of rest helped my ankle—no swelling, and it felt a little tender but I had no trouble walking on it.  I left an overnight bag at the condo.  I would be leaving my truck at the condo, so Dad drove me to the apartment to pick up the U-Haul.  It was right where I left it, and I did a quick walk around to make sure nobody had done anything stupid.  All was well, so I went back up to the apartment, had one last look around, and left the rental office a note telling them that the lady across the hall would take the couch I left in the living room.  I went to the office and dropped the keys and my final check in the mail slot.  A few minutes later, I was on the road.

    As I drove down the on-ramp on to the Florida Turnpike, I heard a rather loud “thump” as if I had run over something.  I looked in the mirrors and saw nothing, and the truck was running fine.  I thought nothing of it until I turned the AC on and it was blowing warm—it was blowing cold when I picked the truck up on Monday.  Oh, well, I figured that the proverbial 2-55 air conditioning would work…

    I had to stop by the avionics shop to get my tools—I left them there, since it made no sense to haul them down to the apartment only to drive right by the shop the following morning.  I grabbed the tools, loaded them into the U-Haul, and bade my colleagues farewell. 

    I stopped in at the 7-11 I had visited every morning since 1995, got my Diet Coke Super Big Gulp and a few packages of nuts, and bid the guy behind the counter my goodbye.  His nametag said Fred, but I doubt that was his actual name, but he was always very nice to everyone who came into the store.  He was a showman, too.  “Step up and be the best!  A deal is a deal!”—if I heard those words once, I heard them a thousand times.  I often wonder what happened to old Fred…

    I started up and navigated to the Turnpike again and set a course north.  Everything was going well (except it was a bit warm).  At Fort Pierce, I stopped in at Mickey D’s for a “real” breakfast.  I had avoided fast food for a few years, and this was the first fast food I had since I started watching what I ate.  After the breakfast burritos, I remembered why I was glad I quit eating fast food…but it was food.

    At Fort Pierce, I fueled the truck and then made the switch to that great North-South artery known as I-95.  All was well until I was approaching Exit 73, the Melbourne exit.  All of a sudden, a loud “bang!” and a godawful noise started coming from under the hood.  The truck was running a little rough, and there was no smoke or other indications of a catastrophic failure, but it needed to be looked at.

    These were the days before smart phones, so I found a gas station and grabbed the Yellow Pages from the phone booth (remember those?).  Whew—there was a U-Haul facility a mile away.  The truck made one hell of a noise, but I got to the facility and explained my problem.  I was told that they could look at the truck, but if it was unable to travel, I would have to unload it and load my stuff into another truck.  By myself.  Marvelous…

    Fortunately, the problem was a spark plug that blew out of its bore.  Further investigation showed that the AC belt was gone (which explained the noise as I was starting the trip that morning!) and the mechanic had a hunch that the belt slapped the spark plug and damaged it.  I had my doubts about that—I think Joe Greasy Rag who rented me the truck didn’t finish something he was doing.  A new belt, a new set of plugs, and a new set of plug wires, and the U-Haul guys took it around the block.  I signed some papers and I was ready to once again hit the road.  It only delayed the trip by an hour and a half…    

    “Hey, you know there’s an exhaust leak, right?”  It wouldn’t be the last time I heard someone say those words…

    I passed my normal landmarks—Melbourne, Rockledge, Cocoa, Titusville, New Smyrna Beach, and Daytona Beach.  I had driven that stretch of I-95 more times than I could remember between Ft. Lauderdale and Daytona Beach while going to college and later, visiting.  After a fuel stop in Ormond Beach, I took a look around.  This was the last familiar place I would see until I came back for a visit.  As I passed Ormond Beach, I was now driving through places I had last seen in 1982, when we took a vacation trip to New Jersey.  The exits slid by–Flagler Beach, St. Augustine…and then came Jacksonville…

    I had planned to pass through Jacksonville around mid-afternoon, but the delay meant I hit it at the beginning of rush hour.  I did take I-295 to skirt downtown (the western route—the eastern loop was under some construction), but that wasn’t a whole lot faster.  It took about 30 minutes to navigate around the city, and the next thing you know, I’m about to enter Georgia.  But wait—there is an Agricultural Inspection Station.  I stop.

    “What’s in the truck?” 

    “Oh, pretty much everything I own.” 

    “Any produce?” 

    “No.” 

    “Okay, you can go.  By the way, do you know that truck has an exhaust leak?”

    Georgia was uneventful until Savannah, but even that wasn’t as bad as Jacksonville had been.  As I crossed into South Carolina, it was past supper time.  I grabbed Mickey D’s again—it was cheap and fast.  I figured it hadn’t killed me that morning, so I could probably handle it again… 

    A stop for gas—“Hey, buddy, that truck has an exhaust leak!”—and I started up again.  Now, the roads in Florida and Georgia were good.  But South Carolina?  Yeah, there was something Third World about them—rough pavement, bad patch jobs, potholes—and U-Haul trucks don’t have the softest ride to being with.  The stretch right before Walterboro was perhaps the worst—it had patches on top of the patches that only partly filled the potholes and cracked out concrete sections…

    I found I-26, and made the final push through Orangeburg, Columbia, and the short ride to my destination.  On the way, I noticed road construction was going on—crews were installing cable barriers.  Cable barriers?  Yes, cable barriers.  I later found out why, but for now, I pushed on.

    Of course, by the time I made it to “my” exit, it was nearing 1AM on Thursday…

    I stopped at the top of the exit ramp and turned the dome light on to check my directions.  As I looked up, I noticed a SC Highway Patrol cruiser sitting in the abandoned parking lot of a former gas station across the road.  Thinking nothing of it, I turned and headed to the house—it was only a mile or so down the road off a side street. 

    As I put the directional on to make my final turn, the trooper lights up the bubble gun machine.  I pulled off the road.  Mr. Trooper approached the driver’s side and his partner went around to look in the passenger window.

    “Where are you headed?”

    “To a house about 500 yards away.”

    “We’ve been told to check out all U-Haul trucks with Arizona plates.”

    “I thought they all had Arizona plates?”

    “What’s in the truck?”

    “Pretty much everything I own.”

    “Moving?  It’s kinda late.”

    “Well, the truck does say ‘Moving Adventures’”, and I described my journey.

    “Oh, where are you moving from?”

    “South Florida.”

    “You should have left earlier!”

    “I left at 7AM.  I expected to be here no later than 9PM, but stuff happens…”

    I was aware that I was parked in the side yard of a house, and that the lights inside had come on.  After a few minutes of looking over my license and the rental contract, Super Trooper decides I’m not a terrorist and that he has to look elsewhere for his major felony arrest.

    “Okay, I guess you’re clear to go.”

    “Thank you, sir!  Have a good evening, and be safe!”

    “Oh, by the way—this truck has a cracked exhaust manifold…”

    “Yes, sir, I picked it up from U-Haul that way…”

    I made it to the house, parked the truck, greeted my girlfriend, and went to bed.  I was tired.  And I would be unloading the truck more or less by myself in the morning, since she had to work in the morning, so it would be a busy day…

    The next day, the unloading went faster and better than I thought it would.  The big items got unloaded last—we had to lug the couch in through the front door, which was an adventure, but it all got done with no real drama. 

    I enjoyed the day—slightly overcast, high around 70 degrees—a far sight from the 90+ it was in Ft. Lauderdale that day.  “I could get used to this quickly”, I thought.  Another time, I may tell the story of the following January, when it snowed and I quickly realized that in South Carolina, 2 inches of snow may as well be two feet…

    I washed up, then called U-Haul to get the address of the location to turn the truck in.  It was a short drive away.  I drove up, got out, and went inside. 

    “I’m here to turn in a truck.”

    “What truck?”

    “The U-Haul I just spoke to you folks on the phone about less than five minutes ago.”

    Apparently, not passing on phone messages or checking the computer was an issue with U-Haul locations.

    Finally, a guy wearing greasy coveralls comes in and says, “Is that the big truck we was ‘spectin’?”

    I completed the paperwork as he drove the truck around back.  As I was leaving, he came back inside.

    “Hey, you know, this truck has an exhaust leak…”

    The next day, we drove to Atlanta and flew to Ft. Lauderdale.  Try flying on a one-way ticket with no luggage two weeks after airliners were used to attack the country—it raised a few eyebrows, that’s for sure!

    My brother picked us up and took us to my parents’.  We spent the night, and the next morning got in my little truck to repeat my Wednesday journey.  We overnighted in Ormond Beach, and then drove to Atlanta to pick up her car. 

    Can I say that I-75 between I-10 and Atlanta is the most boring stretch of road I have driven in my life?  It may be better these days, but that was a long ride?  Valdosta…then forever to Tifton…and another eternity to Macon…

    The route did take us past Hahira, though—we wondered if Coy and Bubba had settled their differences from the shenanigans at the Shrine Convention. 

    We made Atlanta without incident and stopped at the parking lot so she could retrieve her car.  I followed her, and we drove I-20 to I-26, and headed to the house.  We had thought of stopping for supper, but we pressed on—we were both tired by this point and only wanted to get to the house.  By the time we got home, I was toast…

    So that’s how I spent the week of 24-30 September 2001. 

    Twenty years have passed.  I still get the same questions:

    Do I regret the decision to move?

    Do I miss South Florida?

    The answer to both questions is a resounding “No”. 

    Sure, I miss friends, but many have moved away themselves.  I miss going to my old haunts, but most of them no longer exist. 

    As the saying goes, “You can never go home again.”  Amen.

    Oh, and the girlfriend?  We’re still together, even though we have made four moves together.  We were married in 2009–we had been together nearly 10 years by that point. 

    The next time we move, we plan on taking a page out of NASA’s book—grab the important stuff, stencil ABANDON IN PLACE on the house, and just drive away…

    Thanks for reading.  Be good to one another, and, as always, I bid you Peace.

  • On Reunions, Friends, and Families (and an introduction, for those who arrived late to the party)

    My 40th high school reunion is coming up next year.

    That means two things—I get to hear (and tell) stories from the good old days, and I’m really getting old.

    I missed my other reunions—combinations of finances (usually lack thereof) and those “life things” got in the way.  This time, I am going to do my best to attend.  In the build-up, my nostalgia rush—bad enough of late when left on its own—went into overdrive, and the memories came pouring back.  What can I say?  I guess that’s why I like history, too—I like looking back and analyzing the past. 

    So, here’s to old friends!

    Somebody once made a comment about what it means to be friends, and how you can’t truly be friends if you never interacted in person.  And they probably have a point, but let’s consider what Messrs. Merriam and Webster have to say.

    Friend: One attached to another by affection or esteem: “She's my best friend.”

    So, the definition seems to indeed indicate that yes, friends should be closely associated.  But then there is this word listed as an alternate:

    Acquaintance, or “a person whom one knows but who is not a particularly close friend.”

    So, in the “according to Hoyle” sense, one can be a friend without being particularly close.

    One of our reunion organizers has made the case that we are family.  I have agreed and said we share a kinship, or fellowship.  So, let’s flip through the ol’ dictionary again…

    Family:  A group of people united by certain convictions or a common affiliation.

     Affiliate:  Associate as a member (of a group).

    Fellowship:  Community of interest, activity, feeling, or experience.

    And there we have it.  We share a fellowship.  We are associated as a member of our high school class, which is a community of interest.

    We are indeed a family.  But we didn’t need to go through all those research steps to figure that out.  I did the research because I enjoy it.  I’m weird.  I admit it.

    Of course, high school classmates aren’t the only extended families we have.  There are fraternities, sororities, military and police and fire units, trade groups, unions, civic organizations, Scouts, religious groups, and others. 

    But a high school family is special to most of us because of when it happens in our lives.  We are close to each other at what can be an awkward time in our lives, that time of transition from child to teenager to young adult.  Piled on top of the usual adolescent angst is the societal expectations placed upon us—this is the time when we are supposed to figure out what we want to be when we grow up, and this time it is for real.  Or so we’re told. Like several others among my classmates, I am still trying to answer that age-old question.

    Add into the mix that wonderful time in every child’s life when we experience that first girlfriend-boyfriend relationship, and first kiss, and possibly a first intimate encounter, and boy, we had a lot on our plates.  We literally watched each other grow up and navigated adolescence together.  Some experienced broken hearts as they found, and then lost, what was thought to be true love—somehow they managed to pick up the pieces and move on.  Others found soul mates sitting in the desk in the next row, and have been married for many years.

    My extended family contains people from all walks of life: doctors and other medical professionals; lawyers, judges and other legal professionals; civil and military veterans; musicians, actors, and other entertainment professionals who worked to bring us the music, movies, and television shows that entertain us; service industry hosts, waiters, chefs, and salespeople who provide the food we eat, the stuff we buy, and manage the places we go when we want to get away; and any number of blue-collar “nine-to-five ham-and-eggers” who keep the world moving.  They are moms and dads, aunts and uncles, stepmoms and stepdads, and grandmoms and granddads.

    Tinker, tailor, soldier, sailor, rich man, poor man, beggar man, thief,

    Or what about a cowboy, policeman, jailer, engine driver, or a pirate chief?

    Or what about a ploughman or a keeper at the zoo,

    Or what about a circus man who lets the people through?

    Or the man who takes the pennies on the roundabouts and swings,

    Or the man who plays the organ or the other man who sings?

    Or what about the rabbit man with rabbits in his pockets

    And what about a rocket man who's always making rockets?

    Oh it's such a lot of things there are and such a lot to be

    That there's always lots of cherries on my little cherry tree.                                                     

               — Now We Are Six, A.A. Milne

    Alas, my extended family has also mourned the loss of too many of our brothers and sisters.  Whether by disease, malfeasance, or (sadly) by their own hand, each loss was profoundly felt, and they are missed.

    We celebrate together, we mourn together, and we are, at times, dysfunctional.  We also have our fair share of crazy aunts and uncles.

    If that’s not family, I don’t know what is.  And I can’t wait to reconnect with my long lost family.

    *****     *****     *****

    For my new readers, I hope you take some time to have a look around.  Admittedly, the blog that I started in late 2010 as a cornucopia of various topics has fallen into an aviation research and scale modeling rut lately, but, as Samuel L. Jackson’s Jules Winnfield says to the guy robbing the diner in “Pulp Fiction”, “I’m tryin’ Ringo.  I’m tryin’ *real* hard…”

    If you like what you’ve read, there are several teachers to thank, starting with my dear departed mother—she was the Latin teacher at St. Thomas Aquinas High School for 30+ years between 1980 and 2012.  I inherited the liberal arts part of my personality from her. 

    You can then add Ralph Bucci, Sam Rogers, Hope Reinfeld, and Gloria Warrick, my English teachers at Boyd H. Anderson High School.  They taught me everything I know about grammar, spelling, sentence structure, and proper creative and technical writing.  A hat tip also goes to the late Cecilia Carballo, my high school Spanish teacher, who saw that I had some aptitude in several other languages, most of which I am sadly no longer fluent.  She became a special mentor to me in school, and I was saddened to hear of her passing several years ago.   

    I am also guided by my best critic, a college-level journalism professor and book author who also happens to be my wife.  While she doesn’t proof everything I write, I see her cringe when I break some obscure style rule.  When she does, I always imagine her as Miss Shields, the teacher in “A Christmas Story”:

    “You call this a paragraph?  Margins!  Margins!  ‘F’!

     My life's work, down the drain. 

     A semicolon, you dolt!  A period!  ‘F’!

    Oh, I should weep if I have to read one more ‘F’!”

    Incidentally, she’s seen this piece, and she gave me an A++++++++++++.  So I have that going for me–which is nice.  I already had the Red Ryder air rifle…

    The research thing comes naturally to me—I was an inquisitive child—but I was pointed in the right direction by a good many enthusiasts, historians, and researchers whose skills far outstrip mine.  I got my technical aptitude from my dad, and my technical writing skills come as a by-product of 30+ years working on corporate jets as an avionics technician.  It’s also what I get paid to do these days.

    For my regulars, rest assured that I’ll continue to do regular updates on my normal irregular schedule.  Keep checking back…

    Thanks for reading, all of you.  As always, be good to one another and look after each other.  Until next time, I bid you Peace.

  • Some Insight

    Howdy, all!

    Last time out, I made a comment that my hobby of scale modeling led to my career/vocation paths.  To refresh your memory, they were (in no particular order) history, aviation, research, writing, and hanging out at the hobby shop.

    This is one of those "about me for myself" pieces I talked about last time, but I thought this one might be fun to share.

    When my father brought home a Revell 1/32 scale Wildcat model kit, I don't think he realized the vast worlds he was opening up to me. 

    I was an early reader.  I've been told that I could read before I was four years old.  As I got older, I loved to read.  I would read pretty much anything I could get my hands on.  When we started building that model, I was only concerned about the three-dimensional puzzle in the box.  However, one night, as I waited for Dad to come to the table for our modeling session, I started to read the side of the box.  Then I noticed that the instruction sheet contained more than just how to get the parts together—the front page had a capsule history of the airplane and its exploits during WWII.  Before I read it, I just thought the little pudgy airplane looked neat, but as I read about how it was the Navy’s front line fighter airplane in the early days of the war, and how it was flying against faster, more maneuverable enemy airplanes, my interest grew.  I looked for books in the school library about the war, and learned about the Battles of the Coral Sea, the Battle of Midway, Wake Island, and the Solomons.  Each new discovery led me to learn more.  I’d find one nugget that would lead me to three more. 

    That’s research, kids.  I do a lot of research to this day—most of what I do uses what are known as secondary sources, so it is technically “Research Lite” (Less Filling!  Tastes Great!), although I did start to use primary sources when we were up to our necks in the Fire Support Base RIPCORD project a year or so ago.  What’s the difference?  Primary sources are from either official accounts from the units involved or from the guys who were actually there and participated.  SITREPS, diaries, After Action reports, first hand witnesses—those are all primary source materials.  Secondary sources are what you find on the shelves at the local Barnes and Noble—books written about events where the author may (or may not) have used primary sources.  (As “true” researchers know, you take all secondary sources with a grain of salt…)

    As I researched things, I’d write about them.  I wrote a lot of book reports, sure, but sometimes I’d write just for myself.  They were more a collection of notes, but every now and then I would collect those thoughts into an article for the local modeling club newsletter.  I laid off writing for a while, but with the COVID shutdown I’ve managed to get a little of my groove back, and have once again been pumping out modeling articles, and they’re now being published in the national organizations’ magazines. 

    The more models I built, the more I wanted to build.  Unfortunately, like most things, it takes money to acquire and build models.  By the time I hit high school, I was at the age where I started to take my modeling more seriously.  A long-time modeler and author, Roscoe Creed, made mention of it when he “wondered where all the cracks went?” in one of his books  a book that I still refer to from time to time. 

    I wanted to get rid of the seam lines.  I wanted to make it look like the pictures of the actual item.  As I learned of such things, I began using putty, decal setting solutions, these new-fangled super glues, and an airbrush.  Like the kits themselves, that stuff isn’t free.  More experience led me to discover the then-emerging world of the aftermarket—decals were the first thing I think most modelers encounter from the aftermarket, but later things like photoetched brass details, white metal and resin parts, vac-form kits, and other additions and conversions also became part of my repertoire.

    Of course, by doing so, I was honing my skills as a craftsman and, dare I say, artist.  I was learning how to solve problems.  I developed a sense of spatial relationships–how stuff goes together.  It goes without saying that I developed a good eye for small details. 

    After I graduated from college, I started to visit the local shop more frequently.  I became a regular, and eventually I was asked if I wanted to do some fill-in work.  Before long, I was a regular part-time employee, and would remain so until I moved out of state.  During a layoff period about 10 years later, I got a job at the local hobby shop here.  I was only there for a few months, but when my next full-time employer picked up and left, I went to work for the shop again. 

    What helped me get the job, I think, is that I was familiar with all the stuff one needed to complete a model.  I was also interested in going the extra mile when I built my models, and I knew what that took, so I could guide others when they came looking for hobby stuff.  Many see retail sales as a drag, but I saw it as a chance to get paid while playing with toys.  Hence, my days hanging out at the hobby shop…

    Now, how about the aviation thing…

    I have no idea what first got me hooked on airplanes.  Perhaps it was the Wildcat model.  More likely, it was reading of the exploits of the men who flew them in the war; the Wildcat model was merely the first step on the path.  For many years, I wasn’t interested in a book if (A) it was not related to aviation; or (B) the word “fiction” was not preceded by “non”.  I have to believe it was that—the more I read, the more I learned, and the more I wanted to be part of that world.  Interestingly, I never really wanted to be a pilot.  I can’t say why, I just never saw that as where I would be.  More on that shortly…

    In my day, teachers were almost always matronly ladies in their late 30’s to early 50’s.  However, my fourth grade teacher was an exception.  I guess she was in her late 20’s–I seem to recall she had only recently received her teaching credentials at that time.  She was a pretty, petite, energetic lady, blonde with a deep tan, and was always smiling.  Her name was Miss Gerstle (Nancy, if I recall correctly).  Her last name rhymes with the chocolate company’s name, and we often called her “Miss Nestlé-Gerstle”.  From the little bit I managed to gather on her by listening to her, she lived with a few roommates and they all worked on the weekends as flight attendants (we called them “stewardesses” back in the day) for Mackey Airlines, a small scheduled airline that flew from Ft. Lauderdale to the Bahamas, in order to earn a little extra money. 

    I don’t know if she lined it up, but one day we took a field trip to Ft. Lauderdale-Hollywood International Airport and got to walk around some airplanes.  I seem to recall a Mackey airplane, maybe a DC-6, and it sat next to an Eastern Airlines (IIRC) 727 which was powered up, and we could walk through it.  We spent a few hours walking around the airplanes, asking questions, and talking with the pilots and “stews”.  I loved it.

    An interesting tidbit—when I graduated from college and landed my first “adult” job, I worked from that same ramp, by that time occupied by the National Jets/Florida Aircraft Leasing facilities.  Small world, right? 

    I don’t know what happened to Miss Gerstle, but wherever she is, I hope she is still smiling brightly and doing well.  She was a breath of fresh air for me…

    Later, while going through the steps to earn my Aviation merit badge, somehow I got what we call today a “Discovery Flight”.  We went to the airport bright and early, got the whole briefing, got to do the preflight on the airplane, then we went out for a flight over Ft. Lauderdale.  Sitting in the pilot seat, I couldn’t see over the glareshield! I enjoyed the flight, but decided that while it looked like fun, I wasn't interested in being a pilot. 

    As I started high school, I was shunted into what we would call a STEM program—back in those days, it didn’t have a name, but it put me on a track that emphasized math and science.  We only had to take two science and two math classes over four years, but I had four of each.  Somewhere along the line, it was intimated that I should become an aeronautical engineer, but as I related a long time ago, that didn’t work out so well.  But I never abandoned my interest, and eventually went back to school and earned two degrees from Embry-Riddle Aeronautical University that said I had what it took to be a genuine wire stringer, smoke wrangler, electron herder, and spark chaser—I became an avionics technician.

    For most of my 30+ years chasing sparks, I worked in the world of corporate aviation—Learjets were my bread and butter, along with Hawkers and Citations.  From time to time, I also worked on General Aviation craft—the little Cessna and Piper “puddle jumpers” that you see at your local airport—and business class turboprops like the Beechcraft King Air and Cessna Conquest families.

    It was a demanding career, to be sure.  I worked in 100+ degree heat and 20 degree cold.  I worked in the sun, the rain, and sometimes even snow.  Many times, we worked from “can” to “can’t”—we did what we needed to do to keep ‘em flying.  It was hot, dirty, demanding work at times—especially at my last stop, where I was also the airframe electrician.  If something provided electrical power or had a wire or air data line leading to it, it was in my wheelhouse.

    I was always acutely aware that if I failed in my job, people could be injured or killed in a most loud and grotesque manner.  I accepted the challenge.  Not everybody is cut out for such a critical job, and as I began to supervise others, that would be my first question to them.  If they were cavalier or flip, I wouldn’t hire them.  If you wanted to work with me, you had to not only be aware of the consequences of your actions, you had to accept that any little deviation, a nanosecond of inattention, and you could possibly kill someone…

    Incidentally, I don’t really like to fly.  Maybe it has something to do with the fact that 95% of the flying I have done in my lifetime has been done because I *had* to in the line of duty.  Flying for me was almost a mandatory thing, and much like running on a treadmill—we made a lot of noise and expended a lot of effort to basically go nowhere–it quickly became work. 

    For most folks, flying is a way to get from what you know to an unexplored exotic location on the other side of the globe, some sort of personal adventure, and flying is merely a gateway to that adventure.  It is quite different when you know how the sausage is made and have to do it every day.

    When the folks I was working for picked up stakes and left in 2016, I stayed put.  I decided that my days of crawling around on hard hangar floors or cramming myself into ever smaller spaces were behind me.  Since I had done a lot of the documentation that aircraft modifications required, I decided to use my writing skills and my avionics knowledge to start down the path to being a Technical Writer.  My mother, who taught Latin, always said that I had technical hands and a liberal arts brain, and this seemed to be the best of both worlds.

    And that’s how scale modeling made me who I am today.  A gift from my father awakened an interest in history, and also fed my reading and research habit.  What I learned through my reading led to an interest in aviation, helped along by a teacher and a merit badge.  The technical aspects of the hobby sharpened my problem solving skills, helped me develop good hand-eye coordination and spurred me to develop a keen eye for small details and a sense of craftsmanship and artistry.  The marriage of all this led to where I am right now. 

    And it started with a model airplane.

    Thanks for reading.  Be good to one another, and look after each other.  As always, I Bid you Peace.

  • Christmas memories

    Howdy, all!

    As Christmas draws near, I get nostalgic.  I've waxed on about my occasional bouts of nostalgia, and they get especially strong in December.  My memories, in no particular order:

    Going to the hobby shop.  I've told you several times that Christmas was about the only time we'd go to a real live hobby shop back in the day, with the purpose of buying a grass mat for under the tree.  Sometimes, we would pick up a little something for the train layout, too–a new structure kit, or a piece of rolling stock in addition to rail joiners and other required parts.  As my brother and I got older, we would get each other's gifts there, too.  It wasn't much of a surprise–we'd each pick something, hand it over to the other, who would buy and wrap it.  We tried to be surprised on Christmas morning…

    Playing with the trains when we were little, and setting them up as we got older.  I still have both the Lionel O-Gauge set my parents bought in 1971 (our first Christmas in Florida) and the HO-gauge train set our Grandmother gave us in the late 1970's.  Perhaps I should find a place to put them up?  Of course, our Feline Justice Units will probably have something to say about that…

    Slot cars.  After we moved from the apartment we rented when we first moved to Florida into a house, Santa Claus gifted us a genuine AFX by Aurora race track (you know, the ones Jackie Stewart used to advertise), and a few years later my brother got a Tyco TCR (Total Control Racing) set for Christmas.  I can't be sure, but I think my brother still has the TCR set, and maybe the AFX set, too.

    Decorating the house.  We had what my Mom called "pixies" (some call them "elves") that were Elf on the Shelf before EOTS was even thought of.  We'd place them wherever they'd fit, and invariably forget one when we took the decorations down.  It wasn't uncommon for us to find one hanging out as late as Easter.

    Decorating the house, part 2.  As kids, we'd watch Dad hang the lights on the house.  When we got older, we got to do it.  After a while, my brother took over the duties, and he could teach Clark Griswold a thing or two about external illumination.

    Decorating the house, part 3.  Setting up the tree(s).  We had a large artificial tree and several smaller ones of various construction.  Mom made a ceramic tree in the early 1970's that we'd put in the Family Room, and my parents had this vacuum-formed translucent plastic tree with colored lights inside that randomly flashed.  It was definitely a product of the 1960's.  Eventually, I would be tapped to do the lights on the big tree, and we would all do icicle duty–until the family had a cat.  We stopped doing icicles for the most part when one year we noticed Samantha, the family cat, tearing through the living room with a shiny streamer coming from her hind quarters…

    Getting the annual visit from our Grandmother.  Both of my paternal grandparents died before I was born, and my maternal grandfather died when I was six.  My grandmother would come to visit every other year or so, but after she married her sister's husband (her sister passed away from cancer in the early 1970's), she and my uncle would come down and spend a few weeks with us.  I had to give up my bedroom, but as I got older I learned to appreciate the time I could spend with them.  (Before I went off to college, between mid-December and late February I might get the use of my bedroom for maybe two weeks–as soon as my grandmother and uncle left, my father's sister and her husband–the Marine I built the models for–would arrive.  Again, I treasured every moment with them, although a younger me wasn't happy sleeping on the couch for the better part of two months every year!) 

    Shopping.  Back in the day, it was slower paced and more relaxing.  During my college years, it was fun to be able to come home and cruise through the town to see what had changed.  It was always fun to listen to my grandmother joking about going to the mall to "push and shove" every year, too, especially knowing that she and my mother had finished their shopping.  It was usually an excuse to take us to lunch. 

    Food.  My mother made cookies by the dozen (Toll House, Quaker Oats' "Vanishing Oatmeal Cookies", and Spritz), and cranberry nut breads by the pound.  Along with those, there were meringue cookies, and what we called "Five Cup Salad" (one cup each pineapple chunks, mandarin orange slices, miniature marshmallows, shredded coconut, and sour cream–add a garnish of halved maraschino cherries, nuts are optional).  One year, my grandmother and uncle decided they wanted to make pecan pies, and we must have made a half dozen pies, all from different recipes, between 20 December and just after New Year's Day.

    Of course, once Mother Butler Pies became established in South Florida, they got our pie money and we moved on to other things.  It was truly a sad day when they went away…

    One of the strangest items we made one year was a coconut pie that was as simple as tossing a bunch of ingredients into a blender, whirling them up for a minute, then pouring the result into a greased pie pan and baking it.  Sounds strange, but the pie was rather tasty. 

    Eventually, once my mother bought a pizzelle iron, she added those to her repertoire, although she waged a constant campaign to get someone else to make them for her…

    And when I say cookies you might think, "What's so hard about that?  The recipes are on the bag/container!"  You obviously never met my mother.  She would routinely add nuts and raisins to both the chocolate chip AND oatmeal cookies (she would have added them to the Spritz, but then the dough wouldn't pass through the cookie press!), and anything else she thought they'd go with (hence the nuts in the Five Cup Salad).  She'd always use walnuts, too.  She'd also play around with spices–she'd add cinnamon, nutmeg, ground ginger, ground cloves, and ground mace to the cookie dough.  Those cinnamon-scented gewgaws you see in the stores these days had nothing on what our house smelled like during Christmas cookie season… 

    These days, as I've chronicled a few times, I'll bake the Big Three cookies, pizzelles, and cheesecakes.  On occasion, I'll add more different types of cookies to the mix, and I really need to pester my cousins again.  My Aunt Madeline made spectacular Italian treats, and I want recipes!  The shame of it was that I didn't get them when she was still alive and visiting us every year…  

    Christmas dinner was usually a ham.  Back before places like Honey Baked Ham arrived on the scene, Mom prepared it the old-fashioned way–pineapple slices, cherries, brown sugar, and Ginger Ale for the glaze, throw it into the oven, and let 'er rip.  We'd have turkey some years–a lot depended on what we did for Thanksgiving.  The sides–aside from stuffing and smashed potatoes, which tended to be turkey-only deals–were pretty much standard.  Baked macaroni and cheese, green beans almondine, cheesy broccoli, and some form of rolls were constants.  Dessert was pies, cookies, the aforementioned Five Cup Salad (a friend of the family called it "Three Prong Salad"), and whatever else Mom and Dad had received as gifts at work.  Of course, dinner was preceded by the snack trays–pepperoni, cheese, crackers, olives (green and ripe) and pickles (dill and sweet).  Yeah, it was a pretty big feast.  

    After I moved up here, Christmas is different, but I actually prefer the way my wife's family does it.  Biscuits, country ham, sausage patties, bacon, chips and dips, sausage pinwheels, pigs in blankets, all served buffet style, and everyone helps themselves when they're hungry.  After we arrive, my cookies get added to the feast, too (but not the cheesecakes–they're whisked off to undisclosed locations as soon as they're delivered–and if you believe that…).  It's a fun time, and everything is easy to prepare.  No fuss, no muss…

    Mom was a teacher, so she would always get food gifts.  Cookies and candy were common, although one year she got a rum cake–and the final glaze was more like a dunk in a vat of rum–you'd blow a 3.3 on the breathalyzer and get a DUI by just standing next to the tin!

    A couple of the people Dad worked for would give out Christmas baskets, and, working in the insurance industry, he'd also get booze–this was before the days of corporate rules against such behavior.  I still remember the year he got this huge bottle of Amaretto in a wrought iron tilting pouring stand.  He'd get several bottles each year, and by the time my brother and I were old enough and in school, a bottle would usually go back to school with each of us.  One year, I recall a bottle of Cutty Sark (my folks, when they did take a drink, preferred bourbon or rum) that came to Daytona Beach with me.  I later came home for a weekend in February, and when I got back to the apartment that Sunday evening, I noticed that the bottle was empty.  Dry.  My roommate gave me some cock and bull story about some masked man who knocked on the door, told them he smelled Scotch, and held them at gunpoint and wouldn't leave until he watched my roommate pour the bottle out on the ground.  (I knew better.  The masked man held them at shot-glass point and made them drink the stuff!  I know this because I knew my roomie wouldn't waste free Scotch, even the blended variety…)

    Christmas SWAG.  Oh, the stuff we would get.  From Life Savers Story Books (every year, you could bet on it!), to clothes, models, toys, and other stuff, we were fortunate.  Some years were leaner than others, but we never went without.  I recently came across a picture of our back yard, with two brand-new tents airing out.  One year, we received air rifles–but not Daisy's OfficialRedRyder200shotrepeatingactionrangemodelairriflewithacompassinthestockandthisthingthattellstime (my Mother- and Father-In-Law did, however, give all their young'uns each a shiny new Red Ryder a few years ago).  Nope, these were original, genuine pump action Crosman Model 760 pellet rifles!  Yes, sir, the Big Time!  Another year, we got Marksman air pistols that could shoot darts–you know the guns, the ones that look like .45 automatics and where you can literally watch the BB dribble out the muzzle.  We got pretty good at tuning them up.

    Spending time with friends.  We had a family friend who we knew from Scouting.  He and his father had bought a house on Lake Istokpoga after their wife/mother passed away, and we'd head there with them on weekends.  Often, we would go  go to each other's place for a while over the holidays, too.  When his father died,  Bob would come and visit us at the house.  One year, we (Bob, me, and my brother) took a ride out to the then-new Markham Park range.  We spent the afternoon punching holes in paper and trying to educate the pair of young Hispanic gentlemen in the lane next to us how to feed and care for their veritable armory's worth of small arms–they go so bad that the Range Master had to show them the gate.  The funny part of the day came later, when we were cleaning the firearms.  We had some PVC-framed furniture on the patio, and the webbing on the chair I was sitting in failed–voom, and I went from looking across the table to staring at the bottom of the table.  Bob thought that was hilarious, and as he was laughing his ass off, his chair followed suit.  Yeah, who's laughing now…

    When we were younger, we would visit a couple of other families we got to know through Scouting.  Both families were Jewish, and it was interesting to see how they celebrated their holidays.  One of the mothers was raised Catholic, so their family celebrated both.  We used to joke about whether it was a Christmas tree or a Hanukkah bush.  We lot touch with one of the families in the early 1980's, but the other family has kept touch with ours throughout the years. 
     
    Spending time with family.  Yeah, as kids that was a given.  But as we got older and moved away, it was great to come home again.  My immediate family now is my brother and sister-in-law, whom I have seen once (f
    or a few hours, tops) about six years ago.  My extended family (cousins, aunts, uncles, etc.), I haven't seen in a loooong time (my Grandmother dies in 1992, so it has been that long or longer!). 

    I haven't even seen my in-laws (who live an hour away) since last Christmas. 

    Once COVID-19 gets tamed, I'll have to change that.  Because without family and friends to celebrate with, Christmas just isn't Christmas, is it?

    Thanks for reading.  I want to wish each and every one of you a safe, happy, and healthy holiday season.  As the old-timers say, Season's Greetings to all of you!

    Be good to one another, and I bid you Peace.  

     

  • Game-Changing Moments

    Howdy, all…

    Set the Wayback Machine.  The date:  July, 1982.  The place:  Warrick Custom Hobbies, Ft. Lauderdale, Florida.

    The summer was winding down.  I had graduated high school in early June, and we went north for a few weeks to celebrate and visit family.  This was my one and only (so far) visit to the Air and Space Museum in Washington, and I literally could have spent a week there alone–as it was, we went twice because one of the other places were wanted to visit was closed.  I must have taken a hundred pictures with my new 110 Instamatic.  Yeah, I have no idea where any of those photos went.  To this day, I haven’t been able to find any of them…

    A week or so after we got home, I went to my recently-discovered hobby haven to look at the latest kits.  On my previous visit several months before, I had previously spied a few kits that I might want to bring home with me.  So, I grabbed the car keys and set out.

    I strolled around—I was only beginning to discover the depth of merchandise housed within the store.  There wasn't anything in the stacks that grabbed me on that day (I know, right?), so I went to the magazine rack and started looking at the books.  The first to call to me was Sheperd Paine’s How to Build Dioramas.  Having pored over his diorama sheets from the Monogram kits for a few years, I decided that I probably should pick this up.  Back in the day, it was only about 9 dollars American, about the same as one of the Otaki kits of the day.  Next to it was Hints and Tips for Plastic Modelers.  I flipped through it, and there was quite a lot of information packed into the book.  Four bucks—yeah, I can swing it.  Then, as I turned the rack, a magazine cover caught my attention:

    Fsm cover

    Image:  Kalmbach Publishing

    I gave the magazine a quick once-over, verified that I had the extra two and a quarter (plus the 4% for Governor Bob Graham), and took my finds to the counter.  The guy at the counter—who had previously saved me from buying a Nichimo Avenger, noting it was nothing more than a re-box of the Marusan 1/50 scale kit, itself a poor copy of the Monogram kit—told me he liked the new magazine, and thought I would, too.  I settled my tab–so much for that $20 bill–and drove home.

    When I opened the magazine at the house, the following words greeted me:

      Editorial

    Image:  Kalmbach Publishing

    As I scanned the articles, I noticed the editorial in action.  Unlike the previous scale modeling magazines I had read in which the articles were text-driven with a few shots (mostly in black and white) of the completed models, the articles in this magazine actually took time to show me what the process looked like.  There were detail drawings.  Color references.  Notes about where to find the stuff they used to build the models.  Also unlike the other magazines, the history of the prototypes was mercifully brief—a paragraph or two, tops, but the meat of the article was the model and how the builder made it look that way.

    At the time, I was still an airplane geek—sure, I built a few tanks and ships, and more than a few cars—but I found myself reading and re-reading all the articles in the issue.  The scratchbuilt 1/76th scale Abrams captivated me—I thought the Abrams was a neat-looking vehicle, and the MERDC color schemes (which I found quite attractive) were just coming into vogue, and were certainly more interesting that straight green.  But the color scheme was only the tip of the iceberg—the way Steve Zaloga wrote the article was almost begging me to try to do the same.  All along the way, he made it sound like any modeler could do this, and he did it without treating the lesser skilled modelers like imbeciles or idiots.  The tone was advanced, but the undertones were inviting everybody to give it a try. 

    The only article of a subject in my area of interest was Ernie Pazmany’s Fw-190 conversion, and I certainly learned a great deal from his model.  The same holds for Richard Stazak’s vacuum-form kit article—I had only seen one vac kit to date back then, and I wondered how you built it.  Now I knew.  And, true to Bob Hayden’s word, I managed to take something away from every article in the issue, even though I didn’t build armor, or Navy jets, or space ships, or boxed dioramas.

    I must have read and re-read that copy a dozen times before I decided that I needed to subscribe.  I had to scrounge for the twelve bucks (introductory rate, IIRC—the ad in the first “real” issue said $15) for eight issues, or two years, but to me, it was well worth the price.  Twelve dollars would have bought a nice model kit and the paint it needed, but I could buy them any time.  As I matured (ha!), I reasoned that it was like the parable about men, fishing, and eating.  I could have bought a model that kept me busy for a few days—and yeah, I would have learned something, I’m sure—or I could buy the magazine that would teach me how to build better models for years to come.  I would still subscribe to that other magazine, but it paled in comparison to FSM. 

    Of the early issues, I remember most of the articles, simply because I read them over and over, extracting as much knowledge as I could from each page and every image.  To this day, I can still remember the sense of amazement I experienced when I read Boh Boksanski's article on combining a vacuum formed and injection molded kit into a fabulous model of an airplane I had only read snippets about (the B-50D) that was painted with…dope?  Pactra Silvaire Aluminum dope?  Yep.  Dope.  Wow. 

    Or Mike Dario's conversion of a vacuum-formed F-89D to the earlier cannon-nosed F-89C, painted with what to me seemed to be a strange concoction of Floquil's Crystal Cote, Dio-Sol, and Pactra Silver.  I would later rely on the recipe and alter it to come up with a home brewed acrylic metal finish paint many years later, a recipe I used until Vallejo's Metal Colors made their debut.

    My all-time #1 modeling article of all time is still Bob Steinbrunn's cockpit detailing article from the October (Fall) 1983 issue.  My original copy of that issue became so shop-worn and dog-eared that when I found a mint condition copy in the late 1990's, I snapped it up. 

    To give you an indication of how much I ate this stuff up, my first copy of Shep Paine's book on dioramas that I bought with that Test Issue of FSM was likewise (as they say around here) "slap wore out" by 1984 or 1985…I finally bought a new copy, as well as the Second Edition, in 2000.

    I would go off to college shortly after I read that first “Test” issue, but I would look forward to reading the new issues when I would go home for the occasional weekend.  Since it was a quarterly back in the day, and since I wasn’t at the house but three or four times a semester, the wait wasn’t too horrible.  And once the new issue arrived, I was off to read it from cover to cover, several times.

    Through FSM, I learned of IPMS, and of local clubs.  After I graduated and came home, I would spend more time at the hobby shop—doubtless looking to buy all those kits I had read about in FSM.    I started to meet fellow modelers who said I should start going to the IPMS/Flight 19 meetings.  I went to one in late 1989, and as the story goes, was a bit gun shy to bring anything, but I did—I had a Nichimo Ki-43 Oscar in 1/48th scale that I built a few years earlier.  I had dipped my toes into weathering on that one—I used a Tamiya silver marker to check seams, and added a few patches here and there for good measure.  I would swab the paint on with the paint marker, and then wipe off the excess with toilet tissue.  When I applied my finish colors (Polly-S in those days), I let them dry for a few minutes, then used a tight roll of masking tape to pick off spots of color to reveal the silver underneath.  I thought it was merely okay, but by the number of questions I got from the other guys you would have thought I had invented beer. 

    As I looked at the other models on display, I was impressed by the scope and quality of the work and it seemed like everybody was there to help each other.  That was my kind of group, and I was a member from that night in 1989 until I moved away in 2001.  For some odd reason, I got roped into serving as the club President from around 1993 until we moved. 

    A funny story about that first meeting—I knew the guys from the shop, and as I was socializing and meeting the rest of the gang, I bumped into an old high school friend.  I hadn’t seen him in seven years, and had no idea he built models.  He had, like me, been building since he was a kid.  Without clubs, that’s pretty much what model building was in the day…a lone wolf hobby.

    Between discovering FSM (and the Kalmbach books) and joining IPMS/Flight 19, I was on the way to being a better model builder.  What I learned back then has become the foundation of the skills I use to this day.  Further, and I’ve already discussed it, I met people who are friends to this day.  For what can be a solitary pastime, that speaks volumes.

    *     *     *     *     *     *

    One of the hobby manufacturers who was noted as introducing a line of paints matched to Federal Standards in Mr. Hayden’s editorial was none other than Testors, through their Model Master line.  In fact, the ad inside the cover of the next issue was for Model Master products.  In the nearly 40 years since then, the Model Master line was expanded to include the Metalizer products (bought from the originator), new colors, acrylic colors, brushes, blades, knives, tools, clear finishes, and a whole raft of modeling “stuff”.

    Republic Powdered Metal (now RPM International) had acquired Testors a few years previous, along with Floquil/Polly-S, and were in the process of acquiring Pactra.  They also owed or would eventually own Zinser, Bondo, and Rust-Oleum. 

    Testors got into the airbrush business in 1991 when they first marketed the Aztek airbrush as the “Model Master Airbrush”.  I bought one, sight unseen, as soon as Warrick Hobbies could get them in stock, and I used it until the early 2000s.  Aztek was a UK-based manufacturer of airbrushes and within a year of Testors marketing the Aztek, RPM (Testors parent company since the early 1980s) would buy Aztek and expand the line.

    That 40-year run is coming to an end.

    RPM has announced that all Pactra, Floquil, and Model Master Products have been discontinued.  Apparently, they are contracting the line back to where it was in 1978—square bottle enamels, their original tube and liquid cements and putties, and the inexpensive brushes.  It seems like several big steps backward, but apparently RPM had to answer to the shareholders, so they have moved the focus of their efforts to the craft scene.

    There has been a lot of wailing and gnashing of teeth over this decision, but as I wrote on one of the online forums, there is nothing Testors made or marketed that you cannot obtain replacements for elsewhere.  The bite comes when you will have to order it, since the local stores might not carry it.

    *     *     *     *     *     *
    In related news, Revell has announced they will be marketing their paints and finishing materials in the U.S., including enamels, acrylics, and spray lacquers.  They should be hitting the stores before the end of the year.

    *     *     *     *     *     *

    The 2020 AMPS International Convention, initially planned for Harrisburg, PA in May and moved to Danbury, CT for late September, has been cancelled.   Given the resurgence of COVID-19 in some states, and the quarantine orders several of the Northeastern Governors have enacted for folks traveling to their states, it came as no surprise that it, too, has been shelved.

    *     *     *     *     *     *
    I have a few model-related research projects underway.  One is fairly straightforward and will probably become an article on the F-4J(UK), the surplus U.S. Navy Phantoms purchased for the Royal Air Force and put into service by No. 74(F) Squadron in 1984.

    The second project is more complicated.  From the time I first saw one of the photographs of a 340th Bombardment Group B-25 buried under ash after the 1944 eruption of Mount Vesuvius, I wanted to recreate it in miniature.  The sharper ones out there will see the problem right away: the lack of good, comprehensive documentation of the Twelfth and Fifteenth Air Forces in Italy.  It has been a bit of a hidden treasure hunt so far.  The books that are out in the world are either rather dated (Kenneth Rust’s books date back to 1975), limited in scope, or are nothing more than picture books.  The websites, too, are disjointed and scattered.  I even sent one of the webmasters an e-mail suggesting that the various sites join forces, like the old Web Rings. 

    We’ll see how that pans out…

    That's about all for now.  Thanks for reading!

    Stay safe and healthy! 

    Be good to one another, and, as always, I bid you Peace.

  • Big ol’ jet airliner…

    Howdy…

    With the new job, I've had reason to do some air travel over the past few months.  A few observations…

    First, I had a trip to the Dallas area in late February.  It was my first ride on an Embraer 175/195, and I was surprised.  Unlike the older 145, there wasn't the annoying Dutch Roll through the flight, which was good.  And, unlike the Baby Jungle Jet, it was 2X2 seating.  Which kind of sucks.  I liked getting an A seat, which was the best of both worlds–a window seat and an aisle seat.  No matter, it was a neat airplane.

    About 5 weeks later, I was called to the Phoenix area.  I chose to fly Delta, since, well, when you're in the Southeast, it is simply what you do.  The flights between Columbia and Atlanta are predictable, with predictable equipment:  MD-80's or CRJ's.  Now, the MD-80's (MD-88's, usually) aren't too bad–I've flown on them many times.  As long as I get an aisle seat (or at least seat on the right side of the airplane in the two abreast row), I'm good.  CRJ's, on the other hand, I don't like at all.  They're cramped, the windows are too low…and, if you sit over the wing, you know right away when the landing gear either hits the uplock or the pilot selects gear down–it sounds like a gunshot.  One of these days, I'll schedule a flight on one of Delta's MD-95's…

    The first Atlanta to Phoenix leg was on an Airbus A330.  Not having flown on a product of Toulouse, I was surprised at how nice the ride was.  It was certainly one of the better flights I've been on, air transport-wise.  I'll do it again, too.  I liked the fact that even the "Cattle-Class" seats were roomy enough–although the guy next to me didn't understand boundaries, and wanted to try and sit side-saddle–in the four abreast middle row.  Those of us on either side of him had to constantly tell him to get back in his seat–the one he paid for, not that one and half of ours, too.  I am a big fan of Delta's seatback monitors–I caught the Amy Adams movie "Arrival", which was an interesting movie.  I had some time to go, so I started to watch "Office Christmas Party",  and yes, it was one of those stupid silly movies.  And yes, I enjoyed it. 

    The return flight was okay, too, but it was on one of Delta's A320's.  I can't really complain, but Delta has found a way to install seat-back screens on everything short of the CRJ's.  This one?  Nope.  Not a big deal, as I was fighting a bit of a cold that day.  It was probably just as well that I could snooze during the flight.

    The first trip was like clockwork up until the last leg between Atlanta and Columbia.  But even that wasn't a big deal, we had a maintenance delay that saw us arrive an hour late.  However, you would have thought they told us we weren't leaving for a week by the reaction of some of my fellow travelers.  More on delays and how unbearable other people can be in a minute.

    My most recent trip?  Well, I was scheduled to fly on April 6th.  If you recall, that was the day Delta had a little bit of a problem with airplanes and crews out of position due to some bad weather.  I got the message that my flight was cancelled before I had a chance to take a shower.  I went online and called at the same time–and got a message that the call waiting list was up to at least two hours.  So, I rebooked online.  I tried to rebook for the next day, no dice.  I did the next best thing and rebooked for Saturday, April 7th.  Surely, things would be better by then…

    Well, two things I learned:  When you rebook a flight, for some reason you don't get the text alerts.  Well, at least I didn't.  I got to the airport with plenty of time to spare–which was a good thing–only to find the Columbia to Atlanta flight had once again been cancelled.  So, I joined the queue at the Delta ticket counter.  Now, maybe my 30 years in the aviation industry has prepared me for things like this, I dunno, but I watched a young lady rip the ticket agent up one side and down the other because of the delay.  It wasn't the ticket agent's fault, so I don't know what this lady thought she would get in exchange.  She stormed off, and I approached the agent.  She took a look at my ticket, and offered a voucher for a taxi from Columbia to Atlanta–which is about a four-hour trip.  I had some time to play with, but I had to leave quickly if I was going to make my connection.  "Oh, there's a line of taxis waiting outside", I was told.  Uh, sure there were.  We're talking Saturday of The Master's weekend–Augusta is about 80 miles up I-20.  Rental cars and taxis are usually in short supply. 

    A few Checker Yellow cabs drove up and picked up people in the same boat we were, only they were headed for Charlotte and Charleston.  Minivan taxis with one passenger.  Not too efficient.    But I did call them, and I told them that there were at least ten people who needed to get to Atlanta, and quickly.  So, the minivan pulls up–and the driver only wants to take two of us.  Not happening.  We told him to load the minivan up, which after a call to the dispatcher, he finally did.  The ride was uneventful otherwise–given that a bridge on I-85 on the other side of Atlanta had collapsed days earlier, it could have been much worse.  We arrived at the Atlanta Hartsfield-Jackson International Airport at noon, my flight out was scheduled for a 2PM departure.

    Now, when I go through the Security Checkpoint, I'm pretty efficient–once I clear the boarding pass/ID check, I put the contents of my pockets into my briefcase or backpack.  When I get to the scanner line, I'm pretty quick to pull the laptop out of the briefcase, place it into a tray, grab a second tray for my shoes, belt, cell phone, and toiletry baggie.  The briefcase and backpack go on the conveyor, and once it starts into the X-Ray, I approach the scanner.  I'm usually in and out on five minutes once I pass the ID check podium.  Well, because Atlanta was so backed up, it liked to take forever.  Part of the problem was that people still don't understand that your pockets must be empty–hell, one of the TSA agents walks up and down the line and tells you that!  Then there are people who want to argue about taking their shoes off.  Look, if you don't have a Known Traveler ID, your shoes come off.  Don't argue–these people have the authority to make sure you don't fly that day.  Do what they tell you.  It isn't difficult.

    Anyway, clear of the checkpoint, I go looking for a Departure monitor–which Atlanta seems to be short of in the checkpoint area.  Sure, there are plenty in the underground areas and gate areas, but I'd like to know which terminal I need to head towards.  I finally found one, noted that we were scheduled out of gate A23…and that we were delayed two hours.  I'd rather be at the airport than on the way to the airport, and Atlanta's terminals are like shopping malls, so I am more than happy to stooge around the airport while waiting.

    Every now and then, I'd check the Departures monitor.  Yep, still A23.  I grabbed a quick snack–I don't really like flying on a full stomach–and sat down.  I checked Facebook, I caught up on my e-mail–personal and work, I caught some of the cabbed TV.  And, every 30 minutes or so, I checked the board.  About 45 minutes before our departure, a few of us noticed that the Gate Monitor now said "Miami".  Hmmm.  Check the Departure monitor–the Phoenix flight was still scheduled out of A23.  But so was the Miami flight.  Three minutes apart.  We asked the gate agent.  She wasn't sure.  This went back and forth for a few minutes until I noticed they had finally changed Phoenix to A24.  Right across the way.  No big deal.  Other than the 4PM departure was now 4:30.  I think we finally got boarded and pushed from the gate sometime around 5:15…

    The flight was on a 737-900.  The last 737 I had flown on was a USAir 737-400.  Night and day.  My seat was towards the aft cabin, and was a bit bumpy, but nothing too bad.  Otherwise, it was a nice flight.  I got a chance to see "Rogue One", which was also kind of cool, as I hadn't caught it in the theater.  I also watched the first half of "Hacksaw Ridge"–I had seen that one in a theater, so I selected it to fill some time.  By the time we got to Phoenix, it was 5:30 local (8:30 on my internal clock)…and I still had to summon an Uber (a new experience for me, but kind of neat), get to the shop, pick up the company truck, and drive to the house.  Yep, we leased a house and bought a vehicle, since we reckon we'll be there for a while…

    Oh, and air travel aside–that Sunday I truly did catch up on my "Star Wars" movie watching when I caught "The Force Awakens" on one of the movie channels at the house.  Interesting film, I see many parallels between it, "A New Hope", and "A Phantom Menace".  I've seen all of 'em up until now-even the revised versions–so I'm interested to see how Disney finished the main story as well as how well they do the other stories like "Rogue One".  If "Rogue One" is any gauge, they're on the right track…

    I spent the week in Phoenix–and if you've never been, you owe yourself a vacation in Arizona.  I've been to Tucson once and Phoenix twice, and the weather has been gorgeous on all three trips–I think it rained one night on my first Phoenix trip, otherwise the skies have been blue and clear.  I'm figuring that my flight on Friday should be smooth sailing.  Right…

    The scheduled departure was 10:24.  The airplane pulled up to the gate–an ex-Northwest 757-251, the passengers got off the airplane, and the crew followed.  Then I see a guy in a reflective vest and the Captain go back aboard.  And I notice one or two guys looking under the airplane.  Then they opened the main wheel doors.  The Captain and the other guy walked back to the gate agent.  There was some discussion, and one of the red-vested Delta "Help" agents showed up.  I had a suspicion, and it was confirmed when they made the announcement that they had a maintenance discrepancy.  The flight would be delayed until 12:30.  I heard whispers of a hydraulic issue.  Specifically, some hydraulic control module.  And then I heard something that told me we weren't leaving at 12:30–"We don't know if we have a part, and we are looking for one now."

    About ten minutes later, the "Help" person started handing out those red "Need Help?" cards.  Doing the wise thing, I rebooked my connection from Atlanta to Columbia for the last flight out that evening.  Surely they could get this airplane fixed and to Atlanta before 10PM EDT…

    In an ideal world, that may have happened.  But then the announcement went out–4:30PM.  And then 7:30PM.  When the departure went to 4:30, I called and rebooked my connection for the first flight out of Atlanta–10:30AM.  And then I waited.  And was once again amazed at what happens to people when things don't go their way.  "Get us another plane!"  It ain't that easy.  Phoenix isn't a Delta hub, and Delta generally doesn't have airplanes sitting around idle.  "Work overtime!"  Uhh, these folks have 24-hour maintenance crews.  "Fly a part in!"  Yep, that's what they're doing–from LAX.  But they can't snatch a part off the shelf, throw it on an airplane, and leave it to that.  There's all sorts of procedures that need to be followed, and they take time.

    By about 5PM, the gate area was nearly empty–only the die hards like me who stuck with the original flight.  Delta got some pizza and brought out the drink and snack cart for us.  I was content to wait–I didn't have to be anywhere right away (sure, I wanted to get home, but I could wait), there were others travelling for the holiday, or Spring Break, or needed to be in the office.  Most of them rebooked for the 1:30 and 4:30 flights.  Knowing I wasn't getting out of Atlanta until 10AM the following morning meant I was going to spend a lot of time at an airport, and it didn't matter much to me whether I had to wait in Phoenix until 7:30.  Did I say 7:30?  Yeah, that's what Delta told us, too.  Until they slipped it to 9PM.  Still, no matter to me…

    About that time, another red-vested Delta "Help" agent approached our gate.  "Are you all waiting for 1546 to Atlanta?"  When a few of us indicated that we were, she called us to the podium.  "We need to rebook you–we have no cabin crew."  She looked at her computer, and called maintenance control.  Sure enough, they had the part, they were ready to install it…and the cabin crew hit their duty time limit.  My trip would continue…

    We all got rebooked for the Red Eye departing at 11:30.  So, I once again found a bit of a snack and a drink, and wandered the terminal for a while.  Oh, a hint–Terminal 3 at Phoenix Sky Harbor International Airport has a Wendy's, a Taberna Del Tequila, a Starbuck's, and a few News outlets.  Terminal 4 is where all the action is.  Anyway, I stayed in Terminal 3, where I could watch the Frontier flights come and go.  I like watching airplanes anyway, so I was good.

    About a half hour before we were supposed to board, I noticed a few folks on the 10:24 flight appeared at the new gate.  I thought they had rebooked for the earlier flights and were gone, but apparently they sent their afternoon at Taberna Del Tequila.  And they apparently had consumed some beer.  A lot of beer.  There were about a half-dozen of them, and they were all shit-faced, a couple almost falling-down drunk.  I was speaking with one of them when another showed up and got boisterous with some of the young ladies sitting around us.  They had started to board anyway, so I gathered my gear and slipped away.  The interesting part of the boarding process was when these folks checked in–the gate agents were closely watching them.  The same thing played out once we boarded–the Flight Attendants were certainly aware that these folks were inebriated.  Toe of them were seated in an exit row, and I was amazed that they were allowed to remain there.  Fortunately for all of us on the airplane, all of them passed out (literally, I think) soon after we were on our way.

    I wanted to catch some sleep on the flight, but my neighbors had other ideas.  As soon as the cabin lights went down, their reading lights went on.  And stayed on for the entire flight.  So, I watched more movies.  Or tried to.  I would nod off, and then wake up.  So, I caught about 40% of "Rogue One" again, before I switched to "Office Christmas Party" to catch the last 30 minutes of it.  And then we were in Atlanta.  One step closer…

    We arrived at around 6AM, so I had some time to kill.  I was going to try and find someplace where I could get a sit-down breakfast, but no joy.  So, I did what I usually do–find some snacks and a drink.  By this time, I'm running on nearly 24 hours with little sleep, and it was all I could do to contain my crankiness/grumpiness and stay awake.  Knowing full well that I have a CRJ ride, it took all I could muster…

    The flight was uneventful.  And fast.  We arrived almost 20 minutes early.  I met my wife, we headed to the house (stopping at the grocery store on the way), and went to the house.  I had some lunch.  And I don't remember much else about last Saturday…

    But back to one of my observations.  I watched more people get nasty with airline representatives that I could count.  It wasn't their fault.  Weather happens.  Airplanes break.  Plans get changed.  I've learned to roll with the waves–unlike another airline who made the news for another reason last week, all the problems I experienced were typical air travel issues.  Screaming at, yelling at, cussing at, and abusing the people behind the counter doesn't make things better.  Stay calm.  Be patient.  Go with the flow…

    The other thing I did with my time was people-watch.  I ask you, since when is a steamer trunk classified as "carry-on baggage"?  I routinely carry a small canvas briefcase and a small backpack when I travel.  Those are carry on bags.  But I've seen people try to pass off those huge roller bags or huge backpacks as carry on bags.  I watch people struggle to stuff their bags into the overhead bins.  I know the airlines have caused the problem in part due to their checked bags fees, but people, c'mon.  Use some sense…

    I'm happy to be home for a few weeks.  I'm about traveled our for the time being.  I think I've caught up on my sleep, too…

    Thanks for reading.  Be good to one another, and, as always, I bid you Peace.

     

  • Deep In Thought

    Howdy, everyone!

    As my days with my current employer dwindle to single-digits, I've taken a little bit of time to look at the situation and assess where I am. Looking back over the past 30 or so years (damn, I'm getting old!), I've learned a lot of things, but the most important took a while to penetrate my thick skull. What would that be, you ask? The most important thing I've learned through the years is this: never sell yourself short.

    Each of us posses some skill, knowledge, or talent that other people seek. When others search you out for your skills or talent, remind them of the following: A., they sought you out of the crowd; B., they understand you possess skills/knowledge/talent; and C., those skills/knowledge/talent come with a price tag and (at least for me) a set of standards that I will not compromise. Ever. You want me, you have to live by those principles, they are non-negotiable. And, here's the kicker: if you know the right people–those people who make the effort to seek you out because they know what you posses in the way of skills, knowledge, and talent, they fully and completely understand, because they live the same way.

    So, why did that take me so long to figure out? It is my nature–I'm an introvert, more so than most. I don't like grandstanding or showboating. I figure that if I show you what I can do, that's good enough. Problem is, I live in a world where I see so many people who can, and I'm quoting here, use their "tongue prettier than a twenty dollar whore." In other words, they talk the talk and that's all they do. They know all the right words, they play the "fake it until you make it" game (which most fail miserably at), and they know how to schmooze. These are the idiots, given the proper audience, who climb the ladder on their co-worker's backs. Not me, that's not how I am programmed, that's not how I was raised.

    For me, one of the most prized things anyone ever said about me was when I received my first Employee Evaluation with my current employer–the Service Manager who hired me only knew me by what he heard one of the local FAA inspectors (who worked with me before she joined the ranks of the FAA) say about me. When I interviewed, I told him that while I am an avionics technician, I understood that we had a small crew and that when there was no avionics work that I would assist wherever I was needed. I don't think he believed me, because at that first review he said, "You know, you have gone over and above what any other avionics man I know would have done." My answer to him? "Well, I told you from the beginning that I'd help out where I was needed. I wasn't telling you that to blow smoke and sunshine up you ass, I said it because I meant it." Being the good Marine that he is, he just smiled. What could he say?

    Well, he was left speechless, but here's what I will say: Believe in yourself. If you do that, others will believe in you, too. Oh, and don't let the bastards wear you down. Those silver tongued geniuses usually wind up hanging by their own short rope…

    *************************************

    We had our monthly IPMS Chapter meeting last night, and we had a new member in attendance.  As we usually do, we go around the room and introduce ourselves, what our areas of interest are, and greet the new person so they get a feel for the group.  Last night, there was a little more–we all, in our own fashion, related to the new visitor why clubs are good.  The first member who introduced himself said that he has not only gained new skills, his modeling has improved, and he's made a lot of friends.  That sentiment went around the room.  One of the group, a long-time member, said it better than I could have: "Some of my best friends, I met in this room."  Amen to that.  When I think about it, I've met most of the people that I consider my best friends through the hobby.  Hey, I met my wife through the hobby!  So, if you are one of those who don't dig the club scene because you have some preconceived notion of how clubs work, do yourself a favor.  Drop the hostility and go to a meeting.  You might just find out how much fun it is.

    ************************************

    With my upcoming "free time", I plan on getting back to the workbench between job hunting and whatever freelance work I might take on.  My immediate goals are to finally finish the Macchi C.200 and the StuG IV.  They've been hanging out far too long.  After that, I plan on whittling the open project bins down to one or two, then embarking on some new adventures.  Stay tuned…

    Thanks for reading.  Be good to one another, and I bid you Peace.

  • 1984

    Greetings!

    Now, before you get all excited and start running about, I'm not referring to George Orwell's vision.  Rather, I'm looking back 30 years and remembering some of the things that made 1984 a sort of comeback year for me…

    For starters, I found myself unemployed and not in school for the first time in my life on New Year's Day in 1984.  I had taken my leave from the Harvard of the Sky–engineering physics and I didn't get along, especially when physics had backup on the beat-down in the form of Calculus 3.  Between those two courses, I had a dismal GPA for the Fall 1983 semester and decided that engineering as a career for me wasn't in the cards.  I went down to the AFROTC Detachment (I had an AFROTC Scholarship at the time) and spoke a bit with my advisor.  He and I talked for about an hour, and both came to the conclusion that all the summer terms in the world weren't going to suddenly make me a mathematical genius.  My math skills were pretty good, but not good enough.  So, I didn't register for spring semester and came home.

    Funny how things can happen–I went looking for a job on 2 January 1984 and was hired almost immediately as a parts driver for a local HVAC parts house.  After a week or so of that, one of their systems engineers found out that I wasn't just doing this because I didn't know any better, and I would sometimes be called in to watch how home and industrial HVAC systems are engineered–so many square feet of space called for so many tons of capacity, so many BTUs were required to heat X amount of space, etc.  It was all pretty neat stuff, and I appreciated all they were doing for me.  Between parts runs, I learned quite a bit–and was tempted to pursue a career in that.  But aviation, once it wiggles down into your blood, tends to have a strong pull…

    I worked there all summer.  One day I got a phone call from one of my advisors at Embry-Riddle, wanting to know what I was doing and what my plans were.  At the time, I was still trying to just chill out a bit and leave the stress and, well, disappointment of engineering behind me (and earn some coin, but that should be obvious).  I let them know what I was up to, and that I had several things banging around in my head, and that I'd let them know when the time came.  That time came in June–I took a Friday off work and drove back to Daytona Beach.  I met with some folks, and found out how easy it would be for me to come back–I never formally withdrew from the school, so I was still carried on their rolls.  I first visited my AFROTC friends.  We spent a few hours speaking with some of the other Department Chairmen, and after speaking with the man heading up the Avionics program, my mind was made up.  I would return in August.

    With my future now decided, I went back to work.  I don't say this to be self-congratulatory, but I was the hardest working parts driver/stock man/all around helper that location had.  I know this because the higher-ups told me so.  They were especially let down when I gave them my notice, but when I told them that my two choices were to learn–unofficially–from them, or go back to school and learn aviation electronics, I think it got them to understand.  I was told that if I needed summer work, they would be there.  So, I ended my employment with them in mid-August.

    Remember that 1984 was an Olympic Games year, too–back when Winter and Summer games were held in the same year, no less.  The Winter games were held in Sarajevo, Yugoslavia.  I paid little attention to them, because work and the time difference made keeping track of the events a bit difficult.  What saddens me know is to see what has become of the venues built for the Games–most of them are crumbling, the result of the unrest, fighting, and other issues between the ethnic factions that finally led to the break-up of Yugoslavia into its constituent Republics.  Sad…

    The Summer games, on the other hand, were different–they were held in Los Angeles in 1984.  The overshadowing news was that the Soviet Union, acting in response to the West's boycott of the 1908 Games, had decided to sit 1984 out.  They, along with the majority of Eastern Bloc countries, sat at home while the Games went on.  The reason I remember it so well was than coverage of most events came on right as I was getting back to the house after work, so I could pay attention to all of them.  It was the last Olympic Summer games that I really paid close attention to.  Since then, various reasons have kept me from watching…

    On the modeling front, I actually started to keep a log of kits I completed.  The first for 1984 was the ESCI 1/48 scale Fieseler Storch.  It was an easy build until I got to the part about sticking the wings to the greenhouse.  I used 5-minute epoxy, and got a fairly decent result–I amazed myself that I didn't wind up with epoxy all over everything! 

    I next turned my attention to a Tamiya 1/48 Brewster Buffalo.  It was probably the quickest "serious" model I had built to that point–everything just clicked together.  I was tempted by the early Navy scheme, but I settled on the Dutch scheme, because my metal finish techniques were sorely lacking and I didn't want to ruin the model.  My impressions of Tamiya airplane kits would be reinforced soon…

    Next on the hit parade was the Nichimo 1/48 scale Ki-43 Oscar.  If you read opinions on this kit, they're all almost universally positive.  And for good reason–the kit packs a lot of detail into a small airplane, the fit is superlative, and this all in a kit dating from the late 1970's.  I tried some weathering techniques on this one–I used a silver Tamiya paint marker to prime seams back then, and I would paint the seams and rub the excess paint off with a paper towel.  I reconed that if I added blotches of silver here and there, I could "chip" the Polly S paints I was using for the camouflage.  It worked out fairly well, I think, and I kept trying to expand my horizons from that model on to the next, and the next…

    This was also the summer when I attempted to build Monogram's 1/48 scale F-84F.  For a reason or reasons lost to history, I cannot recall why I never finished the model.  All I have from that model is the dolly and a few bits and pieces.  After that, I wound up building Monogram's 1/48 scale F-100D in Arkansas ANG colors.  I did that because, as I said before, my metal finishes at the time looked like dog poop…

    Last for the summer, I decided to refinish a Monogram 1/48 scale B-17G that I had built in the late 1970's, maybe 1979.  I had airbrushed it, but it was one of my first airbrushed models and looked the part.  There were visible seams and some other issues with the model, so I took it down from the shelf and started working on the bad areas.  Within a week, it was ready for paint again.  I had used a Microscale sheet to finish the F-100 and was suitably impressed–first time using them, you know.  So, I went in search of a sheet for the B-17.  I found one I liked (unit and aircraft are again lost to history–I didn't log how they were finished, just that I finished them) and set to work.  I used a combination of Polly S and Tamiya acrylics for the finish, and this one was the best, to that point, airbrushed finish I had ever laid down.  The model went back on the shelf, an old girl in a new dress.

    (That Tamiya Buffalo would also get a re-work in the early 1990's–which is how it still resides, hidden away in a box upstairs…)

    I returned to good old Humpty Diddle in August.  I had to register for classes.  I had remembered to change my major and catalog at the Registrar's office when I was there in June, so half my battle had been won.  Then I get to the registration lines.  I think it is a universal college policy that beginning of the semester registration is meant to be as huge a pain in the ass as possible to all involved.  See, during my engineering days, I had to re-take a few courses.  As far as the Aeronautical Studies/Aeronautics courses were concerned, I was through with all of my math classes by virture of my Calculus I and Calculus II courses.  During those engineering semesters, I had managed to complete all but maybe one or two Humanities/History courses, too.  I was only looking to register for the required Physics and first semester Aero Studies courses.  I couldn't get into any of the Electronics courses since all the sections were filled, so I settled for what I could get.  After I got through that, I had to go play housing lottery.  After about two hours of back-and-forth, I managed to get into Residence Hall 2, aka Dorm 2, aka "The Embry-Riddle Holiday Inn".  I had lived here through my engineering days, so I know what to expect.  I met the roommates and suitemates (two rooms to a suite, three people to a room), all of whom were Aero Science guys (they were all working towards pilot certificates)–except one.  He was in engineering.  He was a quiet kid, and engineering wasn't any kinder to him than it was me.  I kinda felt sorry for the kid…after all, I'm now the older, wiser me…

    Classes were literally a breeze.  By the end of that semester, I would have all my prerequisite courses behind me and the next three and a half years would be solid electronics and avionics courses, along with the Aero Studies courses.  See, there was no single avionics major, you took a major and added avionics.  You could take an Aviation Maintenance major and avionics (you wound up with an Airfram and Powerplant certificate and the avionics degree) or Aeronautical Studies with avionics, which is how I went.  Basically, you took all the ground school courses for flight, but no flight courses.  So, I learned basic aerial navigation and meteorology to go along with my electron theory.  Over the years, the school changed how they treated avionics until finally phasing it out a few years ago in favor of an Electronic Engineering degree program…

    More modeling?  You bet–I had spare time, so I decided to build a Tamiya 1/48 A6M2.  This was another fall together kit, it was done in a week.  Yep, a week.  Needing something else to occupy my time, and figuring that the ESCI Storch was a cool kit, so I decided to build ESCI's 1/48 scale Hs-123.  Now that one was a challenge–first serious biplane, first masked camouflage scheme with Polly S, and the kit was rife with minor warpage–typical of ESCI's kits of that era.  Well, I managed to beat it into submission, and painted it up as a Spanish Civil War machine.  I may still have it in a box here somewhere, too, and I was sure to pick up the AMTech "enhanced" reissue of the kit a few years ago.  After all, who else is likely to do an Hs-123 in 1/48 scale?

    The best part of the year?  Going back to school.  I never had any intention of *not* going back to school–my father wouldn't abide it.  He was always pushing for education-I guess it stems from the fact that he had a GED when he started working, and worked hard in correspondence classes to earn a degree.  Dad was a self made man, and he did so through hard work and trying to better himself.  I was thinking about these "good old days", and once again realized what my parents did to make sure my brother and I were ready to face the cold, cruel world–the sacrifices they made to put us both through post-secondary education, the hard work they put in to keep a roof over our heads, food on the table, and lights on in the house.  So, by going back to school–even though I wasn't overtly pushed–I was doing as they wanted. 

    On reflection, maybe I should have worked for a year after high school, then gone to college.  Maybe I should have examined engineering closer and realized that it was a bit beyond my abilities.  You can reach for the brass ring, and if you grab it on the first try, great.  I seem to reach for the ring, get a light grip on it, and then lose that slight grasp.  Rather than giving up, I'll take a breather and try again.  I usually grab that sucker for all I'm worth on the second go around, and once I have it in my grasp I never let go–I seem to cherish it more when I do that.  It has worked for me my entire life…

    Oh, yeah.  The Apple Macintosh also goes on sale in 1984, Constatin Chernenko succeeds Yuri Andropov as General Secretary of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union, Pierre Trudeau steps down as the Canadian Prime Minister, and Marvin Gaye's father shoots and kills the singer. 

    Musically, Van Halen released their "1984" album, giving us "Panama", "Hot For Teacher", "I'll Wait", and "Jump".  Duran Duran were touring, suppoting "Seven and the Ragged Tiger", which gave us "The Reflex", "Union of the Snake", and "New Moon on Monday".  Meanwhile, Prince and the Revolution topped the Billboard Top 100 with "When Doves Cry".  What was #100?  "Yah Mo Be There", by James Ingram and Michael McDonald…

    (I can't poke too much fun–my beloved Jethro Tull released "Under Wraps".  Not one of their best albums ever.  By far.  Even Tull's then-bassist Dave Pegg said the songs cut from 1983's "Broadsword and the Beast" would have made a better album.  Trivia time–it was the only Tull album with no live drummer–drum machines were used instead.  Doane Perry would be hired shortly after this album and was their full-time drummer until 2011.  He still occasionally tours with them.)

    The big news items in the United States for 1984, though, were generated by President Ronald Reagan.  In August, during a sound check for a radio broadcast, he says "My fellow Americans, I'm pleased to tell you today that I've signed legislation that will outlaw Russia forever.  We begin bombing in five minutes".  He alos is re-elected (with George H. W. Bush as his Vice President) in a landslide victory in November, beating Democrats Walter Mondale and Geraldine Ferraro, carrying 49 states and 59% of the popular vote.

     Oh, and as an aside:  When you get an ROTC scholarship, you are basically sworn in as enlisted personnel.  Because I vacated my AFROTC scholarship, a Review Board convened.  It was decided that I wasn't vacating the scholarship for any reason other than it would be a waste of money to have me keep banging my head against a wall as an egineering student.  For my troubles, I received a package from the United States Air Force sometime in April.  Now, some fellow scholarship recipients were receiving orders to attend basic training at Lackland AFB, Texas.  I was slightly concerend until I opened the envelope.  I was granted an Honorable Discharge from the United States Air Force.  As an Airman Basic.  No orders.  One of my roommates at the time wasn't as lucky–his orders appeared a week after he got home in December, 1983.  He showed the Air Force, though–he went down and joined the Army before the Air Force caught up with him.  Many who knew this guy swore he joined the army only so he could get a good, up close look at an M1 Abrams tank so he could build a superdetailed model of one…

    I hope this finds all of you in good health.  Thanks for reading, and be good to one another.  I bid you Peace.