Learning How To Swim

No, this is not me. 

I never learned to swim. I took lessons at the Missouri Valley, Iowa pool when I was 6 or 7, and grew just proficient enough (on a boogie board) to earn a Snap-Tite model kit of a 1979 Mazda RX-7 from my proud mother, courtesy of the local pharmacy's toy department. It was molded in color, in an odd shade of greenish-gold (not unlike the 6's "Pebble Ash Metallic" hue.) With each awkward paddle, I knew I was one step closer to that kit.

That was the extent of my formal swim training. My parents -- mostly Mom -- talked about the need for me to learn how to swim, but practical considerations always got in the way. Nineteen years later, the pool at Pacific Grove apartments in Clovis, CA offered one of the few shared happy memories for me and my soon-to-be-ex at the time, who taught me a little more about how to paddle around the pool. Near the end of it all, at least I could roughly equal the aquatic prowess of her six-year-old son. 

By that time, I was unafraid of wading into the deep end... probably because I was already so in over my head, I didn't fear drowning. 

I haven't been in a pool since; bobbing in Lake Grapevine over Labor Day 2004 -- just after moving to Dallas -- is the last time I can remember being in the water, apart from wading ankle-deep into the Pacific in Oregon, the Gulf of Mexico in Galveston and the Atlantic in St. Augustine, FL. 

I've been thinking of swimming lately... more accurately, I've been thinking of drowning. I don't think that's ominous, or even metaphorical. The feeling isn't one of fear; just of being overwhelmed. I miss writing... not for a living, though, at least not right now. 

Many have asked me about my reasons for leaving my last job; I won't expound on them here, except to say my decision wasn't nearly as personal or pointed as others have suggested (or seem hell-bent to think.) In the end, it really came down to sheer economics... and, more than a little burnout too. But that's in the past, and that's where it will stay.

I admit, though, there have been times I've missed writing. (I hesitate to call what I did "reporting" -- features aside, the nuts-and-bolts of the daily gig involved gathering news items from a number of outlets, and regurgitating key facts aimed to an aviation audience. I refer to it then and now as "news aggregation," with a dash of personal flair incorporated whenever possible.) 

When I left my former job, I reassured myself the combination of a relatively-structured, 40-hours-per-week office schedule with weekends off would allow me time to sit at my computer, and organize the many story ideas floating around in my head into words on the pixilated page. That was two months and 11 days ago... so far, nada. Hell, I haven't even posted anything meaningful on the blog I spend $4.50 a month to maintain! 

I fear I've forgotten how to "write," the way I used to. And, as a result, I feel like I'm "drowning" in ideas... good ideas I think... that I can't for the life of me put into printed prose. 

I know I'll "get it" eventually; at least I hope so. For the moment, I'll allow myself some comfort in these words, given to me by a wonderful friend and the first person I shared these concerns with. She "gets me" the way few do... and if this doesn't say it all, nothing does:

"I just got done reading your blog, and I've got to say, I LOVED it. Don't tell me you can't write comedy again. You've just got to have one of those "breaking out of the gates" moments again - and that will take one simple thing. Actually being able to write for yourself, about a subject of your choosing. It's going to take some time to retrain your brain that sitting down at a computer is a fun release... So don't be discouraged if that wit and that fast-paced writing isn't coming to you yet. Hell, you can't even walk in your door without thinking you have to check the computer! It's going to be a little while longer before you can re-train your brain to think, "Hey, that's a fun toy for which I should express myself." 

Point taken. So, for now... I think I'll try paddling towards earning that toy once again. And we'll see what happens.

Anyway, About That Dream Job...

So, what's happened in your life in the past six months? A lot has happened in mine, some things better than others but overall most all of it a positive move. Most recently, I've left the world of aviation reporting at Aero-News to return to the cubicle life, at a "desk job" here in Albuquerque. The lure of benefits and better pay proved more powerful in the end than airshows and demo flights... especially in this economy.

A side benefit of this process -- procedure? -- is that I hope to have time to do some personal writing again. For the past several months, I put what creative reserves I had into ANN... and it will be nice to do some creating for my own edification again.

More to come!

Cross-Controlled

I'm flying an airplane... not sure what type, it doesn't really matter. All I know is that I must land soon, and there's an airport straight ahead... though it's far from my position, just barely visible. Complicating matters is a fierce wind blowing -- stronger than I've ever flown in -- that's pushing me off course, forcing me to crab steeply into the wind to maintain my progress towards the runway.

As my airplane approaches the airport, I know I need to compensate for the wind. I bank the plane's wing into the wind -- it's blowing from the right, which for some reason I know is west in my dream, so I'm on a southerly heading -- and I use opposite (left) rudder to keep the plane's nose centered towards the runway.

This is a sideslip; all fixed wing pilots must know how to perform them before they solo, and most do it by instinct with enough practice landing in crosswinds.

I finally perfected slips during my time in the Gobosh earlier this year. I also became fairly comfortable with forward slips -- which use the same technique as a sideslip but less opposite rudder, to present a larger surface area against the wind. This serves to steepen the descent... a useful tactic when you're high on final, or need to clear a treeline and then land near the end of a short runway.

I'm on the correct glide path; no forward slip needed. I'm not sure whether that's relevant, just as I don't know why I know I'm landing to the south. I'm also keeping an eye on my airspeed; I know I need to stay flying fast enough to avoid an aerodynamic stall.

When flying in a slip, the airplane is cross-controlled. In normal (coordinated) flight, you bank into a turn with aileron input, and use the rudder to swing the plane's nose in the direction you're turning. When you're cross-controlled, though, you're applying opposite inputs -- left aileron, right rudder. You're essentially telling the airplane to fly in two different ways... a very useful skill, as long as you know what you're doing and you're flying at the proper airspeed.

Things are going fine on my imaginary approach... until I'm about a half-mile from the runway. I sense my "plane" starting to slow down. I apply more throttle, but I no longer have an engine; suddenly, I'm in a sailplane.

I fight the urge to raise the nose, which would only serve to lower my airspeed further and accelerate the stall I know is inevitable. Instead, I lower the nose to keep my speed up... but it seems like my plane is now flying in molasses, and the speed continues to plummet faster than I can compensate.

I feel the stall come on before I hear the warning horn. My plane falls out from under me... and since I still have control inputs for the slip in, the plane stalls in an uncoordinated, cross-controlled state. The wing whips over in a wide arc, flipping my plane over and sending me to my doom in a hopeless spiral.

Most everyone who reads this knows about the opportunity I recently passed up. They also know why I turned it down... and why I know that deep down I made the right decision. Or, "the wrong decision for the right reasons," as one of my close friends put it.

I'm not lamenting my decision. I am still trying to come to terms with it. For the past few weeks, I managed to do this by staying busy... keeping my speed up, as it were. Lots of things to do, preparations to make, no time to pause and consider What Might Have Been. This carried me through my recent trip to Orlando.

I've been home for a week now... and I've slowed down. For now, I'm keeping my speed in the white arc, safe from stalling... but I can sense the spiral coming on if I slow down much further.
Funny thing is... I've hardly given any thought to my cancer check-up next week.

Hummingbird Action Response Team, Go!

I awaken with a start. 5:45 am. I look bleary-eyed at my clock radio, which turned on at 5:30 am. The low tones of a morning news program on KKOB are coming from the speakers.

Did the radio wake me up, I wonder? No, it never does that... that duty is reserved for my cell phone alarm, which is set for an hour later. I lay quietly for the next few minutes, but though I feel tired, I know that I won't be able to fall back to sleep right away. Might as well get up.


I stumble out into the living room, and absentmindedly walk to the kitchen and the coffee maker. No, I decide, no coffee yet. You're cruising on four hours sleep -- you shouldn't have stayed up watching "The Daily Show's" take on McCain's convention speech -- and you'll probably want to go back to sleep within the hour.


It's a little stuffy in the apartment, so I open the door to the balcony... and that's when I see it. My hummingbird feeder is in two pieces... the glass bottle still hanging from its cap under the overhang, but the lightweight plastic base and its "flower" petals are lying on the deck, framed by a pool of sugar water.


What the..? I recover the broken pieces and unscrew the bottle from the hanger. The plastic attachment to the base is still screwed onto the bottom of the bottle; I try to fit the base back over its retainer ring, but it's loose and I know it would just fall again if I tried to jimmy it on there.


I must have heard it fall, I think. That's what woke me up. It was still in one piece last night... and besides, the pool of sugar water at my feet hadn't had time to completely evaporate, or even soak into the concrete.


One of the three black chin hummingbirds that frequent my feeder buzzes above the tree just off my balcony, looking at me as I hold its food source dumbly. "OK, what did you do?" I ask it. The bird remains nonplussed, hovering over the tree, probably wondering the same thing of me.


I carry the feeder remnants inside, and soon it becomes clear I won't be able to fix it. I refilled the feeder just yesterday, and had included my normal routine of soaking the pieces in hot water to clean them before refilling it. It appears the water may have been too hot; the base seems to have expanded just a hair bigger than the solid retainer ring. Nothing short of glue will fix it, and that would probably be only a short-term solution at best.


I look at the clock again. 5:55 am. I think of the hummingbird staring at me. Other people in my complex must have feeders, too... and, you know, there are also real flowers around. It's not like the little buggers would starve without my feeder for the day.


Then again, I sigh, there's a 24-hour Wal-Mart within a mile of the apartment, and it has a garden department.


So I throw on a t-shirt and jean shorts, toss my Gobosh cap over my messed-up hair, and have the presence of mind to recover my wallet before I stumble (lots of stumbling this morning) out the door and down the stairs to the car.

Mine is one of only a handful of cars on the road -- Albuquerque is still a sleepy town at 6 am on a weekend, unlike Dallas -- and it's a short trip to the Wal-Mart parking lot. Only a few other customers are inside the mammoth store; of course the only open exit door is the one on the opposite side from the garden department.


Will they even have feeders? It's not the season for them. Fortunately, there are two feeders identical to my old one on the shelf, looking like afterthoughts next to the winter stock of finch houses. I grab one and head back for the registers.


I go to the only "20 Items Or Less" checkout open. The woman ahead of me has a full shopping cart. To occupy my time, I conduct a quick mental count. 37 items. This irks me.


Then again, if you'd been more careful in cleaning the feeder, you wouldn't have to BE here at 6:10 am on a Saturday morning, Rob...


The checker gives me an odd look as I hand her my sole item to purchase. "Mine broke this morning," I explain.


She raises her eyebrow. "You know the hummingbirds are leaving in another month or so, right?" she asks.


That thought had occurred to me, too. "Yeah, I know... but what would they eat for that month?" I ask, allowing a slight trace of my you're an idiot tone into my voice, though I maintain my smile.


I admit; I feel protective of "my" little hummingbirds. Borderline paternal. I have no other pets... well, Abby of course, but she's my parents' dog and doesn't live with me. I adore the little buggers. They each have their own personalities, and even though they're wild creatures they also show little fear of me. One of the females, in particular, makes it a point of buzzing over to me every time I'm sitting outside on the balcony working, and hovers just out of reach... but she stays there for seconds at a time, watching.

This is why I'm in a Wal-Mart at 6:15 am to buy an $8 feeder. I sense the checker is someone who would never understand that; then again, few in Albuquerque probably know about hummingbird migratory patterns, so who knows. I give her the benefit of the doubt.

After pausing to consider a run to Starbucks -- no, Rob, you have coffee at home --

I fill the new feeder, and tug on the base to make sure it's secure. Outside I flip the assembly over, and screw the new feeder into the top of the old one, still hanging from the overhang.

It's all worth it less than 20 seconds after I close the door, when I see "my" female black chin buzz over and start drinking. The lone male soon joins her, and within another five seconds the second, smaller female. All three spend about 30 seconds at the feeder; they were apparently hungry.


I chuckle as I change out of my clothes and stumble (one last time) back into my bed. Sure enough, I'm tired now, and I know I'll be able to fall asleep soon.


But before that happens, a thought occurs to me. Between your closed bedroom door, the radio and the low whir of the ceiling fan... Rob, there's no way you could have heard that feeder fall.

Old Man Gloom

New Mexico is home to a bevy of odd traditions, most the result of the cultural melting pot borne of the state's Hispanic, Native American and Anglo populations. Some of those celebrations are amazing to behold (a pueblo fiesta) while others are hopelessly arcane and even cruel (cockfighting is rampant throughout the state; lawmakers finally got around to banning it last year.) And then there's the burning of "Old Man Gloom," known as Zozobra... which falls somewhere in the middle, with a healthy dose of the surreal thrown in for good measure.

Much like the stuccoed strip malls that line most Albuquerque streets today, Zozobra was the result of a white guy's interpretation of a centuries-old Indian tradition. From the official Zozobra Web site:
Local artist William Howard Shuster, Jr. - "Will" (1893-1969) conceived and created Zozobra in 1924 as the focus of a private fiesta at his home for artists and writers in the community. His inspiration for Zozobra came from the Holy Week celebrations of the Yaqui Indians of Mexico; an effigy of Judas, filled with firecrackers, was led around the village on a donkey and later burned. Shuster and E. Dana Johnson, a newspaper editor and friend of Shuster's came up with the name Zozobra, which was defined as "anguish, anxiety, gloom" or in Spanish for "the gloomy one."

The effigy is a giant animated wooden and cloth marionette that waves its arms and growls ominously at the approach of its fate. A major highlight of the pageant is the fire spirit dancer, dressed in a flowing red costume, who appears at the top of the stage to drive away the white-sheeted "glooms" from the base of the giant Zozobra.

Each year, Zozobra goes up in flames on Santa Fe's Fort Marcy Park during the first week after Labor Day. They even sell tickets now... and the hours leading up to Old Man Gloom's burning are filled with songs and dancing, and generally good-natured merriment.

Despite having lived in the state for 12 of the last 15 years, I've never been to a Zozobra burning. I so wanna, one of these days. But for several years now, my family has held our own private "Zozobra" burnings. I even took the tradition with me to Dallas.

For the actual burning of Zozobra, citizens are allowed to place scraps of paper -- on which they've written down their fears, anxieties, and disappointments -- in a large box located at the base of the 50-foot marionette. Some bring divorce papers, or copies of discouraging medical reports. These then go up in flames, right along with the rest of The Gloomy One... carrying those concerns away in the smoke and ash.

The Finfrock clan has always appreciated that tradition. So each year, we make our own 'Zozobras,' on sheets of paper filled with what scares us, and the troubles plaguing us and others we know. Over the years, those have grown to be pretty big sheets of paper.

This year has been a trying one for all of us, as it has been for many in this country and throughout the world. Perhaps our problems aren't as bad as those of a refugee in Darfur, or a poor farmer in Georgia (the state, and the former Soviet Republic.) But the past several months have still been very difficult for many of us... filled with uncertainty about the our health, job situations, and overall well-being, to name a few worries.

And absolutely, those concerns deserve to burn in a funeral pyre.

Below is my personal "Zozobra," which admittedly isn't as impressive as the real one. I put more time into listing all my fears and worries, than I did in its creation. And this year, like all the others, it was very satisfying to see them all go up in flames.

At least until my smoke detector went off. Another years-long tradition.

You Know It's Coming

A good morning. I crashed out on my couch last night watching the Olympics, after having cheered on Phelps and the rest of the men's swim team on the 4x100m relay. And I awoke this morning to the unmistakable sound of burners whooshing overhead, as a hot air balloon seemed to barely clear the roof of my apartment building. It's getting to be that time of year again in Albuquerque.

A cup of coffee, a glance at the online headlines for the Dallas Morning News (I just can't stomach the local Journal) and absent-mindedly flipping between Fox News Sunday and a Sopranos repeat on A&E. I muse briefly that the two shows probably have more in common than Chris Matthews would care to admit.

Clouds hang low over the Sandias; the ceilings lie at least 1,500 feet or so beneath the 10,678 foot summit. From my perspective on Albuquerque's west side, the clouds seem lower than my balcony. They're not, of course, but that's how they look. There's not a trace of wind, either. A good-sized thunderstorm blew through last night, and this is the result. It was on a similar morning, four years and one month ago, that I soloed for the first time.

There's nothing big on my agenda this morning. It's a rare Sunday that I don't have to work, Jim's covering. Not much to do today, other than go up to spend the afternoon with my folks and Abby. I need to run to the store, too -- there was no milk for my coffee this morning, I had to resort to one of umpteen creamer packets I've copped over the years from a variety of motel rooms. Still, I have the rare luxury of time today... so I lay back on my couch, and watch TV.

9:00 am, This Week comes on ABC. Still a Sunday morning of tradition of mine, one that started four years ago in Dallas. The local affiliate finally moved the program to its rightful place in the morning; it had been on Sunday afternoons here, but KOAT moved it back to the morning shortly after Meet The Press host Tim Russert died... correctly assuming, I imagine, that with Russert's passing MTP would be more vulnerable in the local ratings. Such is life.

I only pay half-hearted attention to the commentators, discussing who will be chosen as Obama's and McCain's running mates. But I look up as I hear the familiar strains of the theme for "In Memoriam."

Issac Hayes. Jerry Wexler. The head of the Democratic Party in Arkansas, who was gunned down in his office this week by a crazed lunatic who had recently quit his job at a Target store, sigh.

Nine soldiers lost in Iraq and Afghanistan. Sigh, again.

Camera one, back on George. "We also lost a member of our ABC News family this week. Leroy Sievers..."

I stop cold, and stare mouth agape at the TV. I feel tears welling up, but wipe my eyes angrily before the torrent can begin.

God damn it...

Photo by Tyrone Turner

My Own Private Oshkosh

(I wrote this Wednesday morning, still trying to kick the OSH-Cold I'd managed to catch. Alas, I didn't have time to complete it and find pictures, so it's sat in the "Created" file on ANN's CMS the past three days... and gotten stale for the site. So, I'll post it here...)

I have to say, that so far this year's Oshkosh hasn't gone the way I'd hoped. That's certainly not the fault of the EAA, which has once again put on a dynamite show. Nor can I blame the weather -- so far as perfect as one could dare hope -- or the crowds, which have exceeded expectations to date and appear to be heading for a banner year.

No... it's because I'm typing this from ANN's "OSH House," sitting at the kitchen table in self-imposed exile for the second day in a row, loaded up on cold medicine and ibuprofen. Which means I've already missed such notable attractions as the first flight of the Martin Jetpack, the Dreamlifter's departure from Wittman Field Tuesday night, and the first public flight of the Rocket Racing League's prototype racer. At this rate, I'll probably miss the Cirrus SJ50's arrival Wednesday afternoon, too.

So, rats. And to add insult to injury, our house is close enough to the field that a steady stream of piston, turbine, and full-wail jet aircraft are making regular laps right overhead. Maybe the Cirrus jet will fly a REALLY wide pattern to land on 18, and I'll be able to snap a shot of its belly.

Even with my head feeling as if it's been placed in a vice, though, I know I can't really complain. How many readers would rather be under the weather, three miles from AirVenture, instead of being perfectly healthy and reading about the week's goings-on at Wittman Field from their office computer? There ya go. Rob, stop complaining.

I was also fortunate to arrive early this year... and by that, I mean EARLY, as in a full week before the show started. Thanks to the gang at Gobosh Aviation (who as regular readers know provided the light sport plane I earned my license on earlier this year) I was able to fly myself almost the entire way to Oshkosh, from Denver. Company vice-president Dave Graham invited me along for his flight, ferrying a new plane back from a trade event at Centennial Airport to Gobosh's headquarters in Moline, IL.

I suspect one motivation for his gracious offer was so that he could sit back and enjoy the trip for a change, and let someone else do the flying... which I happily did, logging a hair over six hours of brand-new, Pilot-In-Command cross-country time. And though I wasn't able to complete my planned goal, of flying myself into Wittman Field -- I had to "settle" for flying right seat in a pristine Beech Sundowner, as storms and low cloud cover along the route from MLI to OSH precluded a VFR trip -- I was still able to enjoy the sensation of being on final approach to land at one of the world's best-known and most highly-regarded airports. Not a bad tradeoff at all (and special thanks to Erik Skjerseth for a great flight.)

Arriving to Oshkosh a full week before AirVenture kicks off has some definite advantages. It's amazing to watch the field transformed from a sleepy Wisconsin airport (deceptively so... as OSH handles a significant amount of traffic in its own right, but those numbers are rated against the admittedly steep AirVenture curve) to the World's Busiest Airport.

Two years ago, Kevin O'Brien waxed poetic about that process in reverse... far more eloquently than I could hope to now, but I do better understand now what he was talking about. Even without all the tents, and the people and all the planes... there's an excitement present on the field. You just know something good's about to happen.

Even the workers on forklifts, those tasked with assembling the colorful displays and huge exhibit tents, seem to understand that. I had to be mindful of moving equipment as I walked around the slab of empty pavement last Tuesday, that in six days would become AeroShell Square and would host the Boeing 747-400 LCF Dreamlifter.

Instead of grumbling about the wide-eyed bystander intruding into their workzone, however... three different operators smiled and waved. I wholeheartedly returned the gestures. There's something about Oshkosh.

Arriving early, I was also able to enjoy a venue I'd never been to before, but for a quick walk-through last year en route to Cessna's SkyCatcher announcement. This time around, I wouldn't have to report on a trade event, or cover an early morning press conference. In fact, I was able to visit places far removed from show center, in both geography and ideology.

Last Wednesday, I was able to take in the EAA Museum and Pioneer Airport. For five hours, I walked around the exhibits, quietly taking each display in on my own time and my own (read, non-ANN-related) terms. And all I can say is, it was an illuminating experience.

I saw the SpaceShipOne mockup perform its tail-feathering dance, and watched the video presentation Alan and Dale Klapmeier gave in the mid-1980s about their VK30 experimental (love the hair, guys.) I sat on a nearby bench and contemplated the Wright Flyer; later I tried my hand at the various "kid's experiments" set up at the temporary NASA exhibit. I even spent time lolling through the gift shop... taking it all in, and buying a T-shirt for my mom.

It was... transcendent. For starters, it isn't every day you get to see a Ryan NXP on short final to a grass strip... but there it was, and the tram slowed down so everyone could grab their cameras. Yeah, it's only a replica... but how many replicas of the plane Charles Lindbergh first crossed the Atlantic in are still flying??

After arriving on the other side of the field, the tram deposited its load of families, a few older couples... and the wide-eyed Managing Editor, holding his camera.

I quickly walked ahead of the group. It's an annoying habit I have; when in a crowd, I always want to be first. But my rush to get ahead came to an abrupt end when I walked into the Aeronca hangar... and gazed upon the vintage airplanes contained within, under a veritable sea of wooden wing spars and period engines hung from the rafters. All sound from the outside seemed to vanish; I was now standing on holy ground, or so it seemed.

The families with their children eventually caught up, but even the youngsters quieted down somewhat as their parents stopped to read about the airplanes. The same was true as we walked through the other six hangars on the field; even the kids grew somber when we walked into the Wittman hangar, and read about Steve and Paula's last, fateful flight. As a group we paused to silently consider the propeller from their Wittman O&O, now hanging on the hangar wall.

After several moments, I walked back outside and watched as the EAA's Young Eagles GlaStar fired up, to take another young flyer around the patch for their very first time. It was an odd -- but appropriate, I think -- juxtaposition. While waiting for the tram back, I spent some time talking to Jake, also a first-time visitor to the museum, here with his wife from Scottsdale to spend the whole week at AirVenture.

Already in a reverential mindset, I opted to make one last stop on my own private Oshkosh journey. After retrieving the car, I drove back towards Aero-News press headquarters... but then turned left, heading towards the EAA Chapel and Compass Hill.

I'd only been in the chapel once before, during my first year at Oshkosh back in 2005 during an impromptu tour given by former ANN stringer Rose Dorcey, who now works for EAA. I'm not especially religious... but something drew me through the doors, and I sat for several moments in one of the empty pews, considering the events that had brought me to this point in time.

Next I walked behind the chapel, to the EAA Memorial Wall. Once again, I paused to reflect... this time on the names engraved in brass plates set upon the bricks. Some I recognized, mostly through reporting on their deaths. Most were foreign to my eyes... but I tried to take them all in. I considered taking a picture, but it seemed inappropriate.

It's on their shoulders, that we all reach for the heavens...

My last stop was Compass Hill... a fitting end to what had turned out to be my day to consider the celebrations and sacrifices of flight. I stood among the four lifesized bronze statues depicting a family watching planes at the airport -- "Directions," by sculptor Larry Anderson -- and marvelled in their realistic expressions of wonderment and awe. It didn't take much effort to imagine they were real... another group of wide-eyed enthusiasts, taking in another beautiful day at Pioneer Airport.

I can't describe the emotions I felt in my heart as I walked back to the car, sitting forlornly in the chapel parking lot. This would probably be the last day that lot would be empty, at least for another week or so. I was grateful to experience such a place "by myself."

There's something magical about being among 600,000 of your closest friends during AirVenture. But it's quite another to have Oshkosh all to yourself, at least for a little while. I'm glad I had the chance... it's those memories that keep me going until this darned cold subsides, and I can visit the field again.