Factors Vital

It was a fleeting moment. Almost lost to the wind, like so many thoughts that cross the consciousness... then disappear, never to be heard from again.

*****

I'm sitting in the official ANN golf cart at AirVenture 2007, on the show line at the north end of 18/36 at Wittman Field. I am thoroughly tired, battered and aching, worn from the hours of traipsing from one end of the showgrounds to another. From the top of my head to the soles of my feet, there isn't a part of my body that isn't sunburned, blistered, or chafed. There is no doubt that I am working the show -- this isn't a vacation. These precious, stolen moments when I allow myself to be just a spectator are all-too rare.

But for now, at least, I'm just one soul amidst thousands watching in awe as Sean Tucker defies gravity by making his Oracle Challenger bipe "hover" on its tail, mere feet above the pavement. I've seen Tucker perform this same maneuver several times; I've even been able to talk with him about how he does it. I know exactly how this particular Houdini performs this particular trick. Doesn't matter, it's still unbelievably cool.

I pause long enough to wonder what it would be like to visit Oshkosh as "just" a visitor... and then I happen to look down, at my press badge hanging from the lanyard around my neck. With a coy smile to myself, I realize there's nowhere else I'd rather be. Nothing else I'd rather be. For possibly the first time in my life, a sense of perfect contentment settles over me.

I realize, of course, the flight line at Oshkosh will never be the White House Briefing Room. I'll never have the kind of journalistic drive that compels my mentor, Pete, to wish to be embedded in Afghanistan. I doubt a Pulitzer is ever in my future, and I'm not so naïve to deceive myself into thinking the audience of the "World's Largest Aviation News Organization" is very big at all.

And yet, with a sense of wonder, I realize I'm thoroughly happy to be making a living writing about airplanes, and matters affecting them. I'm good at it, too. People I've never met have complimented me for stories they know I wrote, regardless of whether my byline was attached or not. That says something.

*****

I would never have guessed who was taking notice of those stories, and the impressions they made. Even after I left the "flight writing" game in April 2009, I guess I knew I wouldn't be far from it for very long. I did not know, and could not have guessed, how soon those people would be calling, to see if I'd be interested in doing a quick article for them. They're calling more and more lately.

And now... well, now I have a choice to make. My "day job" is working for a company that is very important to me, for it has played an incredibly important role in my life over the past decade. I have friends there; I work for friends there. Yet, I also realize that with each passing day, I'm flying further away from the direction everyone ostensibly is trying to steer towards. That is beneficial for no one.

At the end of the day... at the end of this day... I know with every ounce of my being that I am a writer. That is who I am, and how I identify myself. And I think that is my answer.

My Grammie

Mary Sayers -- nee Darmody, Popko before that, and forever my 'Grammie' -- passed away February 3 of this year. It was as unexpected as the death of an 87 year-old can be.

Grammie was the peacekeeper in our family, the one who held all the tattered fragments together and maintained the lines of communication. Issues would come and go, relationships would be strained time and again, but Grammie was the constant. She remained strong after the loss of her first husband, Robert, in 1958. Strong in her heart, and strong in her faith. She remarried three years later, and stood by her second husband for over 40 years through alcoholism, infidelity, and later Alzheimer's.

Again... strong in her heart, and strong in her faith.

For almost all her adult life, Grammie lived within two miles of St. Thomas More Church at 48th & Grover in Omaha. It was her constant, the one thing that did not change through all the outer turmoil. She drew strength from her church, and took comfort from it... even to the point of refusing to move to New Mexico in the 90s to be with both her daughters and their families. But she always remained close to all of us, keeping the lines of communication open, and she was always there for all of us... only a phone call away.

The last time I saw Grammie, the last time I hugged her, was December 2005. It was in the kitchen of the duplex she and Grandpa had lived in for 20 years, right across the street from St. Thomas More. Two years later she moved to an assisted living facility in Papillion. She knew it was going to be her last home, but she eventually came to enjoy her time there, and participated in most of the activities there. Grammie always made new friends very easily, and like so many times before she made a positive impact on all she knew.

My family talked often about going up to Omaha to see Grammie. With the exception of Mom traveling to Omaha in 2007, to help Grammie pack her things to move over to the Wellington, that just never happened. Finances never allowed us to make the trip. At least I was able to talk to Grammie, at least once a week, on the phone; my Mom, at least three times. Those conversations remained our link holding the fragments together, even if she and I only really ever talked about the weather, or Huskers football.

*****

On February 3, I was at work, settling awkwardly into my four day-old position as 'Integrated Solutions Manager' at DMC. I had just talked with Grammie the Sunday before, telling her about my promotion.

I knew Grammie was in the hospital; she had been in and out for over a month, feeling very weak and suffering from a persistent cough. The day before, doctors had cauterized a bleed in her esophagus that was believed to be the cause of her anemia. The procedure had been successful... so much so, in fact, that February 3 was to be the day Grammie was supposed to go home. That wasn't to be.

Grammie woke up that morning in extreme discomfort. Doctors initially thought -- or told us, anyway -- that was likely due to the effects from the previous day's procedure. Grammie joked with the nurses as she went in to the operating room for a second time. My Aunt Peg continued to pack her things up to take Grammie home later that day.

At 12:00 New Mexico time, I talked to my Dad on the phone. He told me about the second procedure, which to me sounded like no big deal. Two hours later, as I headed for a meeting, my phone blinked with an email. "Please call as soon as able. Mom."

 

I called right then, because I just knew. It was an embolism. Doctors found it while attempting to determine why she continued to bleed out. We were told she only had hours.

I threw hurried goodbyes at my coworkers as I ran out the door. I sped the entire way to my parents' home in Bernalillo. "We're leaving right now," I told Mom as I ran in the door. I really thought we could make it to Omaha -- a minimum of 14 hours away by car -- to say goodbye before Grammie passed. It took both my parents to slow me down, and to allow me to finally face the cruel reality.

Mom was able to speak to Grammie before she died. She was unconscious by then, thanks to the medications administered to ease her suffering... but Peg said Grammie still raised her arm as Mom spoke, acknowledging her. A half-hour later, Peg did the same for me, allowed me to say goodbye over the phone.

That was at 2:30. Grammie died at 3:00. Everything had happened in less than three hours. She passed away one day before her daughter's -- my mother's -- 62nd birthday.

*****

Three weeks later, Mom and I were on the road, heading up to Omaha for a memorial mass, for the second time in five years. We traveled through the worst snowstorm I've ever driven in to be there, and I was more scared than I'd ever been behind the wheel. As we crept along at 15 miles-per-hour through North Platte, then Lincoln, and finally Omaha -- past literal piles of battered cars that had run off the side of the road -- I asked my Grammie for her guidance and strength. It seemed to help. We arrived safely.

The next day, February 25, came the memorial. Grammie's favorite priest, Father Ross, made a special trip down from his new parish to perform the mass. I gave both readings... standing in the church my Grammie had kept so deeply in her heart, in front of the choir loft where my Grammie sang in praise for so many years.

"The souls of the just are in the hand of God, and no torment shall touch them. They seemed, in the view of the foolish, to be dead; and their passing away was thought an affliction and their going forth from us... utter destruction. But they are in peace." 

I'm a fairly strong public speaker... but this day, as my voice remained oddly clear, even as I fought back tears the entire time... that strength wasn't mine, I knew.

"Who will bring a charge against God’s chosen ones? It is God who acquits us. Who will condemn? ... Will anguish, or distress or persecution, or famine, or nakedness, or peril, or the sword? No, in all these things, we conquer overwhelmingly through him who loved us. For I am convinced that neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor principalities, nor present things, nor future things, nor powers, nor height, nor depth, nor any other creature will be able to separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord."

Afterwards, at the Wellington, I met all the people who knew my Grammie. They all knew me, and told me how proud my Grammie was of me. They knew I was a pilot. And, to a person, they said how much they loved my Grammie, and had felt her love in to them in return.

*****

And now, here we are. Mother's Day... the first one I didn't send a card or flowers to Omaha for. Today I will be strong for my Mom, as she mourns hers. You see, Grammie taught me to hold the fragments together... and of the importance of being there for those who love.

I just wish we all could have been there at that final moment. That will always haunt me.

Onion Girl

I will admit the following may not be 100 percent accurate, because it is based entirely on my memories, and memories are infinitely fallible. Suffice it to say that everything that follows here is absolutely true... as I remember it.

October 2003...

She was a bit unstable. I discovered this around two months after we first met, at a Friday night after-work gathering at the old Gin Mill on San Mateo. Laughing and personable towards everyone at the table... except for me, who she seemed very deliberately and rather obviously intent to ignore, despite the fact that we'd chatted quite normally just a few hours earlier.

"What the hell did I do to you?" I finally asked, to no reply; eight years later, I still don't know the answer, or whether or not there even really was one.

Despite this inauspicious exchange, by that time I'd already learned the Onion Girl was usually really fun and easy to talk to, and highly intelligent and well-spoken on a variety of subjects. Her sense of humor was among the best of anyone I'd ever met. Sometimes boisterous, but also something of a wallflower. Once acknowledged and accepted by the crowd, though, she more than held her own in any social setting.

She’s also extremely cute, I filed away in a corner of my psyche, but my sights were elsewhere at the time. The Office Basketcase was a stunningly gorgeous and wholly unattainable creature, always willing to have a kind ear listen to her troubles, with absolutely zero commitment to anything more. I somehow failed to recognize that last part.

Relocation of our company’s headquarters soon forced several of us from the comfortable environment of home to the unfamiliar surroundings of Dallas. The Onion Girl was part of the first wave in early July 2004, as was the Basketcase; I was in the second and final group that left Albuquerque at the end of the month. On the drive out, somewhere around Amarillo, I thought about my fellow coworkers in this new and extremely different place... and I realized it wasn't the Basketcase who I was most looking forward to seeing again.

Well now... what does that mean? 

My perception of the Onion Girl altered at that moment, which made me instantly insecure and uncomfortable. She'd never given a single indication – at least one that I recognized – that she ever viewed me as anything more than a friend at work.

And besides, the Onion Girl had told me that she was also interested in someone else. I wasn’t wild about her choice, and I found the entire situation deeply frustrating… mostly because I knew it wasn’t really my place to have any opinion about it in the first place. In any case, that ordeal ultimately came to a head and resolved itself, and my conflicted feelings indirectly led to a piece of writing that would become significant to my future.

*****

My dynamic with the Onion Girl become volatile over the next several months as we awkwardly settled into life in the Metroplex, even more so than it had been in the past. We went through numerous stints of not speaking to one another, some started by her, others with me, always over some seemingly trivial disagreement that would escalate at the drop of a hat into another Cold War.

Our longest silence had dragged on some four months until one Friday evening in mid-February, when she approached me at the local hangout and asked, simply and quietly, "Truce?"

A brief pause. Did I hear her right? Then...

"Thank God, yes!" I exclaimed, hugging her as I fought back relieved tears. I later mouthed a silent "thank you" to the heavens when she wasn't looking.

Later that night, our group moved to another bar for drinks after dinner. As the rest of our friends headed for a table, the Onion Girl and I made our way to the bar... and wound up spending the rest of the night seated there, recapping the past four months of our lives, off in our own world. We closed down the bar just talking.

To this day that conversation remains one of the most meaningful experiences of my life.

Even though it clearly seemed that we mattered to each other, one subject we dared not ever to address was the precise nature of our friendship. "For whatever reason," I told her in a subsequent conversation, "we take each other personally." While she readily agreed, the Onion Girl also seemed content to leave it at that, and I lacked the confidence to push the issue any further.

*****

September 2005 was an exciting time for me. A serendipitous offer to "string" for an online aviation publication at AirVenture two months before had since blossomed into a part-time job, and the potential for more had me feeling restless at the office.

I initially thought a change in departments would help ease that anxiety, but it soon became clear I wasn't long for the cubicle life. So, on September 12, I turned in my "six-week notice" at work for the decision to bet on being a full-time aviation writer.

The Onion Girl seemed an enthusiastic supporter of my decision; in fact, news of my plans had the unexpected effect of immediately deflating the latest tense situation between us. We were getting along the best we ever had.

Around this same time, the Onion Girl's birthday was approaching (two days before mine) and one of her best friends was in town to help her celebrate. Along with a small group of our coworkers, I joined them for a Friday night party.

About an hour into the festivities, the friend joined me at the bar. "I know she can be difficult," she told me. "I know you guys have had issues... but trust me, you mean a lot to her, and she is absolutely a person worth knowing."

I could only nod in quiet agreement. "Yeah… I know." Indeed, the growing realization I would no longer see the Onion Girl every day was the only thing that tempered my excitement over the looming change in my life. Our familiarity, friendship and – whatever – revolved solely around the routine of sharing an office.

The Onion Girl and I had only ever been out together, just the two of us, once: a Saturday afternoon shortly after the move, spent wandering around the West End and Galleria Mall. We'd had a good time, too, talking about anything and everything under the sun. We even ordered identical lunches (chicken salad) and I'd spent a good amount of that time blathering on about the depth and sincerity of my feelings for... the Basketcase.

Of course, it wasn't like I hadn't considered the possibility that maybe, just maybe, there may have been something more between the Onion Girl and me. Those recurring silences may actually say a lot, I thought. Is she hanging around our break time hacky sack group just to be entertained by a bunch of ostensibly grown men making fools of themselves, or...? Does it matter that she said, "hey it's me" when she called that time, rather than announcing her name as usual?

I'd finally confided my bewilderment over the situation to another mutual acquaintance a few weeks before the birthday gathering; he'd promptly brought me back to reality. "You aren't the first one who's looked at [her] and said, 'hey...'" he told me. "But I really don't see any sign from her of what you're talking about."

Still, as time drew nearer, I grew bolder. Lunch invitations were frequent. Over sandwiches at Good Eats or teppanyaki at Benihana, little was said about my new job; instead, we talked about our families, our views on life, and our dreams. I learned she had thought about becoming a teacher.

At our last lunch together – Thursday, October 13 – I told the Onion Girl about a dream I'd had the night before about my first girlfriend, and the message she'd given me in the dream. "It's time to live your life for yourself," the apparition had said. "Don't worry about appeasing others, or guilt over your past. It's all right to be a little selfish. You're not here to save anyone but yourself." 

I really believed that then, sitting in that booth at Snookie's. That was another life... before I realized the effect we have on others is the only reason any of us are here. 

Oddly, though, the Onion Girl agreed. "I hate that new Coldplay song," she said. "No one should ever think they need to fix or save someone. If you don't like them for who they are, tough shit for you."

On our walk back to the office, my mind stumbled over words I badly wanted to say. I like you for who you are... a lot. I don't know what that means exactly, but I think I want to find out, for better or worse. I'm worried we won't see each other after I leave. 

You're the one I'm going to miss most from here!

If only I'd had the courage to say those words, perhaps everything that followed may have turned out very differently… Or, maybe not. Regardless, as had been the case so many times before, I remained silent, leaving us both to our own thoughts.

*****

October 14, 2005. A day I hate.

It started well enough, with few challenges to be found in moving truckloads of wallboard from plants to construction sites. My replacement had taken to the job very quickly, and with little actual need to train her, the truth was that I had very little to do.

After work, I met a friend for drinks with a plan to see a movie afterward. The Onion Girl accepted my invitation to join us, although she seemed vaguely distant once we arrived at the bar. Buzzed by my good fortune and the (one) Maker's & Coke I was nursing, I was too excited to really notice.

Seated to my left, the Onion Girl had remained silent as I regaled the bartender about seeing the bar's namesake P-51 at Oshkosh. "I wish I had options like you," she said suddenly, in the middle of my story. "It's like I have nothing going on in my life."

A million times over, I wish I'd said something else in reply. Almost anything would have been better.

"I don't want to hear that."

I didn't mean that quite the way it sounded; of course I didn't want her to feel down. I wanted her to be inspired by my new opportunity, not depressed by it. "Sure you have options," I added clumsily. "I don't want to hear you feeling sorry for yourself."

Little more was said that night. The Onion Girl demurred when we invited her to come to the movie with us, and instead quietly said goodbye to us outside the bar. I didn't see her drive away.

She wasn't in the office the following Monday; in fact, she was out for the next five days, and upon her return at the start of my final week even eye contact was avoided.

*****

Those last few days passed with nary a word said between us, despite the fact our cubicles were right next to one another. Anything I could think to say to her sounded hollow in my mind anyway, and inappropriate for the office. There were no more lunches.

Friday afternoon, as I said goodbye to my coworkers and made plans with most of them for a celebratory gathering that evening, I continued to eye the Onion Girl's desk nervously. This was it. What was I going to say?

By the time I worked up the courage to walk over to her cubicle, the Onion Girl wasn't there. I waited a few more minutes, under the pretense of going over the plant numbers one final time with my now-former boss. Still no sign of her. I waited some more, walking laps around the office. The Onion Girl was nowhere to be found.

When I eventually gave up the search and walked to the elevator for the last time, the words I had said to her at the bar echoed in my mind like gunfire. I could still hear it as I walked past her car still parked in the garage.

March 2007...

"I've been trying to wrap my brain around this dream I had three weeks ago ... In the dream, an acquaintance of mine, one I haven't talked to in some time, suddenly appeared, wearing a red sweater. I remember that, because in real life I'd only seen her wear red once, and it had made an impression on me. Anyway, in this dream I had a conversation with this estranged friend... a very deep conversation. I wish I could remember details – I know in this dream we talked at length – but I forgot most of that conversation when I woke up. Shaking. And with "her" first question to me in the dream reverberating in my ears. 

"What have you learned?"

February 2011...

That is the question that compels me to write about this now. Nearly six years later, I still don't really know... or, I'm still too stubborn to admit the answer to myself.

Yeah. That's certainly closer to the truth.

I know now that my growing feelings for the Onion Girl scared me. There's really no other way to say or explain that. I also understand now that I didn't hide some of my feelings – including jealousy – as well as I thought I did. Certainly a few of our "silences" that followed were my doing.

Of course, I also chose to manifest those feelings in the most passive-aggressive manner possible, the thirtysomething equivalent to pulling her pigtails and then running away. It’s easy now to say I really should have told her how I felt; it’s equally obvious that life in the office would have been a veritable hell between us had those feelings not been returned.

So why didn’t you tell her when you no longer had to worry about that? I certainly wanted to, and I planned to… but I also thought I’d always get another chance. Until I didn’t.

There was another, darker reason, though. The truth is that I didn't want to be… burdened. I felt I was on an upward swing in my life, and I didn't want anything – anyone – to distract me from it, so I turned a cold shoulder.

I also knew the Onion Girl had something going on with herself, and it was something I knew I was ill-prepared to handle. Through no fault of her own, she revealed to me the limits of my empathy, and my willingness to take on the challenges of standing by someone – even someone I cared about very deeply – as they suffered through their internal turmoil.

To not be afraid of their inner demons, but to embrace them as your own and help them stand up against the evils of the world and from within their own mind, in whatever capacity they'll have you in their lives. And to recognize the rare and hallowed significance of that trust they've placed on you to be there.

I think I’ve finally learned those lessons. I just wish I would have learned sooner. It hurts beyond words to know that I failed such an important test... and every day since, with seemingly no possibility of ever seeing the Onion Girl again to try and, somehow, reset our history, I've faced two irrefutable truths.

Throughout what I've managed to turn into a moderately successful career as an aviation writer, I’ve written every word with the faint hope that just maybe, one day, the Onion Girl might read them and smile.

And, each and every day that has passed since seeing her for that last time in October 2005, my mind and heart have conspired to ensure that I will never forget what might be the biggest and most damning mistake of my life.

You arrogant asshole; you fucking coward. You know what she meant to you... And yet, look what you've done.

28 January

Five years ago today, I was asked by the publisher of Aero-News to write about where I was 20 years before. I suspect he asked me this, in part, to take my mind off where I was in the present.

On January 28, 2006 I was three days away from surgery to remove a cancerous tumor that had invaded my body. In between panic attacks, and readying the apartment for my Mom's upcoming (and open-ended) visit, I sat at my computer on a balmy Saturday morning in Dallas, and put together 1,000 words on what I was doing the morning of January 28, 1986... the day we lost the Space Shuttle Challenger.

The resulting op-ed is hardly my best piece of writing. Looking at it now I realize how awkward the transition is from eulogizing the lost crew of STS-51-L, to chastising NASA for allowing much of the same complacency that doomed Challenger to claim another seven lives just over 17 years later. I also see the anger behind my words, the clear resentment I felt on the realization how fates may cruelly turn in an instant. As petty and self-involved as that is, of course I wasn't thinking solely of the lost spacefarers.

"It was the day I first learned that, yes, the sky can fall." That line I'm proud of. The rest, meh. The article ends on a snarky and self-righteous note I'm not particularly proud of, though I think the message still comes through (and, thankfully, seems to have been heeded by NASA based on its cautious but successful performance for the subsequent five years.) Thanks to my state of mind at the time and the rushed nature of the piece on a whole, I even manage to incorrectly ascribe the subsequent loss of Columbia to the wrong year...

Still, overall, it's articles like this one I still look back to, and note with some small sense of accomplishment... because I still vividly remember where both the space agency and I were, five years ago today.

They Were All Teachers

Circle (Part Four)

"I always knew if you had the chance, you'd want to learn to fly. You have so much of your grandfather in you..."


I'd approached the subject cautiously. I'd flown to Farmington twice in the past two days, and was due to fly up there again Monday. Those flights were like nothing I'd experienced before, and I wanted to learn more. And -- though I planned to pursue lessons even if Mom had expressed reservations -- I was greatly relieved to have her blessing to do it.


Serendipity played a role in what followed. The pilot I'd flown up to Farmington with had a friend who'd just earned his flight instructor certification, and was looking for a student. A friend graciously loaned me some money to get started. Soon, under his tutelage, I was plying the skies in a variety of Cessna Skyhawks, some lessons learned more quickly than others.


I soloed for the first time in N62507 at Belen Alexander Airport (E80) on July 24, 2004. One week later, I drove a U-Haul moving van with all my earthly belongings to Dallas. Eleven months before I'd left DMC to take a customer service position at a building materials company called American Gypsum. That company was now relocating its home office from Albuquerque to North Texas. The fat moving stipend I received kept me in the air, and I soloed a second time from Collin County Regional Airport (TKI) the following November.


If the path I was on had been fortuitous up to that point, the road that followed was nothing short of a miracle. One day in May 2005, I was browsing aviation headlines on a website called Aero-News Network, and came across an article about the search for unpaid "stringers" to help cover the annual AirVenture gathering in Oshkosh, Wisconsin. On a lark I submitted some writings of mine. One in particular caught their attention, and soon I was off to Wittman Field to learn how to be an aviation writer.


I was a quick study. Within two months I was writing for ANN on weekends... and on October 28, I left American Gypsum to pursue a full-time career as an aviation journalist.


Aero-News opened new horizons for me, and was a welcome and earnest distraction from my fears throughout a bout with testicular cancer. The job allowed me to earn my Sport Pilot license, in April 2008. Alas, good things don't always last, and within a year -- thanks in equal part to the economy, and the need for health insurance -- I was back where I started.


Back at DMC. And, really... that's about right, isn't it?


It seems like I've been here before;
I can't remember when;
But I have this funny feeling;
That we'll all be together again.

No straight lines make up my life;
And all my roads have bends;
There's no clear-cut beginnings;
And so far no dead-ends.
-Harry Chapin

Circle (Part Three)

"You don't have to be so gingerly on the controls. The plane can handle more -- see?"


I distinctly recall yelping as the pilot on my August 2002 flight to Farmington pitched the little Cessna 310 into a quick 50 degree bank, then just as quickly returned us to level flight. That was accompanied by a death grip on both the seat armrests.


Up to that point, I'd done a passable job of holding N591DM on-course towards Four Corners Regional Airport, and at our assigned altitude of 8,500 feet. Denver Center hadn't peeped since our handoff from Albuquerque, which meant I'd managed to abide by the rules under VFR flight following.


Maintaining straight-and-level flight is among the most difficult tasks for a student pilot, but it suited me fine. Steep banking, on the other hand...


"Can we not do that again, please?" I asked.


The pilot chuckled. "Your airplane." Despite this formal "handoff" of the controls, I noticed his attention never wavered from what I was doing.


After a few more minutes, I was happy to turn the controls back over, and watch outside the window as we descended over the San Juan River, south of the airport. Four Corners Regional sits on a plateau overlooking the city of Farmington; on this crystal-clear morning, it was hard to miss.


I listened intently as the pilot described his actions prior to landing. "Tower cleared us onto the downwind for Runway 5, which you can see over there. We're flying parallel to it. Now I'm dropping the gear... three green, all good. Next we'll turn base leg... time for GUMPS. Gas, check, both fuel valves are open and clear. Undercarriage down. Mixture set. Props at correct pitch for landing. Seatbelts fastened --"


"Chartran 104, cleared to land Runway Five, winds zero-four-zero at seven."


The pilot clicked the radio button at the top of the yoke. "Cleared to land on five, Chartran 104... Okay, there's a very slight crosswind from left, not much of a factor," the pilot explained. "I want our wheels to touch down right on those white bars you see on the runway. And... there we go! Rollout, no brakes yet -- let the plane slow down on its own -- and, here comes the nosewheel."


Under the pilot's expert guidance, November-five-niner-one-delta-mike gracefully turned off the runway, and made its way over to the freight ramp at fast taxi speed. As we settled to a stop, I remembered why I was there -- to cover a route. I tried to push my mind back into "work" mode.


That lasted all of three seconds. "See you later!" the pilot grinned. I knew at that moment that I was hooked. I had to learn how to do this flying thing myself.


***********


I flew to Farmington three more times after that. I took the controls a couple of times, but mostly I focused on what I could see. I realized what a wonderful experience flying could be when you're able to see what's in front of you, versus out of a tiny side window in a cramped passenger cabin.


After the second day, I had to make an admission to my parents -- particularly to my mom. I never knew her father, my Grandpa Darmody, but those who knew him said I reminded them of him. I shared his passion for building models of cars, and airplanes... and, now, of flying.


Even though I was 27, and well past the age of seeking my parents' permission... I still had to find a way to tell Mom that. She lost her father to a midair collision over Nevada in April 1958... and now, I had to tell her that her only son wanted to follow him into the sky.

Circle (Part Two)

We left off in April 2002, just after my promotion. From 04:00 to 14:00, Monday through Friday, I had full responsibility for DMC's warehouse and distribution operations in Albuquerque and northern New Mexico. This included receiving and sorting the day's pharmaceutical shipments, dispatching our aircraft to all corners of New Mexico, and overseeing the driver who had taken over my Los Alamos route. In practice, I was often at work by 03:30 and didn't leave until closer to 5 pm. There was seldom time to even sit down on the job, unless I needed to grab an Aspire and cover for an absent driver.


It didn't take very long at all for me to tire of this routine. Everything I'd appreciated as a driver -- the open road, the people -- was absent from my new position, and I soon determined the bump in pay wasn't really worth the added stress. I knew I was near the end of my rope, but I didn't want to leave the company outright. I truly had grown to appreciate the job we did, and the people I worked with.


Fortunately, I'd made an impression on the manager who oversaw the Customer Service department. A fair amount of lobbying on her part convinced Ops to let me transfer over, though not until the middle of August -- about three weeks away. I agreed to suffer through it; at least there was light at the end of the tunnel.
However, it was just three days later that my world changed forever, with the words "we need you to cover a route in Farmington." Our regular driver needed to take some time off, and no spare drivers were available to fill in. Considering my lame-duck status in my current position, I was the obvious choice.


I thought I'd be driving a van up there and back -- making for a very long day -- but instead the Site Manager handed me a spare headset. "You'll fly up and back on the 104," he said, "and use her truck while you're up there."


This made me a little nervous. I'd always been fascinated by airplanes, but I'd never flown on a plane smaller than a 737. (For that matter, I was 16 before I flew for the first time -- on United, from Albuquerque to Omaha and back.) Plus, I'd seen our planes. Hangar queens they're not.


Nevertheless, a sense of adventure followed me to the airport early the next morning. As I parked my Focus in the Seven Bar parking lot, a FedEx cargo jet (an Airbus A300) roared down the runway, its twin turbofans shaking the ground for a few seconds. A flush came over me; that seemed like a good omen.


That feeling changed somewhat as I walked up to the twin-engined aerial chariot that would take me to the Four Corners. N591DM had clearly seen better days over its 33 years, the once-proud white-and-burgundy paint job severely faded and chipping almost everywhere. I knew outer beauty wasn't necessarily an indication of how well the plane was maintained... but, well, some shiny paint and gleaming propellers still would have been nice.


I shook hands with the pilot, then stepped aside as he loaded the freight and did his preflight check. I watched with some alarm as he struggled with the starboard landing light, which refused to descend from its housing under the right tip tank; a solid smack with the palm of his hand finally coerced the light downward.


With his preflight complete, the pilot motioned for me to climb in after him. Both cabin doors on the Cessna 310 are on the right side; after I was seated, the pilot reached across me and slammed the door shut. "I have better leverage than you would," he explained. "It takes a solid pull to latch it all the way."

For all the worrisome quirks One-Delta-Mike had presented so far, I was heartened when both engines fired up on cue. I followed along as best I could as the pilot first called Clearance Delivery to obtain our route to Farmington, then ground control for our taxi instructions. I could feel my heart racing as we rolled closer to the departure end of the runway. I wasn't scared, really, but at the same time I honestly didn't know what to expect. In a sense, that pretty much described how I'd lived my life up to that point -- not knowing what to expect, not necessarily scared, but only because I wasn't really expecting very much.


Years later, I would write how we can spend our lives "drifting idly through our existence... down the paths of least resistance and lesser stimulation, focusing only on those things that ensure we have enough novelty in our lives so that we may want to survive to see tomorrow, that give us just enough momentary satisfaction to continue on down the road to Who Cares What." It sounds pretentious (because it is) but that entire sentence came from experience. That was me the morning of August 8, 2002, as we taxied into position for takeoff...


...And that same wandering, pessimistic, rudderless approach to life ended, for me, the moment the wheels of that Cessna 310Q lifted off Runway 3.