...but How does the Plate Handle Turbulence?

Yesterday, one of my cellmates was all atwitter about some great party that she and all of her female friends were going to (just that alone will be the cause of therapy down the road). All the women folk were getting together to shell out gobs of cash for the chance to a) put all of their screaming children in one room, b) dip their precious, sugar throttled feet into paint, c) fight the now kicking and screaming children WHO HAVE WET PAINT dripping from their feet, d) place aforesaid feet, wet paint and all, onto a crappy little plate, e) find some place to toss children, now screaming and squirming 16 on a 10 knob, while they fight and kick each other with WET PAINT dripping from their feet, f) wait 6 weeks for the crappy little plate, smeared foot print and cheesy graphic to return from wherever the magic fairies sprinkle magic dust on the finished product, and g) find some place on the wall to hang the plate, the plate that you cant use because it had feet with WET PAINT all over it, and h) find a comfy easy chair to sit back in and watch the plate while dust settles on it, ignoring the children growing up around them while they wax sentimental about the babies they once had. Did I mention the small children with WET PAINT on their feet?

After much heated debate, it was determined that I am not a sentimental type. (Apparently, I was forgiven for being a tightwad, for not wanting to sacrifice an evening for the "perfect gift for my wife", for not wanting to hang a damn useless plate on my wall, and oh did I mention the screaming knee-biters with WET PAINT ON THEIR FEET?!?!). Nothing could be farther from the truth, I am certainly sentimental, if not overly sensitive to my children. One of the few pleasurable distractions I have is photography, and other than anything remotely connected to the Alaskan frontier, photographing my children is one of my greatest joys in life. Sticking their inverted feet on a plate and making them look like turkeys wearing neck ties, doesn't capture anything about their lives or their smiles or who and what they are. That is not a remembrance of what that child is about at that time in their lives.

But these plates, this is nothing more than a clever way for someone smarter than me to rake in holiday cash from a bunch of bored moms.

There are, I suppose, varying degrees of sentimentality. The History Channel has a show about scrapping and recycling large ships, aircraft, cranes, heavy duty machinery. Steel from the Twin Towers is being used to construct select sections of the hull of a naval vessel, the New York. The glow of molten metal did not hold a candle to the pride in the eyes of the steel workers and ship builders working on the New York.

Generations of military aircraft are baking under the Arizona sun, at the Boneyard. A great show is made of dissembling certain aircraft in 90 day cycles, the wings busted off of the fuselage, sinking into the hot desert sand. I did not know, or had forgotten if I did know, that various models of aircraft are preserved in flight-ready, or nearly flight-ready, condition. Some of the aircraft, many in service since the 1950's (one hint, looks like a city with wings, craps more exploding tonnage than all French forces in all of history), can be returned to service in 60-90 days. I am fairly certain I saw at least 1 F-111 wearing the tell-tale paint of an aircraft being preserved for potential later use. I seem to recall, when all but some EF-111's were finally deactivated, that maintenance to keep them aloft was expensive enough to make even Bill Gates blush.

F-14's are kept flight ready, fitted with a couple of servos from Hobby Towne, and used as target practice for new air-to-air missiles. It is a damn shame to see the machines wasting away, or to have a Roman candle shoved up their ass by some 19 year old that thinks an A-6 Intruder is a body piercing, or a beta version of their X-Box.

Tonight, our local PBS station ran a documentary on the B-17 Flying Fortress. There are no superlatives I can dream up that haven't already been properly assigned to the Flying Fort. Anyone who understands the basic concept of lift has heard of the exploits of these aircraft, and the men who flew them. At the end of the documentary, they showed a quick clip of the Flying Forts still in flying condition (I don't know what year the documentary was made). By my count, there were 14, three of which are in Texas. Number 14 was the B-17 in Seattle that is in flying condition, but no longer flies... if I recall correctly, that is because some asshat tried to fly it from one field to another, and wound up doing a belly-flop. One of the remaining 14, Chuckie, resides here in Ft Worth. I try to make an annual pilgrimage to see her. I have taken my children several times.

With the passage, finally, of summer to winter, and in between volleyball, girl scouts, and basketball, I hope to take my children to see other true classics: the legendary P-51, P-38, and my two personal favorites the Corsair and the Catalina. I want my children to feel the thunder in their chest that only comes from the raw power of a Merlin engine, watch them jump at the crack of shotshell blast to obtain internal combustion.

I have decided that, in a few weeks, when the pot gets bigger, I am going to win the lottery. I will have my own flying piece of history. I need an expert in nose art, someone who can catch the true essence of my aircraft. I shall call her... Formerly Living.