(Reprinted from a previously published diary)
Yesterday, I had to make a last minute flight to Amarillo. Fortunately, the company-owned business plane was already scheduled to go that direction, so I just had to show up at the local airport by 7:00 a.m. and step on board. The plane is a twin engine turboprop, a KingAir by name. Despite the fact that the price tag on a craft like this would make your jaw drop, most people classify this as a small plane. Since I am somewhat of an aviation buff, I was excited to make my maiden voyage. The morning air was crisp, but I was comfortable in my suit jacket as I made my way from the hangar to the steps of the KingAir. As I put my jacket into the wardrobe, I pushed aside a number of large overcoats without a thought.
The takeoff was smooth, and soon, we were cruising at just under 30,000 feet. I settled back, not really sure how long the flight would take. For those of you unfamiliar with Texas geography, suffice it to say that it can take a lot of lead to draw a pencil line from a town on one side of Texas to a town on the other side. Two and a half hours and over 450 miles later, we touched down in Amarillo. I stood and stretched as the pilot walked by on his way to open the door. “You want to be careful on the walk to the terminal,” he said as he donned a fur-lined parka. “We have an ice storm out there, and the pavement is going to be slick,” he added as he reached to unlatch the door. The door opened, and the cabin was immediately filled with a biting, chilling wind that made us all shiver. I stood in what must have been stunned amazement as I peered out the open door. My coworkers suited up with their heavy overcoats and hats and scarves. As one of the men handed me my suit jacket, he asked where I had put my overcoat. Sheepishly, I admitted that I did not have a coat.
Have you ever uttered a sentence that seemed to stop time? Everyone in the plane stopped and turned to look at me. Their expressions ranged from abject pity to stifled amusement, and I just stood there feeling a bit like I had forgotten not just an overcoat, but every other stitch of clothing. I stayed in the plane until all others had disembarked, and then, I stepped slowly toward the door. As soon as my foot hit the stairs, the gusty wind turned into an icy, steady force. I flipped up the collar of my suit jacket in a meager attempt to shield myself from the frozen precipitation that scratched against my cheeks. “Be very careful,” the parka-shorn pilot cautioned from the bottom of the stairs. “It’s an ice rink out here.”
I buried my hands in the pockets of my jacket and hugged myself to contain my warmth. I scuffled along toward the terminal, my leather soles feeling like ball bearings on oil. I tucked my chin against my chest, relying on the boot-covered feet in front of me to guide me safely forward. Finally, I made it to the terminal. One of my coworkers opened the door for me, and I stepped into the relative warmth of the building. I glanced behind the service counter to see my reflection in a decorative mirror. I was fully covered by a blanket of ice crystals. Even my hair, eyebrows, and eyelashes shone with a winter sparkle. My nose and ears glowed bright red, and my cheeks shined from the wind-burn. Suddenly, I realized that, despite the fact that dozens of people were crowding the terminal, no one was speaking. Off in the distance, I heard a stifled chuckle, and the woman behind the counter smiled. She reached under the counter and produced a box of tissues. She held back her laugh just long enough to ask, “Is this your first time in Amarillo?”
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
Monday, January 25, 2010
Car Wars
(Reposted from a previously published diary.)
Commuting is just not the same anymore. I now live in a college town and my commute is an eight-mile drive down a four-lane road passing right by the campus. Naturally, we have the occasional fender benders, usually caused by a distracted or daredevil student, but normally my commute is blissfully calm. I call this routine blissful because I can remember my days on the Dallas motor speedways and the nightmares that were commonly referred to as car wars.
On one such day, I was headed home along a north Dallas beltway known as I-635. The traffic was heavy but moving fast on this hot summer day and I was hoping my luck would hold. I-635 is an eight to ten lane divided highway, complete with a high-occupancy vehicle lane. The speed limit is posted at 65, but any Dallas native knows that you either fly along at 75 mph in tightly bunched packs or you sit still as one of the hundreds in a solid, stagnant ribbon of metal on asphalt. It was on this fly and die or sit and spit freeway that I found myself everyday at this time.
I was just topping a hill as I saw the string of a thousand brake lights in front of me. Luckily, I hit my brakes and my little Nissan began to slow. I liked my little maneuverable car. My personal theory on car wars survivability is based on the fight or flight theory. A 1-ton pickup with a plate-metal and tubular steel brushguard is the only way to fight. A small little car with enough "go" power to match your fear is the only way to flee.
Anyway, I came to a stop with room to spare and I craned my neck to see as far ahead as possible. Of course, I could only see the backs of a hundred other craning necks. I reached down and flipped my lazy boy seat lever and leaned back as far as possible without dropping below the steering wheel. I learned long ago that the only good that can come from a traffic jam is a little shut-eye. I had just taken a nice, deep, cleansing breath when I heard a sound that, to this day, is etched in my memory.
Having never been in the military, my only experience with automatic weapons was as an audience member in front of a screen, but it did not take real life experience for me to recognize the sound of machinegun fire. The staccato banging buffeted my ears as I tucked my head down as far as possible below the windows. The rapid pops continued as I leaned over into the vacant passenger seat. My left foot came off the clutch and the car died with my right foot jammed against the brake. I could only presume that I was caught in the crossfire of two rival gangs and I covered my head with my arms in the hopes that I could shield myself from the glass that would inevitable be shattering around me.
The gunfire ceased as suddenly as it began leaving me still face down in my seats. I could feel the center console pressing into my ribs but I dared not sit up. I could only reason that the gang members were reloading and I was in no hurry to test my theory.
An eerie quiet calm seemed to wash over my senses as I listened to my commuter world. The radio still played and the fan still hummed but no horns blew and no screams reached my ears. Perhaps everyone was huddled in fear as I was. Perhaps worse yet, everyone was dead. What was I saying? You can’t kill hundreds of motorists with a five-second blast of automatic weapons fire. And where was the return fire? After all, Texas leads the nation in concealed weapons and gun racked deer rifles.
I ducked lower at the sound of a blowing horn. Again it blew, but this time it repeated in a rhythm that communicated not fear, but annoyance. Slowly I sat up and looked out of my back window. The man behind me was now hammering his steering wheel with one hand and pointing in my direction with the other. I turned my head and, to my amazement, saw a 200-foot space between my car and the back bumper in front of me. I slowly scanned the area for hostiles but saw none. I wiped my brow and took a breath. My hands were still shaking. I started my car and pulled ahead, still amazed at the apathy that seemed to pervade the masses of commuters.
I pushed across the lanes to reach an exit, knowing I had to check my car for damage. I pulled into a gas station and drove up to the sign that read “Mechanic On Duty.” I let the car idle and got out as a guy wearing the name of Joey came out from under an Oldsmobile. “Water is on the side,” he said. I looked at him without having any idea what he had said. “Water for your radiator," he said with a bit of patronization in his voice. "You look like your overheating.”
I was fighting to find the words to describe my incredible experience when my ears rang from the familiar and terrifying popping that had sent me ducking for cover only moments before. I jumped, but the mechanic remained calm. “That would be your air-conditioning pressure relief valve,” he said as he wiped off the wrench in his hand. “Man, I’d hate to be you. No air-conditioning on a day like today will kill ya.”
Commuting is just not the same anymore. I now live in a college town and my commute is an eight-mile drive down a four-lane road passing right by the campus. Naturally, we have the occasional fender benders, usually caused by a distracted or daredevil student, but normally my commute is blissfully calm. I call this routine blissful because I can remember my days on the Dallas motor speedways and the nightmares that were commonly referred to as car wars.
On one such day, I was headed home along a north Dallas beltway known as I-635. The traffic was heavy but moving fast on this hot summer day and I was hoping my luck would hold. I-635 is an eight to ten lane divided highway, complete with a high-occupancy vehicle lane. The speed limit is posted at 65, but any Dallas native knows that you either fly along at 75 mph in tightly bunched packs or you sit still as one of the hundreds in a solid, stagnant ribbon of metal on asphalt. It was on this fly and die or sit and spit freeway that I found myself everyday at this time.
I was just topping a hill as I saw the string of a thousand brake lights in front of me. Luckily, I hit my brakes and my little Nissan began to slow. I liked my little maneuverable car. My personal theory on car wars survivability is based on the fight or flight theory. A 1-ton pickup with a plate-metal and tubular steel brushguard is the only way to fight. A small little car with enough "go" power to match your fear is the only way to flee.
Anyway, I came to a stop with room to spare and I craned my neck to see as far ahead as possible. Of course, I could only see the backs of a hundred other craning necks. I reached down and flipped my lazy boy seat lever and leaned back as far as possible without dropping below the steering wheel. I learned long ago that the only good that can come from a traffic jam is a little shut-eye. I had just taken a nice, deep, cleansing breath when I heard a sound that, to this day, is etched in my memory.
Having never been in the military, my only experience with automatic weapons was as an audience member in front of a screen, but it did not take real life experience for me to recognize the sound of machinegun fire. The staccato banging buffeted my ears as I tucked my head down as far as possible below the windows. The rapid pops continued as I leaned over into the vacant passenger seat. My left foot came off the clutch and the car died with my right foot jammed against the brake. I could only presume that I was caught in the crossfire of two rival gangs and I covered my head with my arms in the hopes that I could shield myself from the glass that would inevitable be shattering around me.
The gunfire ceased as suddenly as it began leaving me still face down in my seats. I could feel the center console pressing into my ribs but I dared not sit up. I could only reason that the gang members were reloading and I was in no hurry to test my theory.
An eerie quiet calm seemed to wash over my senses as I listened to my commuter world. The radio still played and the fan still hummed but no horns blew and no screams reached my ears. Perhaps everyone was huddled in fear as I was. Perhaps worse yet, everyone was dead. What was I saying? You can’t kill hundreds of motorists with a five-second blast of automatic weapons fire. And where was the return fire? After all, Texas leads the nation in concealed weapons and gun racked deer rifles.
I ducked lower at the sound of a blowing horn. Again it blew, but this time it repeated in a rhythm that communicated not fear, but annoyance. Slowly I sat up and looked out of my back window. The man behind me was now hammering his steering wheel with one hand and pointing in my direction with the other. I turned my head and, to my amazement, saw a 200-foot space between my car and the back bumper in front of me. I slowly scanned the area for hostiles but saw none. I wiped my brow and took a breath. My hands were still shaking. I started my car and pulled ahead, still amazed at the apathy that seemed to pervade the masses of commuters.
I pushed across the lanes to reach an exit, knowing I had to check my car for damage. I pulled into a gas station and drove up to the sign that read “Mechanic On Duty.” I let the car idle and got out as a guy wearing the name of Joey came out from under an Oldsmobile. “Water is on the side,” he said. I looked at him without having any idea what he had said. “Water for your radiator," he said with a bit of patronization in his voice. "You look like your overheating.”
I was fighting to find the words to describe my incredible experience when my ears rang from the familiar and terrifying popping that had sent me ducking for cover only moments before. I jumped, but the mechanic remained calm. “That would be your air-conditioning pressure relief valve,” he said as he wiped off the wrench in his hand. “Man, I’d hate to be you. No air-conditioning on a day like today will kill ya.”
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
Power Lunch
(Reposted from a previously published diary.)
I had a staff lunch yesterday. Kind of a "get to know the new boss" deal for my staff. I don’t have a lot of staff, but I do manage a few people and I think they appreciate getting to know me in a neutral environment. I don’t know the town too well yet, but I thought the Mr. Goodies Pizza and Party Emporium might just fit the bill for a neutral and laid-back location.
The food was fair, but little Donnie’s three-year birthday party at the next table made business conversation kind of tough. Marie, my assistant, did enjoy getting a balloon giraffe, but I felt the balloon hat I had to wear was a little distracting. Overall, I think the meeting went well, at least as far as getting to know one another.
I found out that one of my analysts is an air-hockey hustler. (I owe her a free Annual Performance Review upgrade.) I also found out that putting my entire staff in bumper cars is not a good thing so early in our relationship. It’s not that they lack a strong team spirit, it’s just that they are not yet convinced I am on the same team. At least the neck brace gives me an excuse not to wear a tie for a couple of weeks.
I had a staff lunch yesterday. Kind of a "get to know the new boss" deal for my staff. I don’t have a lot of staff, but I do manage a few people and I think they appreciate getting to know me in a neutral environment. I don’t know the town too well yet, but I thought the Mr. Goodies Pizza and Party Emporium might just fit the bill for a neutral and laid-back location.
The food was fair, but little Donnie’s three-year birthday party at the next table made business conversation kind of tough. Marie, my assistant, did enjoy getting a balloon giraffe, but I felt the balloon hat I had to wear was a little distracting. Overall, I think the meeting went well, at least as far as getting to know one another.
I found out that one of my analysts is an air-hockey hustler. (I owe her a free Annual Performance Review upgrade.) I also found out that putting my entire staff in bumper cars is not a good thing so early in our relationship. It’s not that they lack a strong team spirit, it’s just that they are not yet convinced I am on the same team. At least the neck brace gives me an excuse not to wear a tie for a couple of weeks.
Thursday, January 7, 2010
Nice to Meet you Bob?
(Reposted from a previously published diary.)
My manager took me around the bank today to meet my new “work family.” It seems that I have a few odd cousins hanging around, but everyone was friendly and seemed genuinely interested in being helpful. One of the bad things about being new is learning all of the names. I personally am very bad with names. I have read up on all of the tricks and techniques, but none of them seem to work.
My wife likes to associate people with other folks that she knows well, and then, when she sees the new person, she just recalls the old friend and the name is there. Naturally, when I try it, it doesn’t work. My experience usually goes something like this.
“Nice to meet you, Dave,” I might say as I shake the hand of a new acquaintance. At that point I think to myself, one of my best friends was named Dave, and I walk off, confident that I have employed a proven memory trick.
The next day I see the same fellow, and I’ll be danged if I can’t think of the person with whom I had associated them. It seems odd that all the memory tips that are given rely on memory to work. If I had a good memory in the first place, I wouldn’t need to use tricks to recall a name. The only real trick that seems to work is keeping a list of frequently used names handy. It works pretty well, but some people think it strange that I am always looking at the palm of my hand just prior to greeting them by name.
My manager took me around the bank today to meet my new “work family.” It seems that I have a few odd cousins hanging around, but everyone was friendly and seemed genuinely interested in being helpful. One of the bad things about being new is learning all of the names. I personally am very bad with names. I have read up on all of the tricks and techniques, but none of them seem to work.
My wife likes to associate people with other folks that she knows well, and then, when she sees the new person, she just recalls the old friend and the name is there. Naturally, when I try it, it doesn’t work. My experience usually goes something like this.
“Nice to meet you, Dave,” I might say as I shake the hand of a new acquaintance. At that point I think to myself, one of my best friends was named Dave, and I walk off, confident that I have employed a proven memory trick.
The next day I see the same fellow, and I’ll be danged if I can’t think of the person with whom I had associated them. It seems odd that all the memory tips that are given rely on memory to work. If I had a good memory in the first place, I wouldn’t need to use tricks to recall a name. The only real trick that seems to work is keeping a list of frequently used names handy. It works pretty well, but some people think it strange that I am always looking at the palm of my hand just prior to greeting them by name.
Wednesday, January 6, 2010
I Used to Think 8 to 5 was a Fable
(Reposted from an earlier published diary)
I just completed my first day at a brand new job. In retrospect, it was not a bad day as first days go. I took this job primarily to get out of the rat-race that I had endured in Dallas. It only took a few years in the Dallas traffic for me to realize that road rage was simply a tactic to dispel intense, mind-numbing boredom. It was kind of like license plate bingo and demolition derby put together. My car became my life. Each afternoon, I would greet my wife hello by kissing her picture that was mounted to my dash right next to the kids’ most recent school mug shot. I would call home on the cell phone before I even started the car. My daughter, Taryn usually answered. “Hi, Daddy,” she would say.
“Hi, Hon. Is your mother nearby?”
“She is trying to find her keys. Jacob is trying to help her find them.”
“Honey, Jacob is a boy. He inherited my male pattern blindness. You need to help your mother find her keys, but let me talk to her while you do that.”
“Okay, here she is. Love you, Daddy.”
“Love you too, Hon. Say hi to Jacob.”
This conversation, or one very similar to it, would take place each afternoon. The subsequent conversation with my wife would be just as harried as she rushed out the door in route to one of the plethora of activities. Dinner was usually in the oven when I got home, but my dining room was normally back in my car. Eating on a table was a luxury I couldn’t afford if I wanted to be on time to whatever obligation I had.
Well, today I called home at five o-clock. Taryn answered the phone. “Hi, Hon. Let me talk to Mom.”
“Oh, hi Daddy. Sure thing. Are you having a good first day?”
“Yes, I am, and I don’t even have to work late.”
“Wow, so when will you be home?”
“Well, I’m on my way out, and I’m not sure what rush hour is like, but I’m guessing I should be home by 5:20.” Silence fell over our conversation until I heard my daughter yell, “Jacob, put a plate on for Dad!”
The real recognition that things were changing was when I heard Jacob ask from a distance, “A plate for who?”
Yes, indeed, things will be different in this new job, in this new town, in this new life. As I got in my car this evening to go home, I looked at the pictures of my family still stuck to my dash. I said a quick prayer of thanks as I took them off and stuck them into my wallet.
With head upon my pillow I think about my day.
The day floats like a leaf into my memory,
falling into place, interlocking with the past.
Memories of days gone by push away sleep.
I pick out pieces and study their hues.
Some are bright and happy
Some are dark and full of shadows.
Stepping away from my picture
The lines between the individual days blend
And my perspective changes.
My picture is not random shadows and light.
Each piece is but a part of a larger work.
The work is not complete
I know not the finished size
But now I see that the shadows serve to give texture to the subject which is my life.
I think each experience in life is like a puzzle piece. Each day a new piece falls into place moving one step closer to the complete picture that is our life. Each piece is either a small part of good or a small part of bad. It is up to us to decide which type of piece forms the foreground and which type forms the background. And the missing piece, the one that has fallen out of the box? Spend a little search time on your knees. You might find the most beautiful piece of all.
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