Sibling T.M.I.

My sister is one and a half years younger than I.  There's not a huge age difference between us, and the gap seems to get smaller with each passing year.  But it did seem somewhat bigger when I was 18 and she asked me one day, totally out of left field, what color "come" is.

Now, on most guys' list of "Questions That We Don't Want To Hear From Our Little Sisters", I imagine that one ranks fairly high, right up there with "Why do all the pages of the magazines under your mattress stick together?"  On the other hand, I did feel somewhat relieved that she still had to ask that question.

My second reaction was the fear of that question being followed by "How do you know?" if I answered her.

My third reaction was to wonder why the color mattered to her.  Was she worried about choosing underwear that wouldn't clash?

I honestly don't remembered how, or even if, I answered her.  Maybe my mind has intentionally suppressed the memory.  All I can say is ladies, girls, even though you may understandably regard big brother as the font of all wisdom, there are certain questions that are just too weird to answer.

Nothing To Fear But Fear Itself

I have a 27-year-old nephew, Jonathan, who still lives at home with his parents.  Sadly, this is not so uncommon nowadays.  It seems our society has made it harder than ever before for young people to savor their first taste of independence, what with high post-secondary education costs creating onerous student debt burdens coupled with low-paying, precarious student jobs or, even worse, internships that offer no monetary payment whatsoever.

Jon, however, has no student debt, because he never continued his education beyond high school graduation.  It's not that he lacks the mental aptitude for college or even university study.  Indeed, he's a bright young man, whose marks in high school were good enough to put him on the honors list.  And it's not that he lacks the financial means to cover the cost of tuition and books.  His parents, while not overtly affluent, are a comfortable upper-middle-class couple who helped to finance Jon's older brother's post-secondary education and would happily do the same for Jon as well, if only he were willing to enroll.  But he isn't.

Instead, he lives in his parents' home, spending his leisure time playing computer video games.  He does not pay rent, because he has no job and therefore no income.  At this point, dear reader, you're  probably picturing a lazy, overweight freeloader.  If so, your mental image of Jon is incorrect.  In fact, he happily helps out around the house doing chores and odd jobs and he has been known to do volunteer work in the community.  But he refuses to seek gainful employment because nothing suits him.  There's always some reason for not applying for any given job; it's too far away and he has no means of transportation or he's unqualified or he just plain isn't interested in doing the type of work required.  He suffers from irritable bowel syndrome (IBS) and this provides a ready excuse for avoiding employment.  He may not have ready access to a bathroom or his boss might get irritated with him taking too many bathroom breaks.

He has lots of talent.  He's handy enough to be able to fix things and do simple home renovations and repairs, yet he eschews building on his knowledge of plumbing or carpentry or any other area of specialization in the field of home renovation or repair.  He's much more PC-literate than the average person and has built his own custom home PC, yet he would never consider joining the "Geek Squad" or taking a job as a computer technician.  And he's a born comedian.  He can mimic anyone or any accent.  He has a keen memory for movie lines and catch phrases.  Yet, when his older brother recently explored the idea of making him Master of Ceremonies. at his up-coming wedding, Jon flatly refused.  Public speaking is out of the question.

He has never had a girlfriend, although he's reasonably attractive and extremely physically fit.  He works out constantly.  Yet, he's not gay; he has never had a boyfriend either.  He has a wonderful sense of humor and an engaging personality.  

He's devoutly religious (Christian) and is somewhat prone to preaching.  But he readily admits that the root of his religious faith is a fear of eternal damnation.  He doesn't practice his faith out of a love for God, but rather out of a fear of the fires of hell.

And therein lies the key word that defines Jon.  Fear.  He's afraid to try anything new.  He is extremely averse to change, to the point where he wears the same type of shirt and pants every single day.  He's normally unwilling to try anything new or novel; hence the avoidance of post-secondary education and all forms of employment.  A friend of his father's recently got him a job working in a warehouse.  He didn't last a day.  Before the day was out, he had what can only be described as a panic attack and had to be sent home.

And yet, there have been rays of hope.  A couple of summers ago, he spent time in an indigenous community, spreading God's word among the young indigenous people there.  The local kids gave him good-natured nick names such as "Army Pants" (because of the camouflage pants that he constantly wears) and "Milk With Ears". At one point, he actually petted a wild wolf and came away with hands still attached to the end of both wrists.  He genuinely seemed to enjoy that experience, yet he has never seen fit to repeat or follow up on it.

Almost everyone who knows Jon, especially his family, gets frustrated with his unwillingness to try anything new.  His parents, his brother, his grandmother and, yes, even his uncle, are constantly trying to think of ways to "fix" him.  But it's not that easy.  While I'm no psychologist, I strongly suspect that Jon's fears and anxieties are the result of a mental illness or abnormality.

Mental illness is still largely misunderstood in our society.  Many people believe that everyone has complete control over their emotions and that, for example, not being depressed or afraid is simply a matter of deciding not to feel that way. The reality is, those suffering from any form of mental illness can no more make it stop than a person suffering from the flu can make their runny nose or watery eyes stop.  In both cases, there are treatments and medications that may help, but it's impossible to just wish the condition away.

So, maybe what Jon needs is counseling.  Doubtless that would help.  The problem is, he's no more willing to speak to a professional counselor any more than he is willing to try anything else new; at least, not in person.  But he does interact with others on-line.  He plays on-line computer games and, the rare times that he has actually applied for jobs, it has always been via on-line applications; never in person.

So perhaps on-line counseling is the answer.  That too is available nowadays.  I have recently exchanged e-mails with an online counseling web site known as betterhelp.com.  One of their representatives stumbled upon this blog and apparently though enough of my writing to suggest that we might provide links between the two sites.  Having not used betterhelp's services myself, and not yet knowing anyone who has, I can't yet provide any sort of testimonial for them but I've at least explored the site and the counseling service they offer sounds interesting.  Now if I can only convince Jon to give it a try.

To All The Cars I've Loved Before

I think it fair to say that, in general, men are much more emotionally attached to their cars than women are.  This brings to mind a verse from the lyrics of Shania Twain's song, "That don't Impress Me Much"...

You're one of those guys who likes to shine his machine
You make me take off my shoes before you let me get in
I can't believe you kiss your car good night
C'mon baby tell me-you must be jokin', right!

Clearly, women just don't understand the male attachment to motorized transportation.  I suppose this might serve as evidence that women are much more practical than men ... if you dismiss the stereotypical female who can't seem to stop shopping for shoes, even though she already owns a hundred pair for every conceivable occasion, including (but not limited to) solar eclipses that occur precisely at the vernal equinox.

But I digress (as usual).  There's no denying that cars tend to be more important to men than they are to women.  The cars we drive become part of who we are.  To some extent, people judge us by our cars, and this includes women.  Momma always said there's an awful lot you could tell about a person by their car. Where they're going. Where they've been. I haven't actually owned all that many cars for a guy of my age.  I'll be fifty next month (but don't let it get around) and I've owned exactly five cars since I learned to drive at sixteen, and only two of those were purchased new.   I bet if I think about it real hard I could remember my first car (this is where the picture gets all wavy and blurry and we fade to the flashback scene).

Of course I can remember my first car.  A guy's first car is like a woman's first love.  We never forget them.  No matter how many cars come afterward, that first one always holds a special place in our hearts.  Mine was a 1974 Dodge Dart, although I didn't become its owner until 1980.  Before that, it was the family car and belonged to my dad, who handed it down to me when he finally bought a new car; a 1980 Chevy Malibu (dad always had a flair for picking cool, "babe magnet" cars like that). 

Since the Dart was a hand-me-down from dad, it was the four-door family sedan variant; somewhat boxy and nondescript in appearance.  Naturally, I would have preferred something a little sportier, like a Porsche Carrera or, failing that, at least the two-door Dart Swinger variant, but I was not one of these spoiled teens who gets to be choosy about his first ride.  I had to take what I could get. 

Ironically, Chrysler re-introduced a new Dodge Dart this year after having put the model on ice for several decades.  The new Dart is much sportier than its predecessor, being based on Europe's Alfa Romeo Giulietta design.  Why couldn't my Dart look like that?

Still, I grew to love that car.  It wasn't flashy, but it was a tank!  It had to be in order to suffer the neglect with which I treated it, yet still keep rolling.  I had to run it without oil twice before I finally managed to kill it!  After the first time, it just made loud, rattling noises whenever it ran but, like a faithful dog that licks the hand of the master who just beat it, it forgave me and continued to serve me faithfully.  Besides, the rattle was useful in its way.  I still had the car during my first year of college, where I befriended a blind classmate who declared that mine was the only car that he could recognize whenever I rolled into the school parking lot in the morning.

That car and I went everywhere together.  It would take me on scenic suburban cruises on Sunday mornings when I was supposed to be in church.  It got me out of several speeding tickets.

Policeman:  I clocked you at sixty-five.
Me: That's impossible officer.  This car can't do over fifty.
Policeman (looking that Dart over):  My mistake, son.  Move along.

I could tell a million stories, but I'll limit myself to the time that I decided to drive the car down a narrow, gravel lane that ran through an area that was otherwise overgrown with brambles and high grass.  The lane was just barely wide enough to fit the car, which was precisely the reason why I chose to drive down it; just to see whether it would fit.  Unfortunately, the lane turned out to be more of a bike path and, as such, I encountered a couple of cyclists coming at me in the other direction before reaching the far end.  What with the narrowness of the lane and the fact that it was overgrown on both sides, I could hardly turn around and, my Dart being the bigger, heavier vehicle, it was the cyclists that finally had to leave the path and relinquish the right of way to me. 

The skull grinning out at them from the top of my dashboard may have helped to intimidate them as well.  You see, I had made a ceramic skull in my high school art class (I called it Yorick) and, not having any better uses for it, I decided that it would make a nice dashboard ornament for my car.

After I finally managed to drive the Dodge Dart into the proverbial ground, there came a car-free period as I was still a college student with a part-time job who apparently couldn't even afford oil for his old car, much less a new one.  As such, I didn't get my next car until after I had finished school, landed my first "real" job and had, in fact, been working at it for over a year.  On the other hand, my next car was my first new car, and it was another Dodge; a 1984 Dodge Omni.

Although it was purchased new, I didn't exactly pick the Omni myself.  My dad sort of picked it for me.  See, I had never purchased a car before, having only ever owned the hand-me-down Dart and I didn't really understand standard financing practices, what things to look for in a vehicle and possible pitfalls to avoid, so my dad took it upon himself to help me find something practical and in my price range.  As it turned out, "help me find" turned into more of a "choose for me" situation, but I never resented it.  He had my best interests at heart and, I must admit, the Omni was a pretty good fit for me at the time.

Like the Dart, the Omni was a fairly nondescript car (another example of dad's keen eye for style), but it had the advantage of being bright red and therefore just a touch sportier in appearance.  Still, I couldn't help feeling just a bit emasculated when I opened up the newspaper one day to see a car dealership advertising the Omni and pushing it as "The ideal second car for the lady of the house". 

I bought the Omni about a week before my first date with my wife who, unlike the Omni, is still with me to this day. I correctly surmised that any girl willing to be seen in that car might not be overly choosy about potential romantic partners.

As I was somewhat older and my wild oats had been well sewn (and had, fortunately, not borne too much evil fruit) the Omni and I didn't have near as many misadventures as did the Dart and I.  Being a four-door hatchback it was, once again, very much a family vehicle and proved a faithful, if somewhat sickly, work horse over the eight years that I owned it. 

It must have been one of those notorious "Friday" vehicles (you know, a vehicle that came off the assembly line on a Friday, when the factory workers' minds were already more on their weekend than on the task of assembling an automobile) because it seemed that things were constantly breaking and/or falling off that car.  Usually, it was little things like a dash light going out or a side-view mirror seizing up.  It went through more headlamps than Bugs Bunny went through carrots, which turned out to be a symptom of a larger problem with the voltage regulator. 

I'll never forget the day when, driving home from work, I noticed all the cars behind me leaving a large, respectful distance between themselves and me.  I discovered the reason for this when I parked in my driveway and got out of the car, to find my rear bumper literally hanging by a thread!  Of course I had heard the noise it made dragging along the road behind me, but the Omni always sounded like that, so I thought nothing of it.

The Omni was the car in which I had my one and only collision that was serious enough to leave the car in an undrivable state.  In fact, my insurance adjustor reported that it was a coin toss as to whether or not to simply write the car off, but it must have came up "heads" because the insurance company ended up paying for repairs.  Needless to say, the car only became even wheezier and more finicky after that.

In a way, it was the car's tendency to have weird things go wrong with it that caused the accident in the first place.  You see, it had rained the night before and water had somehow gotten into the car even though all the windows were up.  In retrospect, I can only speculate that it somehow leaked in through the open dashboard air vents.  Unfortunately, I hadn't noticed the water when I first got into the car, as it had pooled mostly on the floor of the front passenger side, and there was no-one in the car with me to complain about wet feet.  As I approached an intersection, I suddenly heard a strange sloshing sound, which finally alerted me to the puddle on the passenger side floor.  That distracted me enough that I didn't notice that the light at the intersection had changed to red and... well, it got ugly after that.

Unlike the Dart, which was towed away by a scrap dealer, I actually managed to trade the Omni in to a dealer for a surprising $1,500 discount on my next vehicle; which was a 1992 Chevrolet Lumina minivan (also purchased new).  By then, I was a family man with one child confined to a wheelchair, so I needed a minivan, but I was getting tired of driving these mild-mannered, unassuming family vehicles all the time, so I at least chose a minivan with a little style to it.  I loved the aerodynamic, wedge-shaped appearance of the Lumina.

Ironically, it was this same aerodynamic, wedge-shaped appearance that apparently put a lot of other potential buyers off.  People used to worry that it would be difficult to park because the slope of the front end made it impossible to see where the nose ended from the driver's seat.  While this was true, it was never a problem for me.  I recall reading a review of the vehicle which declared that "...the large, sloping windshield was meant to whisper 'panorama' but, instead, screams 'parking nightmare'!"

Equally ironically, while I chose a minivan partially because of my disabled son, a sales rep for a company that converted vehicles for handicapped access later told me that he would not have recommended the Lumina because the shape and size of the sliding side door made it impossible to install an electric wheelchair lift.  While this was, again, true I didn't want one anyway.  I had purchased a couple of simple telescopic metal ramps which I placed up against the side entrance and along which I simply pushed the wheelchair.  Actually, truth be told, I often dispensed with even the ramps and simply lifted the wheelchair into and out of the minivan manually.  My son's small, light build made this possible but, should any ladies reading this feel impressed at my apparent herculean strength, please feel free to swoon.

I might mention, in passing, that the Lumina is the other car which was involved in a collision, but that was more of a "fender bender" and I was able to drive away from that situation.

While I owned the minivan, I also came into possession of a Ford Tempo.  I say "came into possession of" as opposed to "bought" because I inherited it from one of my wife's uncles after he passed away.  As such, I wasn't even sure of its exact model year (circa 1993).  This was the only time at which our family owned more than one vehicle (my wife doesn't drive).  I drove the Tempo when I didn't need the minivan (mainly to and from work) because it used less gas.

Much as I hate to denigrate the Ford Motor Company or, at least, its products, the Tempo was the least impressive of all the vehicles that I owned.  To this day, I'm not certain whether my wife's deceased uncle had bequeathed it to me because I had incurred his favor or his wrath.  It didn't exhibit the weird component failures that the Omni did, but the body and the underside literally corroded away around me.  I only had it for about 3 years.  I bought the Lumina before getting the Tempo and I still had the Lumina for another four years after I finally sold the Tempo for $200 which I used to buy a pair of bookcase speakers, which I considered to be a trade up. 

Of all the cars pictured here, the Tempo is the only one that isn't the actual car that I owned (although it is the exact same colour and style).  That's because I have no pictures of my Tempo; not a one.  It wasn't a car that we "did" things in as a family (we used the Lumina for that).  It was just something that took me to work and back and, truth be told, in my heart of hearts, I never really adopted it as my own.  You might say that the Tempo was the bastard child that I never loved.  In that regard, it stands in stark contrast to my PT Cruiser.

When Chrysler introduced the PT Cruiser in 2000, I was smitten!  I so wanted one of those.  It was just something about the retro styling that attracted me. 

I'm apparently not alone in this.  Just Google 'PT Cruiser' and you'll find all kinds of PT fan boy sites full of examples of customized and embellished PT's.  I haven't known many cars to have such an apparent cult following as the PT Cruiser has.  There are even two songs about the car that I'm aware of; one by the Beach Boys (or, at least, a good sound-alike group) and one by Sha Na Na).  They seem to sell well too, because you see them all over.  It baffles me why Chrysler decided to stop building them.

Sadly, I had to admire the PT from afar for several years as my budget wouldn't allow the purchase of a new vehicle and they were impractical for wheelchair transportation in any case.  But my son passed away in 2005 and the thirteen-year-old Lumina was showing its age.  It was time for a new vehicle and I no longer really needed a minivan, so I consoled myself by at least buying the car which had so attracted my wandering eye those past few years.

Unlike the Omni and the Lumina, the PT Cruiser was not a new car, but it was almost new.  I bought it used from a Chrysler dealership.  It was a year old (the 2004 model year) and had 28,000 kilometers on it.  I had considered getting a new one but this one was the right colour (red is my favorite), it was several thousand dollars cheaper than a new one and it was in "like new" condition so, again, practicality trumped idealism and I settled for the used one.

I still own it to this day, and it's still going strong.  I don't mistreat it like I did my Dart and, unlike the Omni, things on it don't break or fall off every other week.  It seems that Chrysler and I have matured together.  Like all my other vehicles, it's not overly showy.  It isn't the turbo GT model (although I often wish that it were) so its acceleration and speed are somewhat underwhelming.  In the words of a review that I once read about the car, "It does what its name says it does best".  It doesn't have heated seats or individual climate control or even ABS for that matter (which even my Lumina had).  It's just your basic four-door family sedan with a bit of retro styling.  It does have a surprising amount of cargo room for its size.  It actually compares well with smaller minivans.

Like many guys, I do have a certain emotional attachment to my cars (except for the Ford).  It has a lot to do with the memories they evoke, both good and bad.  I think it also fair to say that, like pets, cars have a way of reflecting their owners' personalities.  In their way, the two cars that I chose for myself certainly reflect mine.  So here's a tip of my proverbial hat to all the cars I've loved before.  Thanks for the memories.

UPDATE: May, 2020

After almost 15 years, it's finally time to retire my beloved PT Cruiser.  Sadly, the old girl is costing me more and more with each visit to my mechanic so, like a faithful but sickly old dog, it's time to put her out to pasture.

I've just purchased my 6th vehicle; a 2019 Hyundai Kona SUV.  This, like most of my previous vehicles, is pre-owned, although it has under 1,200 km on its odometer, which makes it practically new.

I had always sworn that I would never be an SUV owner because I consider them to be pretentious, overly-large gas guzzlers in general.  The Kona, at least, is small as SUVs go.  In fact, it's classified as a "sub-compact SUV", which to me sounds like a term something akin to "jumbo shrimp", only kind of the opposite.

At the time of this writing, I haven't even taken possession of the car yet, although I obviously did take it for a test drive.  For now, I'll say that the ride was smooth and quiet, and the on-board gadgetry was impressive.

I will also add this note:  Remember the ad that I saw for the Dodge Omni, which touted it as "The ideal second car for the lady of the house?"  Well, I got to wondering where the Kona got its name, and came up with the following after a little Google research:

"The name of Hyundai’s soon-to-be released model was also intended to capture the attention of female drivers by reminding them of Kona coffee, one of the world’s top three coffee beans grown in Kona (Hawaii), according to Hyundai Motors."

"Intended to capture the attention of female drivers?"  Again??? And the color, "tangerine comet pearl", doesn't sound exactly butch either!  Why don't I just hand in my "man card" right now?

Vinyl Time Capsules

My mother's birthday falls this week.  Like many people, the older she gets, the harder she is to buy gifts for.  I mean, she's had a good life, rarely wanted for anything, sired the kind of son that most parents can only dream about and basically has pretty much everything she wants.

Mom doesn't own a record player and hasn't owned one for years now.  The one and only turntable that she ever owned was built into one of those all-in-one stereo cabinets; you know, the kind that has a receiver, turntable, tape deck and speakers built right into it, with compartments to store a few records and tapes thrown in to boot.  This wasn't the kind of modular sound system that's been the norm for the last 30 years or so; this was a stand-alone piece of furniture.  They were popular back in the seventies.  However, that old relic was finally taken to the curbside in front of mom's house some years ago, to be replaced with a much more diminutive stereo/CD player. 

Being the pack-rat that I am, I,  however, still have an old Dual turntable and a sizable collection of vinyl records to go with it so, having no further use for her old records, mom gave them to me.  I'd always had this idea that some day I might hook up the turntable to my computer and convert my favorite old records to CD, and I thought that mom might like me to do the same with her old records as well.  It was just one more of the many personal projects that I never seem to have the time for.

That's where I got the idea that maybe it was time to take the plunge and give mom a little trip down memory lane for this birthday.  So I dug out my old Dual, hooked it up to a computer and chose three titles out of mom's record collection that I thought she might particularly enjoy.  There was Harry Belafonte live at Carnegie Hall (mom was always a big Belafonte fan; I get a little embarrassed when she Calypso dances in public, particularly after a few glasses of wine), a German singer who goes only by the name of "Lolita" (no, it's not what you think - apparently that's a perfectly acceptable name among certain ethnicities) and, finally, the lady who's depicted at the top of this post; a fairly obscure Canadian country songstress by the name of Jean Pardy.

Jean Pardy was actually never one of mom's favorites, but I chose to convert the album for its nostalgic, sentimental value.  You see, I`d purchased it for mom back in 1973, when I was still but a young lad of ten years.  Records were still something of a novelty in our household at the time as the old stereo cabinet was still brand, spanking new so I decided to get mom a record for her birthday.  I didn't know much about music in those days.  I had no records of my own and I only listened to the radio when it happened to be on in the background so I marched down to the local Woolworth's department store, found the section where they sold records and scanned the rows of album covers for something that looked appealing.  The only reason I can offer today for choosing Jean Pardy is because I was a big fan of Popeye cartoons back then, and she appears to have shopped at the same fashion outlets as Olive Oyl.

As the album title suggests, most of the songs are tributes to Newfoundland and Newfoundlanders, Jean being herself a native of that maritime island.  Several of the songs sound as though they may well have been written by the iconic Canadian country/folk singer, "Stompin' Tom" Connors, with a few well-worn (even at that time) country favorites such as `D-I-V-O-R-C-E` thrown in for good measure.  Listening to the album during its recording (because analog recordings can only be duplicated in real time after all) I realized that I had forgotten how astoundingly bad this album really was.  Let`s just say it`s no mystery why Jean Pardy isn`t exactly a household name down in Nashville nowadays, or even in Thunder Bay for that matter (maybe in Corner Brook though).

And yet, I couldn`t help feeling a certain nostalgic pleasure as I heard those whining slide guitars, the wheezy concertinas and the clickety-clack of the spoons (yes, those are considered musical instruments among certain people of Celtic and Gaelic origin) and I waxed a little philosophical as I so often do, thinking how the music that I thought had been lost for all these years had been right there, safely stored away among the peaks and valleys that form the floor of the spiral grooves that are pressed into the two faces of that vinyl disc.

My thoughts have wandered off along those lines before when listening to my stereo.  It's sometimes incredible to me to think that an electronic box can reproduce any music that a person might imagine.  Beethoven, Caruso, AC/DC, Rolf Harris, Mike Oldfield, Lady Gaga... you name it, this box can faithfully reproduce any of their masterpieces without "knowing" anything about music.  More than that, it could even, theoretically, play compositions that haven't even been conceived yet much less written, if we could only feed the correct sequence of magnetic signals to it.  This idea is somewhat akin to the "Infinite Monkey" theorem which states that a monkey banging on typewriter keys for an infinite amount of time will eventually reproduce all of Shakespeare's writings.  If you fed random electrical signals to your stereo receiver for an infinite amount of time, it would eventually play any music you can name.

And now, having transitioned from the nostalgic to the silly and, finally, the completely whimsical, the nice men in the white coats tell me that it's time for my sedation.  I'll try not to stay away for so long this time, faithful readers.

She Came In Through The Bathroom Window

Yesterday, I returned home with my family, having been out shopping for wedding dresses for my wife and daughter (that is to say dresses that are appropriate for attending a wedding, not the white ones generally worn by the Woman Of The Hour) to find the neighbor lady, Diane, wandering forlornly between her house and ours, looking somewhat distressed. As we got out of the car, she approached us and explained that she had locked herself out of the house. She had stepped outdoors for just a moment and a self-locking door swung shut behind her. All of her other doors happened to be locked as well.

Diane explained that her bathroom window, which could be slid open and had a fly screen that could be removed without even so much as a screwdriver, was the most promising point of entry, but she herself was unable to pass through it. With the lower pane slid upward as far as it could go, the window offered a rectangular opening roughly two feet high by three feet wide and Diane, being a rather portly woman, couldn't even lift a leg up over the lower sill, which hung some three feet off the ground, let alone fit through the opening.

I tried to climb through. I did somewhat better than Diane, as I was at least able to get a leg over the lower sill. Although I don't exactly boast the most svelte of physiques myself, I might have been able to squeeze through if I could have somehow levitated myself feet-first through the opening in a prone, horizontal position. Unfortunately, I'm also not the most limber of people. Once I had one leg over the sill, I found it absolutely impossible to bend my torso in such a way that it would fit through the opening without contorting my leg in a manner that would have resulted in dislocating my hip joint.

So I called upon my daughter, Jessica. Now, the open window was small enough to pose a challenge even for a seventeen-year-old teenage girl, especially one who's in no danger of becoming anorexic herself it you take my meaning. Robust waistlines appear to be a common trait in my immediate family. Even our cat is fat, although I do grant that she could have easily fit through the open window. I had considered tossing her inside but it's extremely unlikely that she would have obliged us by unlocking the front door for us. More likely, she would have raided an open pantry or amused herself shredding Diane's finest woolen afghan (yes, she still has her claws) or perhaps she would have simply contented herself with a general exploration of Diane's unfamiliar dwelling but I can assure you that the purpose for which I sent her into the house in the first place would have been the farthest thing from her feline mind. Cats are self-absorbed like that.

So it fell to Jessica, as I say, to climb in through the window, with a little help from myself. She lifted both legs up and through the window, so that she was sitting on the lower sill and then laid back her upper body in a horizontal attitude, with me supporting her, so that she was able to slide the rest of the way through. It was still a tight squeeze, even for Jessica, who later commented that the narrow lower sill of the window had cut into her back most uncomfortably, but she made it inside.

I wonder if the Beatles realized, in 1969, that they were writing about my daughter, who wouldn't even be born for another 24 years?

Lego My Tie Interceptor!

My nineteen-year-old nephew, Jonathan, was doing a little spring cleaning in his bedroom recently. While cleaning out his closet, he came upon a model of a TIE interceptor (from Star Wars for you non-geeks) made out of Lego. He had bought the miniature starfighter when he was twelve years old, had patiently assembled it, and it had adorned his bedroom for several years before finally being relegated to the closet. Now, he decided that he had finally outgrown it, but it seemed a shame to simply throw out the replica which he'd spent so many painstaking hours assembling and which, for that matter, had been not inexpensive when acquired, especially for someone with the income of a twelve-year-old. But what else to do with it?

Why, give it to his forty-seven year old uncle Andy of course! It would look right at home next to his voice-command Artoo-Detoo, his die-cast Titanium series Millennium Falcon, his Darth Vader chopper toy, his AT-AT walker, his vintage battery-operated tin airplane, his latex Batman cowl with matching Batmobile and his large collection of Simpsons paraphernalia, too numerous to list. And indeed it does!

Truth be told, I don't really have an appropriate place for the thing myself, especially considering that it's not exactly small! It measures about 15 inches long by 10 inches wide by 11 inches high. The only place that my wife will let me keep it, of course, is in my already cluttered attic but, what with all that other stuff, I've run out of free surfaces. Still, my inner nerd absolutely refused to allow me to turn it down.

On a slightly more serious note, let me say for the record that I've always liked the look of the generic TIE fighter ever since they were first introduced in the original Star Wars movie (now commonly known as Episode IV: A New Hope). It was refreshing to me to see a spaceship design that abandoned the stereotypical rocket ship or flying saucer look. Heck, it doesn't even look aerodynamic which, of course, is completely unnecessary for a space vehicle. The large solar panels are a semi-credible means of collecting energy for power generation (at least within reasonable proximity to some kind of star) and its small size and unusual shape gives it a tiny profile, making it a tricky target to hit, at least from the front or back.

Of course, I do see some practical problems with the design. Between the forward-facing-only window and the huge panels on either side, the pilot's field of vision would be extremely limited. If you're anywhere other than right in front of him, he can't see you. I wonder how many TIE fighter pilots have died, never knowing what hit them?

The Empire seems to have some kind of hangup about limiting their soldiers' field of vision in general. Those stormtroopers probably don't have much of a peripheral vision inside those helmets of theirs either. That's probably why none of them can seem to hit the broad side of a bantha with those blasters of theirs. Darth Vader himself could sympathize with their plight, since his helmet and mask caused the same problem. I've worn a Darth Vader helmet and mask (a confession which I'm sure hardly shocks you at this point) so I know whereof I speak! The Dark Lord of the Sith needed his Force powers just to figure out who was standing around him!

Anyway, practical design flaws aside, I still think that TIE fighters are cool and, dammit, one way or another, I'm making room for my new toy in my attic. Thanks Jonny! You're my favorite nephew!

Deceptively Strenuous Pastimes

I'm a pretty sedentary guy. To begin with, I'm a computer programmer/analyst by profession, so I spend my working days behind a keyboard or sitting in requirements meetings. The most exercise I ever get at the office is when I need to walk down to the factory floor to check something.

My leisure time hobbies are no more active. I'm not into contact sports, or sports of any kind, really. I don't jog. I seldom swim and I don't go skiing or ice skating in the winter time. I like to "plunk around" on my computer, watch DVD movies, read, build models and miniatures and just relax in general. Nothing too strenuous.

I've tried two activities that have fooled me. Both sounded pretty layed back and low-stress, and both turned out to be deceptively tiring.

The first is golf. Golf doesn't look too strenuous to a spectator; a leisurely walk around a well-manicured course, a little fresh air and sunshine, and once in a while you whack a little white ball with a stick. Heck, one usually doesn't even walk from one hole to the next. One usually rides in a little electric car. How hard can that be?

Plenty hard, as it turns out! By the sixth hole, I practically fell to my knees and worshipped before the beer cart that showed up every two or three holes or so! Ten bucks a beer? Such a deal! Five bucks for a can of Coke? A bargain at twice the price! Hand it over with all speed! In my own defense, it was a particularly hot summer afternoon.

It probably didn't help that I couldn't swing to save my life. At each hole I had to swipe at the ball several times before ever making contact. That really tires out the arms! Once I did connect with the ball, I tended to take the scenic route from the tee to the hole, what with short distances, wild hooks and slices, and the inevitable stick-handling the ball across the green in a manner that would have made Gordie Howe jealous. All that walking about wore me down as well. I think my handicap is somewhere around three hundred. Since then, I've stuck to the type of golf that you see to your left.

Last weekend, I tried my hand at the second deceptively placid outdoor pastime; canoeing. When I think of canoeing, I picture a boat, silently gliding through gentle waters, the silence broken only by birdsong, the whir of distant insects and the gentle splash made by the the tips of my oars as they dip in and out of the water. Boy, was I in for an education!

My wife, Judy, my daughter, Jessica and I joined several family members last weekend for a canoe trip down southwestern Ontario's Grand River. There were fifteen of us, occupying seven canoes. The other canoes were occupied by two people each, but Judy, Jessica and I made a threesome. This turned out not to be a very good idea, as I shall shortly explain.

Our 20 kilometer course took us downstream on the Grand River, beginning in Cambridge, Ontario and ending in Paris. The estimated time for completing this was 5 hours. There were shorter runs available which might have been more appropriate for beginners such as us, but my brother-in-law, Shane "Iron Man" Groleau, insisted that anything worth doing is worth doing to exhaustion.

I had foolishly chosen the tiller's position in the rear of our canoe, which made it my job to steer. I had been given rudimentary instructions about how to do a "J" stroke and how to use my oar as a rudder, dragging it through the water on one side of the canoe or the other in order to turn the craft's nose. I had not been warned, however, about the overriding effects of wind and current. I also kept overcompensating, and learned the hard way that, if I waited until the nose of the boat was pointed in the desired direction before removing my oar from the water, it (the nose) had a disturbing tendency to continue to drift over, past the point at which I wanted to aim the canoe. And so my craft zig-zagged back and forth across the stream while I madly switched the oar from the left side to the right and back again, quickly tiring out my arms in the process.

It also didn't help that Grand River becomes quite shallow and rocky at certain points and, because of the extra weight in our three-person canoe, the boat's hull sat deeper in the water than most and kept getting lodged against the rocks. Repeatedly attempting to push and pry our craft away from the rocks with my oar did nothing to sooth my tired arms. In fact, by the time we'd reached the half-way mark for our course, my right forearm kept cramping up every time I bent my elbow.

At one point, the current washed us up against one of the many rocks while the canoe was turned sideways. The sudden stop caused the canoe to list heavily against the rock and, before I knew it, we were all swimming (or, rather, wading) in the river.

Things happen very fast when a canoe overturns. Your first priority is to grab the oars and any other loose items that were in the boat before they're swept away by the current. Your second priority is to grab the canoe itself before it floats away. Ensuring that everyone is still alive and intact becomes the third priority. It's pretty much every man for himself.

Righting and re-entering an upset canoe also proved to be a challenge. First of all, the boat had taken on water when it overturned, so we first needed to empty it. This involved picking it up out of the water, turning it upside-down in order to empty it and then putting it back into the water upright. Canoes are generally designed to be fairly light-weight, but a water-logged one can get pretty darned heavy!

Once the empty canoe was placed back into the river, it immediately wanted to float away on us with the current. Now we had to try to keep it from drifting away and steady it as much as possible whilst climbing back in without upsetting it yet again, all of which required far more dexterity than I normally possess.

During our run, were only dumped into the river once, although I did have to step out of the boat in a more controlled manner several times in order to help dislodge it from various rocks. Fortunately, Shane partially redeemed himself by thoughtfully staying close to us and stopping to help dislodge and then steady our canoe while I climbed back in whenever we got stuck. By the time we finally reached the end of our course, the first of our group of boats to arrive had been waiting for us to return for almost an hour. If we'd been just a little longer, I'm sure they'd have sent out a search party.

By the next morning, every movement hurt. Riding in a canoe is one of those activities that employs muscles which many of us didn't even know we had until they begin aching.

Mark Twain once described golf as "A good walk spoiled". If he had ever ridden in a canoe, as opposed to those Mississippi steamers for which he was known, he might have referred to canoeing as "A good boat ride spoiled". On the other hand, looking back on the experience with the benefit of hindsight, I must admit that it was fun, overall, and there were brief moments, when the water became calm and the screaming stopped and the only sound was the chirping of birds in the trees that surrounded the river, the distant buzzing of insects and the gentle lapping of water against the boat and the oars, that I could imagine myself actually learning to enjoy this.

Tony

I've talked about everyone in my immediate family on this blog, except for my dad. Today being Fathers' Day, I think it's time to correct that omission.

Anton Halma ("Tony" to those who knew him well) was born in Yugoslavia in 1938 to a very large, very poor family. He grew up with eight siblings, and had seven others that died during their infancy and yet two more that were stillborn. The eight that he grew up with included just one brother and seven sisters. Having grown up with only a sister myself, and having now a family in which I am the only male member, I can testify that this fact, in itself, qualifies him for sainthood.

When the second world war engulfed Europe, Tony's family was forced to leave Yugoslavia. They immigrated to Austria, gypsy-style, in a horse-drawn wagon when he was just six years old.

The fact that he came from a family with neither money nor social standing always bothered Tony, not because of a desire for wealth but because the way in which he and his family were perceived by the surrounding community was important to him. If I learned only one thing from my father, it's that one cannot disassociate oneself from one's family. He always believed strongly that a person is judged largely by his or her family and, conversely, a person's actions reflect on his or her family. Because of this, he determined at an early age to rise above his modest pedigree.

This meant getting an education, even though his parents, being simple farming folk, didn't see the value in doing so. His father and mother felt that their childrens' time was better spent helping with the farming chores rather than learning "useless" facts at school.

It also meant staying mindful of his appearance and ensuring that his clothes were always clean and presentable. Again, because his family was so large and of such meagre means, his siblings' clothing was often stained, worn and even torn. Tony was fussier. Sometimes, after his mother washed his clothes, the shirt collars would come out somewhat rumpled. When they did, he would throw the shirts back into the laundry and insist that she do them again.

This is not to say that he didn't have a mischievous or even rebellious side. Many years later, he became a maintenance mechanic for a local manufacturing business. During the 1980's recession, the company fell on hard times. As always happens during such periods, the workers became somewhat jittery and rumors abounded. One day, just to exacerbate the situation, Tony and one of his workmates installed a little black box with a blinking red light just over the doorway in the company cafeteria. It did absolutely nothing but several of the workers predictably assumed that it was a closed-circuit camera which management was using to spy on its workforce. The whole thing mushroomed into a major incident before management had the offending black box removed. Needless to say, they never did learn who installed it. I learned this story from my mother, long after the fact. My father lead by example, and was not one to boast to his children about getting away with a silly prank that might have cost him his job, had he been caught.

Tony first met my mother on a ship when he was 17 years old and she was 14. She was on a school field trip with her classmates, and he was in his apprenticeship and traveling on work-related business. Mom and her classmates had strict instructions from their teacher not to fraternize with any strange boys but mom apparently ignored those instructions. She's still much like that today.

After that meeting, they didn't see each other again for five years, as she lived in Vienna and he in Styria and the two were a good six-hour train ride apart. He was apparently taken with her enough, however, that they continued to write each other for a while thereafter, although the letters became fewer and farther between as time passed. Still, five years later, he decided to visit her in Vienna. She had given him her address during their first meeting but the street name was long and not easily remembered (Antonjägergasse or something like that) but Tony remembered it. Fortunately, she had not moved in the meantime. The rest, as they say, is history.

A few years after he married my mother, Tony decided that he wanted a better future than Austria seemed to offer, so he began making plans to move to North America. Like many Europeans, he first considered the United States of America, but Canada's immigration policies proved friendlier and he wound up in Ontario. He came alone at first, and was followed shortly thereafter by his best friend, Adolf ("Adi") Malley. He left my mother and my sister and me behind in Austria because he didn't want to uproot his family until he was reasonably certain that things would work out.

He arrived in Toronto, destined for Kitchener but spent two days at the Toronto bus station because, since he didn't speak any English, he couldn't figure out at which platform he could find the bus to Kitchener. After two days, he finally bumped into someone who spoke his language and was able to point him in the right direction. Upon arriving in Kitchener, he almost didn't want to get off the bus because the first business he saw was called "Waterloo Trust", so he thought that he was in Waterloo. Someone had to reassure him that he was in the right town. Once in Kitchener, he stayed with some friends who already lived there until he could find a job and live independently.

This single aspect of my father's life has always been the most amazing to me. It must have taken an incredible amount of courage to leave his family and set out for a distant country where he had few contacts, no immediate prospects and couldn't even speak the language. Yet he did it, and succeeded. He and Adi found work, bought a two-story house together and then sent for their respective families. My family occupied the main floor of that house and the Malleys lived on the upper floor for five years after arriving in Canada, until the Malleys had finally saved up enough money to sell back their half of the property to dad and buy their own home.

Shortly after settling in Canada, Tony tried to start his own display sign business. He purchased stacks of bristleboard, both black and white, and pre-printed letters with adhesive backing. Any graphics that were needed he drew or painted by hand and, although he was no Rembrandt, he had a reasonable amount of artistic talent. Unfortunately, the sign business never quite took off and, several years later, I found myself with access to a large surplus of unused bristleboard, which I happily used for making models and posters and such.

Originally, my mother and father had not planned to stay in Canada indefinitely. They had thought to build their fortunes for five years and then return to Austria. After five years, however, Canada suddenly felt more like home than Austria did. They also hadn't considered my sister and me, who were in school by that time and had already become acclimatized to the Canadian way of life and had established our own friendships. They decided that it would be fair to us to uproot us and take us back to Austria which, by this time, was an alien culture to us.

In childhood, I never felt quite the same bond with my father as I did with my mother. Dad's parenting style was more or less "hands off". He was the breadwinner who went away to work every day and kept us fed, clothed and sheltered. He left the care and raising of my sister and me largely to my mother.

That included discipline. Mom would spank us when we misbehaved but she also stressed that no-one except for her had any right to hit us, by which she meant other adults, such as school teachers, some of who were not above resorting to corporal punishment from time to time in those days. Dad hardly ever spanked us but mom still laughs when she recalls one of the rare occasions when I misbehaved enough that he did give me a smack on my behind. I immediately looked at my mother and asked "Is he allowed to do that?"

Just as he neared retirement, dad developed medical problems which forced him to take long term disability leave. In fact, he never returned to work. It was discovered that leukemia was the underlying cause of many of his medical symptoms. He was treated by an Oncologist and was in and out of hospital over a period of 1½ years before finally succumbing to the disease in October of 2003. He was 65 years old, having just recently officially retired earlier that year. One of my biggest regrets is that dad didn't have more time to enjoy his retirement years in reasonably good health. He spent his life working and never quite got to enjoy a well-earned rest during his twilight years.

The greatest testament to the kind of person dad was can be found in the way that the hospital nursing staff regarded him. He was well-liked by all of them. One of the nurses even came to his visitation at the funeral home to pay her last respects. I'm certain that hospital nurses see plenty of their patients pass away in any given year and they can't possibly have the time to attend many visitations or funerals. Dad must have made a significant impression on this particular nurse that she took the time to do so. He certainly had his rough edges, but he was a basically good man, and other people instinctively saw this in him.

As for myself, I'm very different from my father in many ways. He was mechanically adept and a handyman. I, not so much. He enjoyed outdoor recreation such as hunting and fishing. I prefer indoor pastimes and am a fan of science fiction and fantasy, neither of which ever interested dad. You would never have caught him blogging, even if he had been computer literate or known how to type. He tried to teach himself once retired, but never met with much success. Yet, for all our differences, there are many times when I do feel his influence on my thoughts, attitudes and beliefs. To quote William Shakespeare, "He was a man, take him for all in all. I shall not look upon his like again."

Happy Fathers' Day, Tony, wherever you are.

The U/C Airplane Follies

My profile, as well as some of my previous posts, tell you that I'm an aviation enthusiast. I love flying, and I love airplanes. I prefer airplanes to helicopters. Admittedly, helicopters seem much more versatile than airplanes, but there's a certain aesthetic beauty to an airplane, its clean, streamlined contours and the way that its wings are outstretched to embrace the sky. Helicopters, by comparison, tend to look like bulbous, squat, ungainly beasts; noisy, flying egg-beaters. If Don Quixote had ever seen one, he would surely have jousted it full-tilt.

Sadly, I'm not a pilot but I compensate for this by filling every empty nook and cranny of my life with airplanes. I surround myself with airplane pictures and airplane calendars. My computer's desktop wallpaper and screen saver often feature photographs of airplanes. I spend a fair bit of time flying Microsoft's Flight Simulator on my home PC. I've taken a couple of introductory flights in small Cessnas over my home town and, for the past few years, I've gone soaring in gliders at least once each summer. In both cases, I've taken the controls for brief periods. In the winter, I wear a small bush plane pin on the lapel of my jacket. I also collect toy airplanes, and airplane models and miniatures. Some of those toys and miniatures have flown.

When I was about 13 years old, my dad bought me a U/C Cox P-40 Warhawk. U/C is an acronym for "U-Control", meaning a miniature flying airplane that's tethered to the flyer by a pair of strings. On the flyer's end, the strings are attached to opposite ends of a small control handle that the flyer holds in his hand. On the airplane's end, the strings are attached to opposite ends of a moving lever, called a bellcrank. By pivoting the wrist of the hand holding the control handle with the strings attached, the flyer moves the bellcrank which, in turn, moves the airplane's elevators up and down, causing the airplane to either climb or descend. There is no lateral control since the airplane, being tethered to the flyer, simply flies around him in a wide circle.

Seems simple enough, right? If all you have to worry about is climbing and descending, how hard can it be? Well, let's just say, if you saw me trying to fly this thing, or any U/C airplane, for that matter, you'd probably agree that it's a good thing I'm only a wannabe pilot.

I recall the first time that I attempted to fly the P-40. Dad and I went to a nearby schoolyard. It was summer, and school was out, so there was plenty of space, or so it seemed. The first lesson I learned that day about U/C flying is that it's a very good idea to pace out a complete circle around the spot at which the flyer intends to stand and ensure that there are no obstacles or obstructions inside that circle.

Dad took the airplane and walked away from me with it until the control lines became taut. He then fueled up the little .049 "Super Bee" gas engine that powered the craft, attached a battery to power the glow-plug, wound back the propeller on its starter spring and let it snap back. After a couple of false starts, the little motor sprang to life. I extended the arm holding the control handle in anticipation, and gave dad the "thumbs-up". He released the airplane, and it trundled away from him, quickly gaining speed. The tail lifted from the ground and then, just as she was getting light on her wheels, they (the wheels) caught the edge of a lawn that had rudely planted itself right in my flight path.

Well, okay, thinking back on it, I'm pretty sure that the lawn was in the flight path before we ever started the engine. This is why it's so important to check for obstructions inside the flight circle. It's not enough to have a clear, flat space for the airplane to taxi along at its starting position. That clear, flat space has to continue all the way around the circumference of the flight path. In my case, it did not.

Do you know what happens when a fast-moving airplane hits an immovable obstruction with its wheel struts? Pretty much the same thing that happens when a fast-moving person hits an immovable obstruction with his shins. The wheels (or shins) stop dead, but the body that either is attached to wants to keep going. Damn you Isaac Newton! My P-40 nosed unceremoniously into the dirt, and one of the wheel struts snapped. The little propeller managed to mow a three-inch diameter of the school's lawn before sputtering to a halt. Thus was my maiden U/C flight pre-emptively aborted.

I can't suppress a rueful smile when I think about how the scene would have looked to any of our neighbors that might have glanced out their windows at the time. First, they'd have seen dad and me, proudly strutting toward the schoolyard, carrying a shiny replica of a P-40 Warhawk and then, about 15 minutes later, they'd have seen the two of us, walking the other way, somewhat more slowly, me cradling my broken aircraft and wearing a decidedly dejected frown.

I was never able to fly the P-40 again after that. Although the engine still ran and the airplane itself was still more or less airworthy (despite a nasty crack along the nose and canopy), the broken wheel strut turned out to be an impassable barrier to flight. It proved impossible to glue that spindly piece of plastic back together with enough structural integrity to support the airplane through a successful takeoff, much less a jarring landing.

Having destroyed a relatively cheap toy that was made from rugged plastic and ready to fly the moment it came out of its box, I did what seemed the only sensible thing, which was to purchase a considerably more costly flying model airplane kit made from fragile, brittle balsa wood, which would take many hours of painstakingly careful assembly before I could even attempt to crash- er, that is, fly it.

Mind you, this wasn't until years later when I was in high school (it took me that long to get over the trauma). This time, it was a German JU87 Stuka dive bomber kit designed by the Paul K. Guillow company. Coincidentally, it could be configured as a U/C model and could be powered by the same Cox .049 Super Bee engine that had powered my old P-40 and, even more coincidentally, I still had it (the motor), although the P-40 itself was long gone by then. I hadn't considered, at the time, that mounting the power plant which had belonged to my ill-fated first flyable aircraft on this new model might be inviting disaster. Perhaps the motor was cursed! Perhaps it was still possessed by the ghost of the old P-40 (a natural enemy of the JU87 to begin with, being an American airplane) and was just waiting for its chance to visit the kind of destruction that its previous host had suffered on some new and unsuspecting airframe. In hindsight, that certainly appears to be the case.

The Stuka was built alongside my best friend, Mart, who had himself purchased a model of a de Havilland Mosquito, also from the Guillow's company. Mart was, if possible, even more foolhardy than I, having chosen a two-place aircraft. Do you know what it's like trying to start two .049 Super Bee engines anything like simultaneously? These engines tend to behave like finicky lawnmower engines. Whether or not they decide to start, when turned, depends on a number of variables including the ambient air temperature, the alignment of the planets and how nicely you talk to them. One engine would start and the other would fail. Then, after several more unsuccessful attempts, the second engine would finally fire, just as the first engine sputtered out, having exhausted its minuscule fuel supply. It was an exercise in frustration, to say the least.

Mart and I spent months assembling our respective models, carefully cutting the frames and formers, painstakingly running the stringers along the wings and fuselage, connecting the bellcrank and control rods to the elevators and, finally, covering the finished skeletal structures with a delicate tissue paper skin that was then painted and strengthened with a layer of fuel-proof "dope". I wasn't content to simply build my model as per the instructions, either. Oh no! I had to add a number of my own, personal "enhancements", such as building small, box-like compartments with forward-facing grilles under each wing. My idea was to fill these compartments with talcum powder. When the airplane picked up speed, the air flowing through the grilles would blow the talcum powder out the back, simulating a stream of white "smoke" trailing behind the airplane. This gives you some idea of my overconfidence in my own abilities at the time.

For the finishing touch, I added a custom bit of paint work to my finished model. Remembering how certain pilots during the war liked to name their mounts, I painted the name "ZERSTÖRER" (German for "DESTROYER") along the nose of my aircraft.

Given all the painstaking work that we had put into our models, Mart and I didn't rush to fly them. We waited patiently for the perfect day; sunny, dry, calm and windless. When that day finally came, we again made our way to a local schoolyard; not the same one where my P-40 had made its ill-fated maiden flight, mind you. No, this time, we went to a school closer to my old neighborhood, in an older section of town, densely populated by mostly Portuguese immigrants.

Although it was again summertime and the school was again closed, Mart and I couldn't evade the notice of a number local Portuguese teenagers as we made our way to the schoolyard. When they saw the two of us, carrying our airplanes, glow fuel, batteries and crying towels (just in case), they became naturally curious and followed us. As we prepared for our flights in the schoolyard, the somewhat rowdy Portuguese kids (whom Mart later affectionately referred to as the "Julios") watched with interest from the sidelines as they shouted taunts and encouraged us with their sincere hopes that we might entertain them with some truly impressive scenes of destruction.

I went first. Having learned my lesson from the P-40 debacle, I ensured this time that my airplane had full clearance and that there were no obstructions anywhere along its flight path. Having satisfied myself of this, I once again took the control lines while Mart fueled the plane and started the engine. He released it. The aircraft rolled along, picking up speed. The tail lifted from the ground and, this time, it TOOK TO THE AIR... a little too suddenly.

Perhaps it was over anxiousness on my part, still smarting from the memory of my P-40's demise, to get those wheels off the ground. Perhaps it was simple impatience to see the fruits of my labors airborne. Whatever the reason, I had tugged on the "up" line a little too eagerly, and my Stuka leaped into the sky in a steep climb.

Alarmed by this sudden rapid gain in altitude, I over-compensated and jerked on the "down" line, immediately putting the Stuka into a steep dive toward the schoolyard's asphalt. This immediately elicited a cacophony of excited whoops and cheers from the Julios, who prepared themselves for a splendid crash.

Horrified, I jerked the "up" line, again overcompensating, causing my Stuka to pull out of its dive scant inches from terra firma and again begin a steep climb, accompanied by a sullen chorus of "Awwww's" from the Julios, which sounded not unlike the disappointed exclamation that one hears from crowds of spectators watching a professional golf tournament after the golf pro narrowly misses sinking a long putt.

Overcompensating once again, I put the Stuka back into a dive, which changed the Julios dejected "Awww's" back into hoots and cheers. It went on like that for several more minutes with my Stuka executing an undulating series of parabolas worthy of NASA's infamous "Vomit Comet", accompanied by alternating cheers and "Awww's" from the Julios.

Then, at the apex of its last steep climb, my Stuka did something completely unexpected. It winged over and came directly at me! As this maneuver brought it inside the radius of its flight path, my control lines went slack and I lost all control of the aircraft. At that point, I did what seemed the only sensible thing. I dropped the control handle and, covering my head with my hands, I ran for my very life as the Julios exploded into a gleeful chorus of cheers.

Since I had my back to the Stuka, I did not see it when it smacked into the asphalt at the very spot that I had only recently occupied. I only heard the sickening crunch of splintering balsa wood a split second before the motor was, again, ominously silenced.

The body of my P-40 had only suffered a single crack after its jarring introduction to the ground. My fragile balsa-and-tissue Stuka was not so forgiving. The entire nose section was completely shattered, with serious damage to the wings and other sections of the aircraft. As I gathered up the debris in an attempt to salvage whatever parts that might be useful in my future attempt to rebuild the airplane's shattered nose, I came across a small scrap of doped tissue paper, with a few fragments of balsa stringers still stuck to its back, on which was inscribed a single, poignant, word ... "ZERSTÖRER". I understood, at that moment, how The Third Reich must have felt in 1945.

(Click to enlarge)

The Opposite Of Selfishness

Next month, my wife, Judy, and I will celebrate our 20th wedding anniversary. That feels like an accomplishment. Most of my daughter's friends seem to come from single-parent families, foster homes or homes that include either a step-parent or a live-in boyfriend or girlfriend. Teenagers who live with the same two, lawfully-wedded people who conceived them definitely seem to be a minority these days.

To those of my friends who read this blog whose first attempts at marriage were not as successful (and you know who you are), I'm not gloating. The fact is, a successful marriage takes the complete commitment of both partners. It takes understanding, compromise and, of course, love. No one partner can ever make a marriage work single-handedly, no matter how hard they work at it.

That having been said, I give Judy most of the credit for the success of our marriage. I have my share of personal foibles and she learned to accept a number of shortcomings on my part early on in our relationship. I like to think that I've matured over the years and overcome some of them, but I demanded a lot of patience from her during our time together, and I've not yet attained perfection.

If I'm making marriage sound like a lot of work, it is, and yet it isn't. A successful marriage is founded on love and, when you love someone, you don't mind going that extra mile for them. Sacrifices don't feel so much like sacrifices. You do things, not out of a sense of responsibility, but out of a simple desire to make your partner happy. Let me give you a couple of personal examples.

Practically since the day we were married, Judy has arisen with me early each morning, and fixed my breakfast and lunch before seeing me off to work. For many years, she didn't work outside of the home. The special needs of our son, Christopher, demanded a full-time, stay-at-home parent, and Judy shouldered that responsibility. That meant that she didn't need to be up at any particular hour and, during Christopher's infancy, she was often up with him in the middle of the night. She accepted most of the midnight parenting because I had to get up for work the next day, and she didn't. This, of course, made her even more tired when our alarm woke me for work the next morning, yet she still got up with me, made my breakfast and lunch while I showered and shaved, joined me for a cup of coffee, and then retired back to bed (if Christopher wasn't already awake) only after I left. She did the same after our daughter, Jessica, came along as well.

Most of her friends were aghast upon learning that she did this. Most swore that they would never, ever do that for their husbands. Judy didn't have to do it either. I didn't demand it of her. She did it for me because she wanted to. Making me happy made her happy. To her, it didn't feel like a sacrifice at all.

I try to reciprocate. Judy never learned to drive so, whenever she needs to go anywhere, I generally drive her. She likes to have her mother, sister and best friend over to visit on Saturday evenings. As it happens, none of them drive either, and they would often choose not to visit us if it meant having to take a bus or pay for a cab. So, every Saturday evening, I pick them all up after supper and then take them all back home again at the end of the evening, sometimes in the middle of the night. I don't do it for them. I do it for Judy, because I know that she enjoys their company and might be deprived of it if I didn't help out.

These days, Judy does work outside of our home, and starts work about half an hour earlier than me, so I get up just a bit earlier than I would otherwise have to so that there's time for me to drop her off at work before going to work myself. While I shower and shave, she still makes my breakfast and my lunch, even after all these years.

Thinking about this recently gave me a new insight regarding the nature of love. It seems to me that love is the opposite of selfishness. Selfishness means putting one's own needs and interests first. When you love somebody, you put that person's needs and interests ahead of your own. And here's the key; you don't do it because you have to. You do it because you want to.

Toy Story 2

Regular readers may look at the accompanying pictures for this post and think, "Oh, right, the toy jet plane. You've already told us about that." Very true, but this one's mine. If you've stumbled upon this blog and haven't read my original Toy Story post, you may find it helpful to read it first. You can find it here.

When we left off, I had bid unsuccessfully for a Marx battery-operated jet plane just like this one. After that, I kept an eye on eBay in hopes that another might someday appear. I didn't have long to wait. Within a week, there was a second one up for auction. That one eluded me too. A few weeks after that, however, the aircraft that you see pictured here appeared on eBay and, this time, I prevailed.

I must compliment the seller, who goes by the handle of cjwile on eBay. The toy was shipped promptly, finding its way all the way from San Antonio, Texas, to my humble southern Ontario home, within a single week. It was very nicely packaged and arrived in excellent condition, looking exactly as it did in the pictures posted on eBay.

I was somewhat disappointed, when I first turned the jet on, to find that the two inboard engines no longer light. I don't fault the seller for this. She never claimed that all the engines lit up; only that the toy worked, which it does. I chastise myself for neglecting to ask. Even so, had I known of this slight deficiency, I would likely have purchased the airplane anyway. It's not as though I plan to spend hours actually running it. It will become a treasured display piece.

Apparently, this particular toy is not at all rare, despite its age. I've seen several examples on-line now and there have already been more since I purchased mine. It must have been a very popular toy in its day, and the fact that there seem to be a fair number out there still in good, working condition over 40 years after the Louis Marx Company stopped producing them is a testament to their quality.

To begin with, the airplane is made mostly of tin, not plastic. This makes it much lighter than it would be if made of plastic, and gives it a much shinier finish. The markings, including the TWA logo, the passenger windows and the cockpit windows are painted on. They are not stickers or decals. In fact, the entire aircraft appears to have been spray painted and then had a clear coat of lacquer applied for an extra glossy finish and added protection.

I was amazed to learn, after doing some more creative Googling, that this toy jet plane is actually modeled after a real one; specifically a TWA Boeing 707. I found a picture of the actual aircraft on Airliners.net and found that the markings have been more or less faithfully reproduced, right down to the registration number on the tail! When's the last time you saw that amount of attention to detail in a toy?

Touches like this doubtless made this toy costlier to produce but they also make it more attractive and durable. Decals or stickers would surely peel away or fade over time. Aside from a few minor scratches, this toy looks almost like new. I did some reading up on the Louis Marx Company after I found this airplane. Back in the 1950's, they were the world's biggest toy maker, and I'm certain that this had to do with the company's motto, "Quality is not optional".

Judging by this particular toy, this was more than just an impressive-sounding slogan for the Marx toy company. Nobody makes toys like this anymore today.

Today, almost all toys are made of plastic and pre-printed decals are applied instead of painting the markings because it's cheaper and maximizes profit. Sadly, that's all that today's manufacturers seem concerned about. Nobody seems to take any pride in what they produce anymore because pride doesn't contribute to the bottom line.

I don't lay the blame for this entirely at the feet of the manufacturers. The consumer is as much at fault. How many of us are willing to pay a little extra for quality workmanship? Too many people look only at the price tag. By doing this, we encourage manufacturers to cut corners wherever possible to minimize costs. They're only giving us exactly what we ask for.

Okay, I'll dismount my soap box for this week. I got my airplane, and I feel good about that. I feel as though I got a little piece of my childhood back.

Memories, especially old memories, can sometimes feel almost like dreams. Think of a vivid dream that you've had, and then compare it to an old memory. Don't they seem much the same? Both were just as real in your experience. How can you be sure that the memory actually happened? This is not an original idea of my own. I believe Marcel Proust essentially said the same thing.

Until recently, I had this memory of a toy airplane that I owned as a very young child. I couldn't remember exactly what the airplane looked like. I remembered that it was red, white and silver, that its engines flashed on and off with red lights and that it made a loud, piercing sound. I didn't know who made it and I hadn't seen one like it since. Perhaps I had only dreamed it? But now, I know that I didn't only dream it, because I have something tangible; something that I can see and hear and touch. My airplane has become real again.

Since it was an old photograph of my sister and myself that led me to find my beloved toy jet plane, I thought it only appropriate to bring things around full circle, as it were, and close this chapter of my life with an updated photograph, showing me, my sister, and the legendary airplane, reunited at last, after all these years.