"Running Commentary"
Wolves, Bunnies & Airplanes
CONFESSION TIME, MONA … Do you like the old Far Side cartoons. I love ‘em! And here’s one of my favorites – a wolf wearing a cowboy hat is sitting at a table with his girlfriend in an old-time Western saloon full of wolves drinking at the bar, playing cards, and hanging out – just like regular cowboys in a saloon. The wolf’s girlfriend is a cute little ewe who looks very nervous. The wolf leans over and whispers in her ear, “Confession time, Mona. I’ve led you astray.”
Well, I’ve never hung out with wolves in a saloon, but I do have a confession – I am an incompetent boob. A first-class dumb bunny! The dictionary defines incompetent thusly: “Not having the necessary skills to do something successfully.” That pretty much defines me!
Don’t confuse incompetency with stupidity. I ain’t stupid. Which is not to say I don’t do stupid things. I could fill this entire newspaper with examples of my doing foolish and ridiculous things when my brain was AWOL, taking a siesta.
There are times when I shake my head in amazement, wondering how the heck … (a) I got admitted into a good law school; (b) Managed to graduate in the requisite three years; and (c) By the grace of God somehow passed the Pennsylvania bar exam. It’s also a wonder that I practiced law for decades without ever being shot by a disgruntled client.
On the subject of incompetency, Exhibit A documents my motorcycle. One recent sunny day I wanted to take it out, but the battery was dead. Thankfully, California Phil on the corner of Ninth Street and Lincoln Highway had just what I needed. I bought the new battery – but now faced the daunting dilemma of installing it.
I boldly took off the plastic cover housing the battery and nearly fainted. Wires and cables all intersected haphazardly. Like a tangled heap of New York City cabs stuck in traffic at the height of rush hour.
The mess of wires in that tight space was intimidating. At first, I told Phil I would pay him extra if he would stop over and put in the battery for me. THEN, Mr. Incompetent Boob did something out of character. I put on my BIG BOY PANTS and decided to give it a try – myself.
Before dismantling all the wires, I carefully took photos of everything so I would know where everything went when the battery was seated. It took longer than it should have, but guess what – I DID IT! All by my lonesome. The installation was a tad tricky, but I got the battery in and my bike started up with its normal RRRRROAR!
The moral of this story? Sometimes incompetent boobs rise above the muck and mire they’ve been stuck in since birth. I’m still a boob – but my dumb bunny ranking has been downgraded to Second Class.
FLYING WITHOUT WINGS … Some 30 years ago I flew in a puddle jumper – a two-seat rickety airplane. To get off the ground, you almost had to lift up your feet. With a plane like that it’s always helpful if someone gives the plane a push as it sputters up the runway – hoping to get airborne.
I loved it! When we landed it felt like my butt was dragging on the ground, helping to slow the plane to a stop. It reminded me of an era when barnstorming pilots were learning how to fly. Crash landings were as common as take-offs.
That day we didn’t crash, but I never forgot the feeling of being connected to the celestial air in a way far different from sitting in the back of a huge Boeing 747 on its way to Hawaii.
A few years later, I had an opportunity to co-pilot a glider. What’s a glider? Think airplane – without a motor. You are towed into the air by an airplane, and once aloft, you cut the line to the plane.
Gliders can stay in the air for long periods by riding thermals, warm air currents that lift the light glider to new heights, keeping it aloft. Gliders were used during the Normandy Invasion in WW2, putting soldiers behind enemy lines. They don’t make any noise because they don’t have engines – a significant wartime advantage.
Meanwhile, Concordia was accepting applications for members of the Advisory Board to the Blosser Municipal Airport. Based on my love of flying, I submitted my application.
Longtime resident and Southwest Airlines pilot Steve Richards noticed my application and sent me a text message. Would I be interested in flying with him when the weather cleared?
I shot back an immediate response – “WOULD I? YOU BETCHA!”
A few days later, Steve and I took to the air in his beautiful Cessna plane, and he even let me take the controls once we were safely aloft. Not to worry – all planes have dual controls, and Steve was sitting right next to me. What a thrill!
And here’s the upshot of that experience. I have applied to the FAA to get my student pilot’s license – at the antiquated age of 74. Too old to fly? Heck no. You’re never too old to learn. Never too old to follow your dreams and imagine great things. Stay tuned!
There’s no age limit on expanding your horizons.
NOTICE: The FAA would like residents to know it’s very unlikely incompetent boobs and dumb bunnies will ever fly an airplane. Relax. Be calm! Everyone on the ground is safe.