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Grandmother’s Soup

22 Aug

My Take

DiVoran Lites

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Grandmother and Granddad

I had a higgledy-piggledy education in cooking. Mother taught me, Grandmother taught me, and Dad had strict ideas about what should be done with meat and with beans. I also read books and taught myself. Even now, though, I cannot use a recipe exactly as it is written. I’ve tried. I’m sure some things would turn out better if I could follow, but I have a hard time with rules in any disciple. What I can do is experiment and when I do, I’m able to at least write down what I threw into the mix. I’ve been told I may be what they call a taster. All I know is I’m persnicity. Sometimes that gives me an edge on pleasing other people, but there are people who don’t like anything I cook, so then I get to eat out. I do enjoy being with people and I like a good pizza now and again. That’s something I’ve never mastered at home.

Today I was thinking about soup. Because too much fiber doesn’t set well with me, I had to give up having a big salad for lunch. As a side thought, Bill and I were each making our own salad and the only ingredient they had in common was lettuce and we each liked a different kind of lettuce. I do enjoy soup for lunch and I used to like the canned alphabet soup I fed the kids. I loved Grandmother’s potato soup and the vegetable soup our Mrs. McGregor made in the restaurant my parents owned, so I decided to make my own soups for lunch. I’ve been practicing and although they are not my Grandmother’s or Mrs. McGregor’s soups, I like them very much because they contain only things I like.

 

 

Grandmother taught me to make her potato soup. Peel potatoes, cut them up, boil them in water, while boiling, fry half a pound of bacon, make it crisp, then break it up into bacon bits, and add the potatoes in their water. Fry onions in the bacon grease and dump it all into the soup add milk. It was super-delicious. You can guess why I don’t make it that way anymore.

 

Nowadays I put in canned celery soup, leeks, carrots, cream, and a few other things. It makes me happy and Bill likes it too.

I also make a vegetable soup with Ramen chicken noodle soup as a base. I add frozen peas, grated carrots, a handful of cut-up spinach, chicken broth and home-grown rosemary, oregano, and thyme. I throw in a can of chicken for protein.

There’s one other kind of soup I like and I would love to figure out how to make it someday, but deep in my heart I don’t think I will. For one thing, it would be nigh onto impossible to get the crabs they use in Port Townsend in Puget Sound and I don’t think any other crabs would make the most delicious Crab Bisque I’ve ever eaten. Even the name sounds exotic.

Puget Sound Speed Crabbing

 

 

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Coral

15 Aug

My Take

DiVoran Lites

Recently, I had a look at some coral, but only in a nice safe aquarium shop where the tanks shone with black-light and displayed tiny bits of coral growing on bases. It was a delightful, cool place to be and a young clerk was kind enough to answer my questions without pressuring me to buy. I never knew that such a thing as a coral farm existed and I realized that if I ever got a yen to see coral again, the coral farm or a public aquarium were the places for me.

I’ve accomplished the two things that were on what is now called a bucket list. I can’t think of anything else I want to do because I’m living the life I want and I’ve been lots of places, already. One thing I wanted to do was to SCUBA dive. There wasn’t much chance of that as you had to take classes, be certified, and buy a lot of expensive equipment, and don’t forget, practice, practice, practice. Frankly, I didn’t want to bother with it or pay for it, even though undersea videos and experiences with snorkeling had always fascinated me.

Then Bill and I went to a Caribbean island on vacation and lo, they offered SCUBA diving! We only had to take one class in the resort’s pool in borrowed equipment. Piece of cake. After our lesson, we were excited about the next day when we’d go to the beach, get in a boat and be outfitted for our dive over a coral reef. Yes, I can swim. Not a great swimmer, but okay. I’ve always been able to float pretty well if I needed to rest.

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The water at the beach was almost body temperature so our bathing suits were fine. There were about six other people on the boat who would take their turns. The trainer gave me a mask. I knew about using a mask from snorkeling. Then she put a lead-weight belt around my middle. Next the flippers and air tank went on. By the time they got me outfitted, I could barely hold myself up, let alone walk. Two native crew-men one on each side walked me to the gunwale where they lifted me over onto the ladder.

I’m the one with the pink flippers on.

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Underwater I was so amazed by the beautiful colors and patterns of the coral that it took a few seconds to notice that I was sinking and would soon crush coral. My mask was fogging up so I couldn’t see. I swam hard trying to stay off the bottom. There was no one in my range of vision. Finally I decided I needed to make my way back to the ladder and when I got there, the trainer and Bill came right away. I gave the signal to go up, and the trainer mimed for Bill to stay at the ladder. He hovered, but knowing Bill, I figured he would need to explore a bit in the short time the trainer was getting me on board. Doing that, he could get into trouble or get lost and there would be no one to save him, so I motioned that I had changed my mind. For the rest of the short time we were down I clung to the ladder and concentrated on breathing.

When our time was up, Bill and the trainer returned. I climbed the ladder and two crew members lifted me into the boat. They took off the tank, mask and flippers and set me down. They threw a towel over my shoulders because they could see I was shivering. I pulled it close and soaked up the warmth of the sun.

The next day Bill wanted to go for a longer tour. Of course, Bill came back safely, raving about all the wonders he’d seen. I was glad for him, but I mentally crossed SCUBA off my want-to-do list, and eventually found other ways to enjoy the wonders of the deep. Oh, by the way, “Finding Nemo” is one of my all-time favorite movies. I can hardly wait until “Finding Dorry,” comes on Netflix.

 

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A Snake in the Grass, and Other Places

8 Aug

My Take

DiVoran Lites

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The air conditioning installers had a hard day from 2:30 in the afternoon until 9:30 p. m. when they finished getting all the equipment in place. We have a small air-conditioner in our studio/garage so we spent all afternoon and evening in there out of the way. I painted, Bill wrote on his computer. At suppertime we ate leftovers on a tray and watched Spencer Tracy in, “Stanly and Livingston.” Every time Bill came back from delivering ice water to the working men he had a bit of news for me: they put down the new slab, the head installer had to go to the store for parts, they don’t’ know when they’ll be done. One of the news flashes was that when one of the installers pulled the old tray out through the big pipe that held all the cables and wires, a six-foot black snake rode out with it. Bill was astonished. He had empathy for the installer’s startlement. Bill was bitten by a cotton mouth moccasin in a swamp down in Texas when he was a child. When he told me about the black snake, he shivered and said, “I had just put my hand in that hole up to the elbow.” Narrow escape indeed.

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Covered Over Snake Hole

I would have been startled too, even though there’s nothing inherently wrong with black snakes. They keep the rodent population under control and I happen to believe this particular snake had made himself part of the family. I’m pretty sure he’s the same one I wrote about in one of my first blogs. All I need to know is whether it could grow to six foot in four years or not. Back then it was a tiny black snake about as big around as a pencil and not much longer. That time we found it inside the hallway near the air conditioning closet. I’ve seen it under the azalea bush, slithering behind the model-airplane hangar and sunning itself on the slant bar of the chain link fence. I came to believe we could live in harmony, and now I imagine that the black snake is the one who has kept the invasive Cuban Tree Frog population down. I didn’t begrudge him his shelter under the house, but I was grateful that he didn’t come back into the house.

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Our neighbor had a big black snake come down through the vent in her roof and out into the bathroom through the toilet. When they discovered him he was moving over the big wall mirror leaving a trail of sewer smut behind. Our snake at least didn’t do anything as impolite as that.

At dinner the other day we discussed where the snake might live now that his home is closed off. Bill favored some nice-sized PVC pipes he has on the other side of the hangar. We also thought he might like the pile of rocks holding back soil erosion over the drainage ditch out back. We’re sure he’ll find a place. The next time the installers came, they spotted him hanging around in the grass close to the AC inlet. So far we love living close to nature. It’s been fifty years and we have a nature area behind us and a well-field on the other side of our neighbor, so hopefully it will go on for the next several decades before we travel on to our next home.

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Nothin’ to Do~Part 2

1 Aug

My Take 

DiVoran Lites

Making Plays

Making Plays in Patricia’s cousins’ back yard.

One day wandering around town, Patricia and I made a pact to remain friends even when we were grandmothers and we have done so. We email each other regularly and Patricia helps with my writing when I need a second opinion or another brain with similar memories in it. Not long ago a winter seemed extra cold in Florida, and all I wanted to do was to hole –up in a small room with my computer and an extra heater. Joan had a much deeper cold in Colorado and holed up too. One day I wrote to ask her what she remembered about our eighth-grade classroom and we got started writing our memoirs about growing up in a small town at the foot of the Sangre de Cristo mountain range in the Wet Mountain Valley in Colorado.

Since then we’ve written about family, politics, nature, travel, whatever comes to mind and once in a while we throw in another remembrance.

Patricia is speaking of those memoir days when she refers to the good old days.

 “While looking at some of your old emails, I was remembering the good old days, when we didn’t have so much going on, and just took things as they came, enjoying the little things and just being together. 

When we were in Gunnison recently the internet shut down.  Somehow a main cable got cut and several towns on the Western Slope were without internet service.  We were unaware until we went to dinner at a restaurant and the waitress said, “We can’t take credit cards, so you will have to pay cash or wash dishes.” Banks and the ATMs were down too. No one’s cell phones were working either.  So anyway, we ordered our food and started watching other people to see what they were doing.  Couples were actually talking to each other, since they couldn’t use their phones.  When we got through with dinner, we walked out to the parking lot and people were gathered in bunches, having great conversations.  It was so unusual and old fashioned.

Many people I know have a love/hate relationship with technology. I love the convenience of being able to save my drafts, being able to keep in touch with friends by email, and shopping for things I can’t get in our small community. Most of all I love having my music station with me wherever I go and being able to choose every kind of music I can think of. Also love the camera on my phone and knowing if I get into trouble when I’m out I can call someone else who will most likely have their cell-phone with them. I wouldn’t be able to use any of it if it weren’t for our grown kids and their patience with teaching us and fixing our devices. I’m grateful for all that, but I’m enjoying doing other things such as painting and using a pen to write in my journal and things like cooking and cleaning and reading second-hand books you can buy in abundance these days. I guess it’s like the old saying: “Moderation in all things.” Attributed to Publius Tenentius Afer (c. 150 B. C.)

 

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Nothin’ to Do

25 Jul

My Take

DiVoran Lites

Joanie and DiVoran

My friend Patricia and I grew up together from the time she was in first grade, and I moved to her town when I was in second. Patricia was the only child in first grade that year. We had a five grade schoolroom and we sat in rows according to grade. The teacher knew Patricia could handle skipping, so she transferred her to the second-grade row. My friend was so small that on the way home from school two of us would hold her down to keep her from blowing away in a strong wind.

When Patricia and I got a bit older we walked down the dirt road to the Grape creek bridge on the outskirts of town talking and playing word games. Our favorite was to top each other with bigger words that all meant the same thing. Big, huge, gigantic, etc. We loved to stand on the bridge and eat salted peanuts in the shell and say a word each time we threw a shell into the creek. They floated away like tiny boats bearing messages. On our walks, any time we said the same word at the same time we linked pinky fingers and said, “Jinx, you owe me a coke.” Then we’d go to the hotel and get chocolate cokes and sit at the soda bar and drink them and talk to the hotel owner.

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In the one solid block of businesses we called Main Street we went in to say hello to Mr. Cope at his pharmacy. He’d hire one of us and then the other to look after the little girls when he took his wife to my parent’s restaurant for a meal out. He also gave us comic books with the covers torn off. The company he got them from refunded his money on the unsold ones. I remember getting a whole stack and thinking I was the richest kid in town.

As we wandered, we sometimes came to the Catholic Church into which Patricia was born and raised. One time she showed me how to “do” the Stations of the Cross. You kneeled at each Biblical picture to pray. I liked that a lot. I attended the Community Church across the street and started teaching Sunday School there at the age of 12.

We’d go to Patricia’s cousin, Louise’s house to play Her backyard had an old barn where we put on our own dramas. Louise had plenty of siblings to act in all the scenes. It’s amazing how much fun we had when there was nothin’ to do.

 

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More Baby Animals in our Back Yard

18 Jul

My Take

DiVoran Lites

 

Squirell upside down

 

The next morning, sitting on the porch with coffee, I see a young squirrel crawl along a power line. I’ve never seen one traveling upside down before, I figure he’s trying to catch up with his playmates who zing over trees and over the heavy black lines as if they were running through air. This small one must have slipped off the top of the line and is now clinging to the bottom looking at the sky. He tries to get back on top, but the lines separate throwing him back into his awkward position. He stops and looks up. Surely he is asking God what to do next. I wouldn’t like to see him fall the twelve feet or so, and I join him in his prayer. He crawls for a second then stops to ponder again. I go closer without opening the screen door so I can see him better, but by the time I get to the screen he’s already greeting his pal on the pole.

Rabbit

 

Again, I looked up from my writing and there was the baby bunny I met on the trail a few days ago. (Not really, I’m sure it was a different one.) A larger one came too, probably a sibling. They came from the Diceranda Sanctuary behind our house. The sun through their ears, makes them resemble pink stained glass. Of course the bunnies are looking for something good to eat. Most of what we have is Spider Plant, Mexican Heather, and Purple Queen, as well as pesticide-free grass and our Azalea bush.

 

Pink azelea
Spider Plant courtesy of wikipedia
Mexican Heather
Purple Queen

To farmers the eating habits of rabbits can be devastating, but I wished they’d find something they liked so they would return. When I look up again they’ve gone to the easement. Tomorrow, I’ll bring my binoculars so I can see the critters closer up. You think you know their habits, but they can always surprise you if you watch. I saw a cardinal eat an azalea once. Did you know cardinals ate azalea petals? I didn’t. In season our big bush has so many flowers I’d be hard pressed to know which ones he has consumed.

 

 

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Baby Animals in our Back Yard

11 Jul

My Take

DiVoran Lites

 

Mockingbird

 

Three mocking birds are having another fiesta this morning in the elderberry bushes. One is a juvenile and the other two are adults. They eat, sing, and dive in faux aerial combat. Now I see the young one trying to get to the elderberries behind the property-line fence. The tall bushy plants are considered weeds, even though the berries may be used to make wine and for a natural remedy. When people ask if we ever harvest them, we tell them, no, we have plenty to eat, and a lot of remedies, but the birds love and need the berries for food.

A young Mockingbird goes for a clump of berries. Her beak darts and her wings flap. She darts and flaps again and again and misses every time. Finally she gives up. She will have to wait to see how her parents and the woodpeckers eat hanging upside down clinging to the berries.

I love to see baby animals learning from their parents and teaching themselves by trial and error. God made them to become exactly what He designed them to be.

Oh, wait –there’s a juvenile Cardinal. I’ve him before, learning to bathe, and to land of the bird-feeder just right. Because he’s male and in the process of turning into a red-bird, his feathers are a handsome blend of red and brown patches. He flies to the elderberry bush and starts to try for a berry when whoosh, an adult mockingbird skims over his head frightening him away.

I suppose the mockingbirds believe that the elderberry bush is their exclusive territory, and why not, they certainly do enough singing for their supper.

Though I love and appreciate the exuberant Mockingbird praise, I haven’t always done so. When we lived in an upstairs apartment in Inglewood, California I was a stay- at- home mom with our first child. With the windows open, we could hear all the sounds from outside. I have to admit I didn’t notice the birds until they started to whine like our little dog. I’m sure he whined because he needed to get out, but I never had to take my home dog for a walk because he was free to go anywhere in town and to follow us kids around all day. So Smoky suffered a lack of exercise and the Mockingbirds got a new sound, and I suffered frustration day after day and blamed the mockingbirds when I should have looked to myself for a solution.

Now, fifty years later I have learned to walk dogs and to appreciate Mockingbirds who praise the Lord all the day long. We’re especially charmed when a Mockingbird takes up a post at the tip-top of a tree or street lamp and sings so that his enthusiasm lifts him off the perch and gravity brings him back down. Now that’s the joy of the Lord!

 

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Independence Day Fireworks

4 Jul

My Take

DiVoran Lites

Chapter 32 Fireworks

Fireworks are so exciting! Because he’s a pyromaniac, Bill loves them even more than I do. We knew the father and uncle of a family who every year bought bags full of fireworks and got together to blow them up on the Fourth of July. Not long ago, Bill and I were invited to that party. The kids danced and whooped as sparks boogied around their feet. An adult brought out lawn chairs for Bill and me assuring us that we sat well out of the line of fire. Two dogs stayed in the house, and I could hear the big one barking. I knew the tea-cup poodle, who was my friend, would be shivering with fear. She’d go up against any big dog anytime, but loud noises scared her. Suddenly a feisty spark landed on my bare arm, and that was enough fireworks for me. I went into the house to comfort the poor dogs and sang to them while the outside part of the gathering lasted.

Most July Fourths we drove to whatever body of water the town elders selected to reflect their extravagances. When I was a kid, our tiny community raised the money for a grand display. The town leaders went to the other side of the reservoir and arranged the fireworks for the show. The only hitch was that, as we heard later, a match fell into the main box and then all the combustibles exploded in bursts of color and sound. Unforgettable!

I can’t omit the other sort of fireworks, though it was not on Independence Day. I experienced it when Bill got a visitor’s pass for me to go out by the VAB (Vehicle Assembly Building) to watch the launch of the Apollo Twelve. The team of engineers he worked with effected the separation of the first stage from the second stage on the moon-landing vehicle by installing the explosives that separated the two parts. On this launch day the orange and white exhaust-plume against the blue sky was gorgeous, but the hurrahs of the crowd and the pulsating roar of the engines that seemed to shake the entire planet under my feet and travel though my body were so meaningful and unexpected that they made me want to cry.

Because of my fear, the fireworks loving family were kind enough not to ask us back for that particular holiday. Since we don’t have kids around anymore we don’t get in the car and go to wherever the pyrotechnics are. We may watch a few on Face Book or T. V., and we hear them from the neighborhood into the early morning hours, but that’s it. It’s not that we don’t appreciate all the reasons we are still an independent country, it’s just that we have found another way to be independent no matter where we are. We do it by learning to depend on Christ Jesus, Our Father, and the Holy Spirit to give us wisdom and guidance through all the joys and troubles of life. We know that dependence by many people in the past and present is the answer to the question, what has made America the greatest country in the world. “God bless America,” land that I love. May He stand beside her and guide her through the night with His light from above and within.

 

“God Bless America,” Kate Smith

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Dad:Worst Enemy, Best Friend~Part 4

27 Jun

My Take 

DiVoran Lites

Author, Poet and ArtistFunny how many times I could have lost my dad, but didn’t. He was always there for me, and I had the deep security of knowing he always would be. I took him so much for granted, though, that I didn’t realize until much later that his caring for me in the ways that he did were the foundation for my trusting God.

Dad and I went more rounds over the years. We moved to Los Alamos where he became a courier for the Atomic Energy Commission (AEC).

Then we moved to Albuquerque so he and Mom could continue to work for the government. Dad still traveled.

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I ran away to get married, but Dad called the florist in faraway CA, to order an orchid for my bridal bouquet. He wasn’t able to attend because of the job.

We moved to Florida for Bill’s job at Kennedy Space Center. Mom and Dad never failed to visit us once a year, and we also joined them on their fishing vacations at Salton Sea (now defunct).* After Salton Sea came Marrowstone Island in Puget sound, then Sapinero-Blue Mesa Reservoir in Colorado. The vacations were memorable, but I’m afraid I didn’t appreciate them as much then as I do in retrospect. The living was rough, fishing was all, but Mom the kids and I could always go to town (except at Salton Sea which was out in the desert by itself.) And once we did some old-fashioned clamming. That was great fun!

All those vacations were good for getting to know each other, especially the children. I’ll always be grateful that Mom and Dad went to that much effort to stay in touch.

When we first arrived in Florida, the woods that border our home seemed scary and exotic. I’d heard so much about snakes and insects I didn’t want to go out there.

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When Dad came, though, he wasn’t daunted. He started walking every day. Our dog and I soon joined him and we learned the way. We’ve been walking the trails in those woods ever since, first with our kids and dogs then with our grandkids. It is a chief enjoyment in life.

Mother always told me to have plenty of things for Dad to repair when they came so he wouldn’t get bored. The year we had no TV he threatened never to come back again, but we got one and he did. One job dad did was to put up a jar opener under a cupboard for us. He was having a lot of trouble with carpal-tunnel syndrome by then. I use that gripper now because I need it sometimes. I wonder, if he realized what a favor he had done for us by installing it.

With maturity, my grievances have melted away. I’ve realized that I deeply loved my Dad in spite of our lifelong battles. The first time I went to visit when he was in the nursing home unable to do anything for himself we both broke into tears. Dad was aware enough to ask, “Is this who I think it is?” Later, I sat alone with him and held his wrist in my hand so I could feel his pulse because I didn’t know how to talk to him as others seemed to do.

This year, on Memorial Day Sunday our pastor asked people to call out the names of their kin who had died in wars. At first there were only a few and then it became a chorus of jumbled names. I felt sad knowing how difficult it is to lose any member of your family. But I also had a halleluiah feeling that I did get to know my Dad for the rest of his life after he came home from WW2. He carried signs of what we now call PTSD. I believe that most families whose parents have been in the military during wartime do. Thanks Dad, for coming back and living a long life in which I got to know you and your true value.

DiVoran and Dad with coats

 

Read more about Salton Sea by clicking HERE

 

 

 

 

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Dad: Worst Enemy, Best Friend~Part 3

20 Jun

My Take

DiVoran Lites

Over the years, Dad bought roller-skates, bicycles, a horse, a dog, and he even acquired a cat for us. There were always plenty of cats available, so he didn’t have to buy Tiger. He had us pay for the puppy, though, because Brownie came from a ranch and dad thought it only fair that the rancher got something for one of his animals. It was also a good lesson for us. We gave everything we had for that dog — thirty-five cents between us.

DiVoran and Yankee

DiVoran and Yankee (a part Shetland pony)

DiVoran and Brownie

DiVoran and Brownie (part collie) the love of my life for a long time.

He bought each of us a baby calf. David’s was a Hereford and he called him, Red. Mine was black and white, and I called him, Clover. Alas, I found him dead one morning in the woodshed where he lived. He had died of some common ailment to young calves.

Dad cleaned out the shed and that year bought a big white goose from a rancher. That goose was to be Thanksgiving dinner. Dad would cook it himself. David and I had the job of feeding the goose every day. When we learned his destiny, I decided he needed to be free so we left the shed door open and the goose escaped.

Goose

 

When Dad discovered  the goose was gone, he sent us out on the prairie behind our house to look for it. We went down to Grape Creek and thinking the goose might like water, we walked along making our way through the thick willow bushes. We never found the goose, but we did come upon a willow-hut that we presumed belonged to one of the two town drunks. The citizens called this man, Prairie Jack. When we peeked inside the hut, we saw that it was empty except for a pallet on the ground and a photograph of a lovely young woman. Her clothes and hair- style came from another time. I recognized that from Grandmother’s teaching the women in the family to stay in step with style. Then too, being the children of a bar owner, we knew why Prairie Jack had turned to drink. He had plainly lost the woman he loved and couldn’t stand to live sober without her.

We left everything in the hut alone, even though we had already meddled in Prairie Jack’s business. Once, when we found a full bottle of whisky hidden under a sage bush, we poured the whole quart-full on the ground and left the empty bottle laying there. I hated whiskey and do to this day, probably because it was my medicine for when I got car-sick on the winding roads to Grandmother’s house.

Dad taught us to work in the restaurant. My brother took out the empty coke bottles in their wooden cases. The two of us cleared tables and washed dishes. Our pay was twenty-five cents an hour. For killing flies in the summer, with a fly swatter, we got a penny a fly. For ironing a large basket of clothes at home for Mother, I got a whole dollar each week. My brother had his chores as well. We saved some of our money and spent the rest. I wish I could tell you what we spent it on, but I just don’t know.

Dad took flying lessons from the town jeweler, a fellow member of the Veterans of Foreign Wars (VFW) organization. He then bought a Piper Cub and called it, “Dinty Moore.” We flew over the mountains to visit Grandmother and Granddad in Canon City.

One afternoon, when dad and his friend, Sweak Jeske, flew to Denver to look at cars, the phone on the restaurant wall rang. When Mother answered it an insurance salesman sold her some airplane insurance. The next call that evening was from Dad saying he had got caught in a downdraft and crashed the plane in the snow on the side of Pike’s Peak. We kids didn’t know anything about it until dad came home the next day with a broken ankle. He and Sweak had made their way down the mountain to a ranch house and were saved from freezing to death. Sweak had no injuries at all. I reckon someone bigger than you and I had His hand under that plane and set it down gentle as could be. Once they towed the wreckage back to the small airport in Silver Cliff, I saw that Dinty Moore was now a pile of junk. Mom and Dad both worked hard and he was able to get an Air Coup some years later. He wanted us to have flying lessons, so I got up very early one morning and he took me to the airport where I got into a Steerman with an instructor and had a lesson on flying and was told to study cloud formations. The next Saturday, I decided I didn’t want to to get up so early so I never did learn to fly and sorry folks, but I didn’t care and still don’t. My brother, on the other hand, became a mechanic on jets and later a commercial pilot. To each his own.

 

 

 

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