Chapter 66, Secrets

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First of all, Happy Birthday to my lovely wife Peg.  My beautiful granddaughter Charlotte is 3 months old today and, although I’ll be a gentleman and not reveal Peg’s age, I have made her angry by telling her that she’s 224 times older than her granddaughter!

They say that the key to a successful marriage is open communication and keeping no secrets.  A nice concept in theory.  But over the last 34 years we’ve discovered that, sometimes, what you don’t know can’t hurt you.

Those of you that fly know that occasionally things happen in an airplane that, let’s just say, could be considered terrifying.  Whether it’s a close encounter with your wingman, or the ground, or the weather, or even a projectile aimed in your general direction, if you fly long enough you’ll eventually encounter something that inspires you to kiss the ground when you land.  Not long after we were married I had my first hair-raising flying experience.  After the adrenalin wore off I told Peg the whole story.  I gave her every gory detail assuming she would be impressed with the prowess of the crew in extricating us from a dangerous situation.  I had been told that “sharing” was very important to a healthy marriage and that we need to be open with our “feelings” both positive and negative.  Her reaction wasn’t quite what I expected.  After a few silent moments she said; “You need to never tell me anything like that again”.  “But”, I replied, “We’re supposed to share everything, not keep any secrets.  How can we ever maintain a state of marital bliss if we don’t tell each other everything?”  “Well”, she said, “I’d rather maintain my sanity, so feel free to keep any secrets that would otherwise cause me undue stress”.   There you have it, carte blanche!

I was never quite sure if her definition of “undue stress” matched mine but it’s an arrangement that served us well for over three decades.  I got to survive near death experiences and she got to live a stress free life.  We did, however,  have one caveat to this arrangement.  She agreed that after I retired she would be willing to hear all of the stories she had missed over the years.  In her mind, since I wasn’t flying anymore, she wouldn’t have to worry about future life threatening events.  So, over the next several weeks, I’ll be sharing what I call “The Stories Peg Has Never Heard”.  Many of you have heard, or been involved in, these stories but I’ll redact names as necessary or call everyone involved my favorite anonymous name “Fred”.

I do have one non-flying secret which my wife discovered two days ago.  Like many families, we have a place in the house where we keep all of our keys.  Right after we were married Peg decided that we should have a place right inside the door to the garage where we would always put our keys so we wouldn’t be running around the house looking for them.  It’s what her family did and it’s a great concept.  For a while we used little hooks on a piece of wood but eventually we had too many keys so we switched to a basket (Longaberger of course!)  I immediately embraced the concept because I was pretty fed up with searching purses and coat pockets for keys.  However, for any plan to work you have to actually use it.  So one day, over twenty years ago, after furtively searching the house for either set of car keys, I decided that I would have to secretly modify the plan.  I would leave my spare set of keys in the basket, but I would hide my real set of keys in a place which was in plain sight for me but where Peg would never see them.  On top of the refrigerator, there’s a 3 inch gap between the top of the fridge and the bottom of the upper cabinet and for the last twenty years I have put everything that Peg doesn’t need to see, there.  Most of the things are just things I don’t want to get misplaced during a “cleaning frenzy” but, occasionally, I’ll put something like a gift jewelry box there because I know she’s not tall enough to see it and she has no reason to climb up and take a look.

When I first started putting my keys there I wanted to test the system so I drew up a gift certificate that entitled the bearer to a dinner at the restaurant of their choice valid for one year.  If she found it and cashed it in then I would know that my “in plain sight” hiding place wouldn’t work.  I remembered that it was up there five years later.  It hadn’t been moved.  Two days ago, with her car at the dealership, she needed my cars keys.  Somehow she didn’t notice my spare keys at the bottom of the basket and she yelled upstairs; “Where are your car keys?” and I yelled back, “Where they always are, on top of the fridge!”.  “Since when?” was her reply.  “Since forever” and then I realized the jig was up.  I need to come up with a new secret.

“The Stories Peg Has Never Heard” starts next week!

Chapter 65 – “Thanks to my ’66 Studebaker”

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It’s one of those mornings.  I don’t know if it’s last night’s enchilada or just too many thoughts running around in my head but I need to put some pixels to virtual paper even though it’s 0430.  So here goes.

As most of you know, I’m a pretty pragmatic guy.  Normally I’m not impulsive and I like to think things through before I jump in.  I’m especially that way when it comes to cars.  Now don’t get me wrong, like several members of my family, I love cars.  I like everything about them.  There are few things as enjoyable as driving on a winding Pennsylvania road with a stiff suspension and tight steering.  I like the smell of a new car, the feel of leather on the wheel under my fingers, the purr of well engineered engine.  I love everything about cars except for one thing, the payments.  And here’s where my pragmatism takes over.

I decided years ago that if I was going to buy a new car, I would pay cash for it.  So, to that end, I started out with used cars. My first car was a 1966 Studebaker Commander.  It had been sitting in our driveway for years.  My dad bought it from a friend for $100 and it needed a lot of work.  So in the summer of 1974 I asked dad if I could buy it from him so I had something to drive to college.  He handed me the keys and said if I fixed it up and it passed inspection it was mine.  Sort of a graduation gift.  I spent that whole summer replacing fenders and painting and when school started I was on the road.  I drove that car through four years of college, to pilot training in Del Rio, TX, to Rapid City, SD and kept it until I bought my first VW in 1981.  It died an ignoble death at the hands of a drunk driver while parked in front of my parents house.  It did, however, provide me with a path to a new car.

Not long after I went on active duty, I started making car payments.  Not to GM, or Toyota, or even Volkswagen, but to my savings account.  I noticed all of my Air Force Academy buddies in pilot training had purchased new cars right after graduation and I figured if they could afford car payments so could I.  So I started saving money so I could buy one, eventually.   When I did buy my first new car, a 1981 VW diesel pickup, I proudly negotiated a cash price and wrote the check.  I think it was around $5,000.  Those were the days!  From then on, we continued that process.  We didn’t always buy new cars, but when we needed a car we had the money because we had always been making payments.  People say they can’t afford to save money but somehow they figure out how to make monthly payments.  Here comes the fun part of the story.

Ten years ago today, while deployed for the beginning of Iraqi Freedom, I decided that Peg needed a new car.  Her Mazda Protege was getting a little long in the tooth, it was a week from her birthday, and I was deployed for an “undetermined” length of time.  At the risk of setting the birthday bar too high, I went on line, contacted my local VW dealer, picked out a car, paid for it, and on 23 April called Peg and told her to drive out to the dealer and run an errand for me.  Needless to say, she was happy.  When I redeployed in July of that year I decided to also replace my car which I gave to my daughter Erin as a wedding gift.  Peg and I then had matching 2003 diesel VW Jettas.  Hers a wagon, mine a sedan.

For the next ten years I continued my normal habit of making car payments to myself.  I figured $300 per month, per car was an average payment so that’s what I did.  Now it’s time to do the math.  It doesn’t take a genius to figure out that after ten years, $600 per month/ $7200 per year, plus interest, adds up to over $80,000. Now that’s a big chunk of change but I really didn’t sit on the money.  I realized 5 years ago that I could take part of that money and pay off my mortgage, and that’s what I did.  But, I thought, I had always managed to make the house payments so, like the car payments, I continued making house payments, to myself.  In the end, I was able to retire, when I did, because of a 66 Studebaker.

I know my parents always felt bad about not being able to help more with our college costs, but that gift of a 1966 Studebaker has paid for far more than they could have ever imagined.  Enjoy your kitchen Mom!

Postlogue:

Now I know there are some of you who just HAVE to have a new car under you at all times.  I’ve heard the reliability arguments, the long term repair costs arguments.  Here’s my response.  You have to pick the right car in the first place, maintain it, and not drive it like a bat out of hell.  We’ve put over 300,000 miles on our VWs.  We’ve averaged just over 42 miles per gallon.  That’s 7,143 gallons of fuel.  If we had bought a car, and let’s be generous, that averaged 24 miles per gallon, that would be 12,500 gallons.  That’s a difference of 5,357 gallons.  Even assuming that diesel fuel costs 10% more than gas (because of taxes!) That adds up to over $12,000 in fuel savings alone and we haven’t spent anywhere near that in repairs and maintenance.  Are we going to buy new cars any time soon?  I don’t think so.  I’d like to keep driving the Jettas for another four years, but then I’m going to need some advice on which really expensive cars to buy.  Or maybe we’ll just get something used and reliable and start a grandchildren college fund!

Delayed gratification is always more rewarding and meaningful.  A good lesson whether it’s cars or wedding nights!

Chapter 64, Retirement Pay

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Ah well, I’m quickly approaching the six months of retirement milestone and I thought I would give all of you federal employees a glimpse of what you have to look forward to as you approach your wonderful day of retirement.

I’ve always tried to approach any process whether squadron level, group level, wing level, or AF level, as if I were just any average guy.  Even if they try to give the “O-6” preferential treatment I always ask that I be handled just like everyone else.  I’ve found myself frustrated more than once, but how else can we find out what’s broken and what’s not.  So, when it came time to start the retirement process I decided to do everything exactly by the book.  I had seen some folks put off the paperwork or lose records and then scramble to get everything done in time.  I like to learn from others experiences so I was ready to go with all documentation in hand when the date finally arrived to begin the process.

I thought that I would have to go down to Civilian Personnel to fill out paperwork but, in reality, everything is done online.  Although I use the term “online” very loosely.  AFPC (Air Force Personnel Center) has set everything up online but in reality you’re just filling out dozens of pdf forms on your computer and after you fill out the last one you’re instructed to print them all out and take them to Civilian Personnel who then staples them together and sends them via snail mail to San Antonio.  A little archaic but I figured the process was evolving.  The problem is, there are very limited instructions and getting answers isn’t easy.  For example,  you’re told that you retire at age 56 but in reality, your last day of work is the day before your birthday.  But, if you list your retirement date as the day before your birthday then they say they won’t pay the “Social Security equivalent” benefit.  So, in the end, your first day of not coming to work, which is your birthday, is your retirement day, ARGHHHHH.

Personnel sent the package in and then the waiting began.  Months went by with no feedback at all but finally, I got a call from a very nice guy at ARPC about a month out from the magic date.  He clarified some of entries on the forms, corrected some errors, and on our second conversation went over his computations.  After applying my unused sick leave, computing my average high three salary, dividing by my number of good years and months, and dividing by twelve, he came up with the exact number, down to the penny, that I had also computed as my basic monthly annuity payment.  After subtracting out health benefits, survivor annuity payments, and income taxes we had the answer to what I would be taking home every month.  And here’s where the train started to leave the tracks.  I asked how much discontinued service pay ( I think that’s what they call that social security equivalent thing) would be on top of the basic annuity and he said;  “Here’s where I have to apologize sir.  The week after you retire your complete package will arrive at OPM (Office of Personnel Management) in Boyer, PA.  There it will fall, literally (since the facility is underground in an old mine), into a black hole.  It will take months and months for them to compute what you can do in about 30 seconds.  Good luck”  I thanked him for working so diligently on my retirement and said goodbye for the last time.  I miss him.  I miss the human contact with the bureaucracy.  There hasn’t been any since.

OPM has worked very effectively to ensure no human contact is available.  You are given access to a severely limited website where you can change your address, bank account information, password, or request a replacement 1099G.  Other than that your only option is to send an email which they promise to answer in 20 working days (30 if they have to look at a record).  4-6 weeks to just answer a simple question!  There is a page with a checklist which shows the progress of your package.  They acknowledged receiving it the week after my retirement and then nothing happened for three months. I sent an email asking the status and after a month they replied that my package had been assigned to a specialist and it would be completed “very soon”.  I don’t know about you, but very soon in my world had always meant a couple of days maybe a week.  Obviously not so at Government House.  After 2 months of waiting for “very soon” I sent another email.  That was 25 working days ago and resent it 5 days ago.  I even offered to take the 45 minute drive up to the mine and sit down with the specialist to answer the obviously difficult questions they have and even help them go to the IRS website and do the 30 second computation.  All to no avail.  Deafening computer silence.  Not even a kind human voice on the other end of the phone.

Well, you say, aren’t they giving you an “interim” payment of approximately 75% which they tell you about in the pre-retirement briefings?  Not so much.  At best they give 50% of what you’ll eventually get per month.  OK, I’m done venting. I apologize to the readers who have no idea what I’m talking about but I thought it was worth taking a week to make sure all of my ART/civil service friends have planned on funding their own retirement for AT LEAST six months.  Supposedly OPM has worked very hard to reduce the wait time and they claim it’s down to an average of 145 days.  They call that something in the free market, failure.

I can’t wait for the government efficiencies of Obamacare.  Adding an extra layer always makes things cheaper and more efficient!

Chapter 63, Spray

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I wasn’t sure how I would feel about not flying anymore but after 5 months of a new life paradigm I think I’m ok with it.  Actually, there were only two flying events that I really missed when I stopped doing them and those were B-52 aerial refueling and C-130 aerial spray.

What they both have in common is a high degree of stress and a higher degree of proficiency and skill required to maintain that proficiency.  Flying two large aircraft in close proximity to each other is an inherently dangerous activity but doing it well is, well, a blast.  On the other hand, flying a large aircraft in close proximity to the ground is also inherently dangerous but, in the case of aerial spray, extremely rewarding.

Most military flying is training in preparation of performing a wartime mission.  Practice bombing, aerial engagement, and airdrops are challenging and fun but the activity doesn’t really directly benefit the taxpayer or aid mankind.  I suppose the argument can be made that hauling cargo and passengers accomplishes both training and real world support but, in many ways, it’s not really the same thing as directly relieving human suffering.

Aerial spray is an incredibly unique mission.  It is both a direct military support mission and a homeland defense and protection mission.  The experiences of hurricane Katrina and the Gulf oil spill proved that aerial spray can not only provide a critical barrier to protect our coastline from environmental disaster but can directly and efficiently reduce the spread of insect borne diseases and subsequent injuries and death.  It’s the kind of mission I enjoy because it requires an incredible amount of skill and provides an equal amount of satisfaction.  However, the biggest challenge is to find ways to train for the mission.  Maintaining the high level proficiency required to fly 150 feet over densely populated urban areas avoiding cell towers, powerlines, bridges, noise sensitive areas, birds, and other aircraft is a huge challenge.

You just can’t, like other military missions, find a sparsely populated area or a military training range and fly over it to maintain proficiency.  Sure, it works for oil dispersant and herbicide missions, both of those are accomplished in areas with very few people.   But spraying for mosquitoes is specifically tasked to prevent diseases in large populations affected by natural disasters and practicing by spraying deserts or extremely rural areas is actually negative training.  It can lull you into a false sense of security about the nature and abundance of threats.  And that’s why, for over 40 years, aerial spray has fostered relationships with communities across the country to both train in realistic environments and benefit communities that are regularly plagued with large outbreaks of vector borne disease (biting bugs carrying bad stuff).

No urban community would ever allow large aircraft to repeatedly fly over at extremely low altitude solely for the benefit of military training, but by partnering with cities, states, counties, and the media in communities adjacent to military facilities, Aerial spray has been able to provide the most realistic training possible to its crews.  They don’t just run exercises simulating working with the press and local agencies, they do it.  Amazingly, there are almost no noise complaints from the communities.  There have been rare attempts by citizens accusing the military of damaging the paint on their cars or killing their pets to sue the Air Force but, because of the extremely accurate tracking of the treated areas and the benign nature of the products used every case has been laughed out of court.  If we produced just half as many engineers as lawyers how much better off would we be?!

The results of this training synergy is a perfect safety record for military aerial spray and a fostering of long term relationships with communities who, due to their proximity to the threat, are most likely to be hit with future natural disasters.  I can think of no better scenario than training dollars spent that perfectly fit the training requirement and aid the public at no additional cost.

So I guess the answer is yes, I do miss some parts of flying but, more than the flying, I miss working with the dedicated folks that make it happen. I miss flying with crews that seem to effortlessly perform tasks that are almost impossibly complex while flying at 200 knots and 100 feet above the ground.  I miss people walking up to me on the street and thanking me for making their lives a little more bearable.

I remember, years ago, taking Gen Tanzi on an aerial spray orientation/training flight.  He had been a fighter pilot his whole career and I figured he would find aerial spray a little, well, boring.  After about ten minutes of spraying I noticed that he was being very quiet.  He has standing behind the flight engineer and he appeared to have a very firm grip on the seat.  I tapped his shoulder to ask him how he was doing and when he turned to look at me his eyes were as big as saucers.  All he could say was that this was the most terrifying flying he had ever been a part of.  By the end of the flight we had another convert!

Chapter 62, “Numbers”

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I’m a math guy.  Not that I’m into numerology, but I find it interesting that certain numbers stick in our brains.  Numbers like 9/11, or 12/7/1941, or 411, or 8675309.  Like smells and songs they evoke vivid memories and remind us of things we don’t want to forget.  My mom can still rattle off my dad’s military service number (and it’s not his SSAN) even though it hasn’t had any useful purpose for nearly 60 years!  There’s a new number I’ve burned into my psyche and it’s 405.

405 is the number of days from the original FSA (Force Structure Announcement) last year to the announcement that the 911th Airlift Wing was not closing.  I know it doesn’t mean much to a lot of you, but to those who suffered through 405 days of uncertainty and stress it seemed like a lifetime.  Especially since it was generated by lies and incompetence.  There’s an old saying which I know you all have heard; “Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned”.  Well, there’s a much more dangerous version; “Hell hath no fury like a bureaucrat denied”.

What makes bureaucracies so dangerous, and the larger the more dangerous they are, is the inherent lack of accountability they offer to those imbedded in them.  You know what I mean.  Those of you in the military have seen it time after time.  Someone screws up in a way that, in the private sector, would get them escorted out the door but instead there’s, magically, a new “special assistant” at headquarters or they’re simply moved to another division.  Bureaucrats, like liberals, never think they’re wrong, they just think they’re smarter than the rest of us and we just haven’t embraced their brilliance and tried hard enough.  Sadly the power they yield, or they think they yield, can destroy lives and organizations and can waste millions of taxpayers dollars with no negative consequences to them.  Here’s an example.

Some years ago my church received a property tax bill in the mail from the City of Pittsburgh for $500.  I’ve been attending the same church since I was born and, since non-profits are tax exempt, we had never paid property taxes.  So I called the city and after an hour of the standard run around, I was finally transferred to someone who could answer my question.  I was told that the tax was being assessed on the value of every square foot of land around the building, including the parking lot, since only the building itself was being used for “religious purposes”.  I argued the point that we had outdoor events for kids and regularly used the parking lot for community outreach but, in the end, I was told, “Don’t bother fighting this, we have lots of lawyers and money and you can’t afford to fight this even though you’d probably win in the end” and then the line went dead.  We’ve been writing a check ever since.  Nameless and faceless, bureaucracies never shrink and have very little motivation to become more efficient.

The difference between the private sector and the government is that, in the government, there are no consequences for failure and failure often gets you a bigger budget.  A friend of mine ran an organization that did summer tutoring for thousands of inner city kids on a shoestring budget using college kids who stayed, for free, with local families.  When the City of Pittsburgh schools saw the enormous impact the program was having they tried to shut it down by denying access to city facilities. They then rented office space, bought  furniture and hired staff to duplicate the program.  After 2 years and millions of dollars spent they gave up.  They never tutored a single child.

And that brings us back to 405.  The Air Force was willing to throw away the 10s of millions of dollars the 911th saves the budget over other bases  because there are still bureaucrats in the system who, like petulant children,  are enraged that they can’t have their way.  Even in the face of the facts and the law they continue to waste time and resources on a failed, inaccurate paradigm.  Sadly, even with the announcement several weeks ago, they won’t let go.  A friend, whose name I won’t mention, was talking to a counterpart at HHQ after the announcement last week and was told, “Just because you escaped again doesn’t mean the crosshairs aren’t still on the 911th.  It just means we haven’t hit the target yet”.

“Hell hath no fury like a bureaucrat denied”  Deep pockets, no accountability and a long memory.  Just wait until they control your healthcare.

Chapter 61, Pro-Choice

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A little late this week but St Patty’s Day, especially when it falls on a weekend, can be exhausting.  Thanks to the folks in Foxburg for the sellout crowd and the over-the-top response.  I think it was the best gig in the, almost, 20 years I’ve been doing this!

I am a “baby person”.  I’m not quite sure why, and I’ve put some thought into it, but for some reason I can’t resist the smile of a tiny human.  Maybe it’s because, with babies, there are no pretenses.  They don’t hide their emotions.  Whether it’s pure joy or pure misery, and the two can be only seconds apart, they let it all out.  Or maybe it’s just how warm and peaceful they are sleeping in your arms.  Or maybe it’s the fun of watching their personalities develop.  Regardless of the frustration of not being able to figure out why they’re crying, 5 minutes of cooing and smiling after 2 hours of screaming makes it all worthwhile.  The most likely reason is that I am inspired by the endless possibilities of a new life.

I’ve always looked at life as a series of choices which eventually lead you to the path you’re on.  I always hope that those choices are made consciously since every one, no matter how seemingly insignificant, alters where we end up.  In the beginning the road is wide and open and the world lies before us offering nearly endless choices.  But as we start making decisions , or decisions are made for us, the road narrows and there are fewer off ramps and intersections.

When I get the chance to talk to kids I always emphasize that they need to make decisions that will keep as many life options available to them as possible.  Blowing off school and getting bad grades reduces opportunities.  Dropping out of school has severe future economic consequences.  Getting  pregnant in high school makes life exponentially more difficult.  I guess what I’m saying is that I’m pro-choice, or more precisely, pre-choice.  It’s not really a hard concept to grasp.  We all make choices and we all live with the consequences of those choices.  There’s no blaming anyone else for what happens after the choice is made, it was your choice.  For example, every time you have sex there is a measurable chance that pregnancy will be the result.  Therefore, by having sex you have made the choice to have a child.  You’ve done the risk analysis, you know what could happen, and you’ve made your choice to be a father or a mother.  You can’t take it back.  There’s no “do over” because now there’s a third person involved.  And that decision tree can be applied to any decision in life.  If you never smoke a joint or snort coke you’ll never become addicted (although prescription painkillers could be the exception).  There is the possibility that anyone who drinks can become an alcoholic so if you do drink, I have to assume you’ve done the risk analysis to ensure the benefits outweigh the risk.

I know that riding a scooter is a high risk activity and I bought my Vespa after I retired because I knew Peg would be all right without me if I got flattened by a Semi.  I would have never ridden one while I was still raising kids.  Every day, whether we realize it or not, we are, or should be, making decisions based on whether the benefit is worth the risk or how might this decision affect the future.  The problem is too many people have never been taught how to make sound life decisions.  To set aside their narcissistic tendencies and make informed, moral choices.  Here’s where we come back to babies.  As parents and grandparents and uncles and aunts we need to encourage and educate and mentor our kids on how to choose paths that, aren’t necessarily easy but, will lead to joyful, fulfilling lives.

There is one off ramp that is always available and will always lead to a better road and I think ya’ll know me well enough to know what that ramp is.

Chapter 60, The Wedge

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Time for some more shameless self promotion.  We’re less than a week away from St Patty’s day so if you’re in the Pittsburgh or Youngstown area you have two chances to celebrate with Carnival of Souls.  We’ll be performing at Lincoln Hall in Foxburg, PA this Saturday night, the 16th, from 7-9 PM.  Just take I-80 east to exit 45, turn right on to Rt 478, drive 1.9 miles, turn right on to Rt 58 and drive 1.9 miles to Foxburg.  It sits right on the Allegheny river, you can’t miss it!  Then, on the 17th, we’ll be at Mogies in Lower Burrell from 7-10 PM.  You’ll need reservations. http://www.mogiesirishpub.com.  See you there!

 

What I miss most about retiring isn’t the flying or, certainly not, the endless meetings, but the daily talks with people I truly love and respect.  You take those conversations, even if they’re just a passing few words, for granted and when you’re not there every day you realize how much those relationships really mean.  I’ve worked with a lot of folks over the years and some are, shall we say, quirky.  Now when I use the word quirky, I don’t think of it in a bad way.  I would describe those kinds of people as “odd”.  Quirky is endearing and funny, odd is; hide the sharp objects, duck into your office, turn the lights off and be very, very quiet.  I think ya’ll know what I mean.  I’ll tell stories about the quirky but not about the odd.  They might know where I live.

So, for anonymity’s sake, let’s call him Fred.  Fred is my favorite anonymous name since I’ve known very few Freds over the years and, for some reason, it makes me laugh.  Fred is a flight engineer who is very passionate about his job.  He has very high expectations for his own performance and expects nothing less of everyone else and, as a result, is a great instructor and friend.  He’s the kind of person I can always count on to give honest feedback and not be shy about giving his opinion.  Some people don’t like honesty, I’m not one of them.  It’s a rare commodity in a world of political correctness and caring more for feelings than doing the right thing and potentially saving an airplane and crew.  Fred is also a very tiny man.  I’m not just talking about height, I’m talking width and breadth as well.  he can’t weigh more than 100 pounds soaking wet.  I’m surprised they make flight suits that small and I’ve accused him of wearing a new size which I call 32T (toddler).  His size is what makes this story funny.

Years ago we deployed to, I think, Volk Field for an ORI (Operational Readiness Inspection).  I’ve been on so many ORIs the locations all seem to run together and my brain tries to purge the bad memories, so I think it was Volk but it doesn’t really matter.  Anyway, when we arrive, the first thing we always do is stand in line. We stand in line for mobility processing.  We stand in line to be assigned quarters.  We stand in line to get issued linens.  We stand in line to get issued MREs for the week.  The first day of any deployment is pretty much standing and waiting.  So after a day of standing in line, Fred found himself in the last line of the day, the chow hall or, the politically correct name, DFAC (Dining Facility).

Now, to those of us who are a little taller, people look a little different than the way Fred sees them.  It’s something you don’t really think about.  When I’m in line I can see what’s going on ahead.  How long the line is.  How much longer it’s going to be.  Who’s up there ahead of me that I can talk to once we get through the line.  But to Fred, everyone over about 5’10”, just looks like the back of a green flight suit and if you’re over 6’4″ it’s even a lower view of a green flight suit.  So Fred found himself in a very long line, after a very long day, looking at the back of a very large flight suit.  And it occurred to Fred that the very long flight suit in front of him must the his very tall friend Daryl.  So in a moment of, shall we say, whimsy Fred decided that it would be funny to give ole Daryl a wedgie.  To this day he hasn’t been able to explain why he thought wedgies were still funny past about the 5th grade but he thought it would add some levity to a long hard day.  So he reached up,  grabbed the waistband, heaved it high, and let out a Luilliputian laugh.  The line turned to see what the commotion was all about and what they saw was  a very tall African-American,  Higher Headquarters Inspector Colonel with an odd look on his face and his waistband in the hands of a tiny man with an even odder look.  Fred released his grip and, not quite knowing what to say to each other, the odd couple continued to wait in line without a word being spoken.

That night, at the daily inspector outbrief, the team chief made a remark about “the incident” but, at that point, we had no idea what he was talking about but, whatever it was, he thought it was pretty funny.  We passed the ORI in spite of the massive wedgie and, since then, I’ve never turned my back of Fred.

We often assume that everyone’s perspective is the same as ours but our place in an organization can give us a completely different few of the future and the past than those at higher or lower level.  The challenge is to be willing to either modify your opinions by taking into account others perspective or do a better job of communicating yours to get everyone moving in the same direction.

Chapter 59, “Redheadedness”

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First, some administrative stuff:  It looks like I lost count last week.  I named it Chapter 59 when it should have been Chapter 58, Oops!  Also, I’d like to thank ya’ll for prayers over my surgery yesterday.  Everything went fine other than having to drive to the hospital at 4:15 AM in a blizzard!  I am now, happily, gallbladderless and looking forward to eating something other than salmon, rice and beets.  It’s a great weight loss program but it makes it hard to eat out with friends, and the beets make your poo disturbingly red and pee oddly pink!

As most of you know, my wife Peg is a redhead.  There are a variety of shades of redhead and I think Peg falls into the almost strawberry blonde category.  There’s one surefire way of making her mad and that’s when I tell her that her hair color is actually orange.  I know I’ll here about that last sentence as soon as she reads it!  It’s really no big deal what a person’s hair color is, but I’ve learned over the years that there can be some odd idiosyncrasies with redheads.  You try not to stereotype but after 40 years of experience you can’t help but notice.

As everyone knows, because I can’t stop beaming about it, I’m a new grandfather.  Early on in my daughters pregnancy she was in the doctor’s office going over all of the standard medical history stuff.  In preparation for standard testing they ran down the list of questions about medical conditions of parents, grandparents, and great grandparents on both sides of the families.  What sort of diseases did people die from or are currently dealing with, the normal things they want to know.  All predictable questions until they asked, “Are there any redheads in your family?”  That, of course, got Erin’s attention and, when she answered in the affirmative, she got a raised eyebrow from the nurse and the comment “That’s another blood test”.  As it turns out, the redheaded gene carries with it some interesting characteristics.  Low pain threshold, lower blood clotting ability, and odd reactions to some medications.  Apparently some redheads need higher doses of medications for the desired effect but when the effect kicks in it lasts much longer than other, less red, people.  All of these things can obviously cause problems during childbirth if either the mother or the child is a redhead.

I wasn’t crazy!  My observations of 40 years were accurate.  I was vindicated.  After years of thinking she was just a wimp when it came to pain, I now realize that she is just a victim of her hair.  Here’s my favorite example.

Several years ago, after putting it off for too long, I scheduled my first “screening colonoscopy”.  I wasn’t thrilled about having a camera snaked up my butt, but it’s one of those increasingly dignifying destroying things we have to go through as we get older.  So I made the appointment knowing that they would knock me out for the procedure and I really wouldn’t feel a thing.  I tried to get Peg to write “Exit only” on my butt cheeks but she refused and I couldn’t quite figure out how to do it with mirrors by myself.  I’ll have to practice that for the next time.  But I digress.  Other than having to drink the pooing juice the night before it was a simple procedure and not a big deal at all. (That’s my plug for everyone not to put it off!!)  After the anesthesia wore off, and I stopped being even goofier than I normally am, I was back to work in an hour.  I then nagged Peg into scheduling hers and here’s where the redheadedness comes in.

Everything went fine.  They gave her the happy juice injection and off she went to LaLa land.  They wheeled her into the exam room and started the procedure but halfway through she woke up.  She didn’t  bolt upright on the table, she didn’t make a sound,  she just remembers opening her eyes, seeing a video screen in front of her and, in her semi-conscious state, wondering what TV show she was watching.  Was it “Journey to the Center of the Earth”?  Was it a documentary about tunnel building?  But why was the tunnel pink?  After  a few minutes, and no commercials, she finally asked “Am I supposed to be awake?”  A question that caused a doctor and two technicians to just about jump out of their skins.  They frantically pumped another dose into her and finished the examination.  It took a much bigger dose but once she was out, it took the whole rest of the day and that night for the effects to wear off.  I think she slept for 14 hours straight after I managed to get her home.

I know she won’t be happy I told this story so I think we’ll be going out to dinner tonight.  I’m looking forward to a little red meat for the first time in a month!

 

Chapter 58, “Magic 8 Ball”

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When I was a kid, my cousins had all of the cool stuff.  That’s not to say we were jealous and that we didn’t have stuff, it’s just that it seemed like their stuff was much cooler.  We had a cousin who had a pinball machine in the basement, one that had a pool table, one that had an in ground pool and the list goes on.  We didn’t hang out with them often but when we did we knew it would be an adventure.

One cousin had one of those “Magic 8 balls”.  You know what I mean.  A spherical plastic 8 ball filled with some kind of thick transparent liquid and a floating thing inside with messages printed on it.  You were supposed to shake the thing, ask a question to the universe, flip it over and read the answer through a little window in the bottom.  It would say things like “Definitely”, or “Ask again later”, or “It’s a possibility”.  Brilliant insightful advise!   It was just a silly party game, but I remember us not liking the answer so continuing to flip the ball until we got the answer we wanted.

Over the years I’ve had lots of people come to me for advice.  Most of the time it’s over something technical.  What kind of flooring do I like for a kitchen?  How do you hang cabinets?  Are pot lights hard to install?  Those sorts of things.  But sometimes they’re tough life questions.  “Should I take a job offer?”   “My boyfriend wants me to move in with him, should I”.  Why can’t I find a nice girl?  I’ve always tried to give honest heartfelt advice, as painful as that can sometimes be.  Now, I don’t expect people to take my word as gospel, but what frustrates me is when they chose the opposite path, things go horribly wrong, and then they come back to me for more advice.  Which is usually the same advice I gave in the first place.

I think sometimes we want to treat God like our “Magic 8 ball”.  We say we’re seeking God’s will but when we’re not getting the answer “we” want we just flip him over, give him a shake, and ask again.  The other trap is framing the prayer in a way that we think will only produce the outcome we want.  It would be like going to a car showroom to buy a car and telling the salesman that you were totally open to any car on the lot.  Any price, style, color, options, the sky’s the limit as long as it’s not green, white, silver, grey, red, yellow, black, have two doors,  a hatchback, a SUV, get less than 35 miles per gallon, or be made outside the US.  You think you’re being open minded when all you’re really asking for is a blue, four door subcompact!  I think you get the picture.  If you want direction, to really learn God’s will, then you have to approach him and listen with a wide open heart and mind.  Throw out the qualifiers and be open to change.

Chapter 57 – “From the back of the room”

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Over the years I’ve seen a lot of squadron commanders come and go.  Their styles and personalities run the full spectrum.  At the one end you have guys who want to continue being “one of the guys” when they become the guy in charge.  It usually doesn’t end well.  Then you have the guys who become the “my way or the highway” guys and they usually reach similar ends.  But I’ve been most entertained by the guys who started out as the “guy in the back of the room”.  Let me explain.

Every organization has a person, sometimes more than one, who likes to sit in the back of the room and, regardless of who’s up front speaking or making decisions, makes snide remarks.  Sometimes the remarks are just audible to those in close proximity but sometimes they’re meant for everyone to hear.  Often times he’s the “life of the party” kind of guy who’s just looking for a quick laugh but sometimes it’s just someone who likes to stir the pot.  Either way, they take pride in the fact that they’re, obviously, much smarter and cleverer than the people up front and everyone needs to know it.  The fun happens when one of those guys becomes the guy in charge.  It doesn’t happen often, but when it does it a thing to behold.

I remember one commander in particular who, after years of making smart remarks from the back himself, threatened to take disciplinary action against anyone who did it when he was in charge.  He was nearly laughed out of the room.  You can learn a lot about people by where they sit in a room.  When a person is new to an organization they’ll usually sit in the back, getting the lay of the land, and then they’ll slowly migrate closer to the front as they become more invested and want to be in a position to make positive inputs.  But the folks who stay in the back, even after years of participation, often fall into the “whine for whining’s sake” black hole.

I’ve actually met people who have told me that their “gift” is the gift of dissention.  In other words, they feel it’s their obligation to disagree with everything those in charge try to do.  I don’t know if it’s the union mentality of “the man’s trying to keep me down” or if it’s just some strange personality disorder.  I’ve looked and looked but I can’t find any scriptural reference to that gift.  I just keep coming across crazy things like love, and peace, and joy, and hope, and gentleness, and kindness, and patience, and goodness, and self-control.  I just don’t see whining, and complaining, and being negative listed as godly attributes.  But maybe I’m missing something.

Now don’t get me wrong, there is always room for disagreement, but there is a right and a wrong way to communicate that.  Undermining the organization is not the way.  Creating your own agenda without knowing all of the facts, or making assumptions, is not the way.   In fact, I’ve always felt that there’s a special place reserved in hell for those that won’t take a leadership role, in anything, but perpetually criticize those who do.  I think it would be a room,  single exit, with a fire raging just outside.  There would be an unlimited supply and variety of fire extinguishers available but everyone would have a different opinion about which kind to use and no one would make a decision because no one wanted to be responsible if they were wrong.  All of this happening, for eternity, as the fire made the room hotter and hotter.  Maybe I’ve put too much thought into this!  Or maybe I’ve just seen it happen too often.

Following isn’t always easy but, I can promise you, leading is much harder.  You just have to remember that it’s never leaderships goal for an organization to fail.  To viciously, either publicly or privately, undermine leadership is telling your audience that those in charge don’t care about the future and are actively seeking failure.  Do you really believe that to be true?

Thomas Paine had it right, “Lead , follow, or get out of the way”

You can’t lead from the back of the room.