SHARDS

It is Ended

2008-10-03T07:09:00.000-07:00

Today I stand before you and declare that my unilateral moratorium on blogging is over.

I had originally hoped the world could run itself without my constant unwavering guidance, but I was wrong.

To that end I am going to resume the blog because I obviously can't leave you all at home alone for 18 months without worrying about you starting Armageddon.

No applause is necessary.

Shots from Florida

2007-06-18T13:45:00.001-07:00

Liftoff

2007-06-13T07:54:00.001-07:00

"T minus nine... eight... seven... GO for main engine start... five... four... three... two...... Liftoff... We have liftoff of the Space Shuttle Atlantis..."

I don't understand what is happening. I am gathered with a group of hundreds of other space geeks who have traveled here for a two-minute, once in a lifetime experience.

I expected something more. Perhaps the ground shaking or a loud roar.

"He did say liftoff, right?"

Even though only 2.2 seconds pass between the liftoff announcement, it seems like an eternity. Perfect silence from the formerly noisy crowd gives way to a sudden massive gasp.

"There it is!"someone exclaims.

We weren't exactly sure where we should have been looking. NASA keeps everyone out of a seven mile radius of the launch pad since September 11, meaning we can only see the tree line until the shuttle clears it only seconds after launch.

An unbearably bright rip in the fabric of the azure sky appears above the trees. Screams of joy erupt from the cloud. Suddenly the abstract thought of this multi-billion dollar space vehicle (some say failure) that we paid for becomes real.

I can REALLY see it. I can't remember what I expected to see now that it is in front of me.

The flames are so much brighter than what I have ever seen before. All the launch videos and photos can't prepare me for the brilliant orange color of the main engine exhaust. It hurts to look, much like staring at a welding torch or the sun as it sets above the horizon.

All of the detail is there. The orange tank, the white solid rocket boosters and the improbably dirty tinge of the orbiter. "Can't we afford to at least run these things through the car wash?" I think.

We approach T plus seven seconds. It seems like an eternity watching this surreal vehicle tearing open the sky in complete silence.

Then, the rumble starts. The first sounds of the main engine reach us, first as a low frequency rumble, then louder like thunder. Another cheer erupts from the crowd. Now the sound, the light and the magic has combined for a massive emotional punch to the gut.

All through the crowd grown men burst into tears. Americans and foreigners alike jump and scream like children. Even though everyone brought cameras, no one dares look away for a quick snapshot, lest a few precious seconds of this experience are lost.

Between the climbing shuttle (Man this thing travels FAST!) and the huge American flag flying above the Kennedy Space Center, backlit by the setting sun, I am finding that it is difficult to keep track of the orange glow through my tears.

I look over at Margee. She has been frustrated over the hours of driving and waiting in the hot sun. At times I thought she might actually leave me there and drive back to Sarasota due to the unbearable heat, the incredibly expensive hamburger and the rude crowds.

I see that she, too, is crying. The pride washes over you. For a few minutes the cares of the world diminish and the reality that we are putting men from many different nations into the abyss of space are all that occupy my mind.

One minute ticks away. The crowd has fallen silent again. We met people who live in Florida that haven't attended a launch since the Challenger disaster in 1986. We all know what happens at one minute and twenty two seconds after launch. The principal's announcement in eighth grade shop class fills my memory. The haunting words echo inside my mind... "Challenger, you are go for throttle up."

Everyone is holding their breath now. The searing orange flame is a distant glow and the ripping sound of the rocket boosters is now a faint rumble.

"The shuttle is passing through the period of maximum aerodynamic pressure. The main engines have been throttled back to reduce the stresses on the launch vehicle."

Then that haunting beep of the radio, "Atlantis, Houston, you are go for throttle up."

Almost imperceptibly there are two small flashes on either side of the white and orange spot in the sky. The crowd automatically and viscerally watch for any telltale signs of trouble. We see two tiny white hairs fall away from the main cloud of exhaust.

Everyone is afraid to make noise. Suddenly a "WHOOOOOOO!!" is shouted out by a redneck listening to an AM radio in the back. We all realize it's going to be okay and a second, more thunderous, round of applause erupts and goes on for an eternity. Strangers are embracing. Everyone is crying and cheering. We all know that we will spend the next few miserable hours crawling in traffic trying to leave this place but nobody seems to mind.

As we walk to the car we hear the fading voice on the radio speakers. The external tank has seperated and the astronauts are maneuvering the orbiter into space. Eight and a half minutes have elapsed and they are already weightless, staring into the pitch black before we even make it to our car.

I realize how much the odds were stacked against us. The unlikely coincidence that a launch would take place on this final day of our first vacation in three years, combined with the doubts and fears over a hailstone-damaged tank and wildly unpredictable weather have prepared me to accept disappointment.

I look up and the steam trail is still in place, unmoving. It's as if a giant hand has torn a gash from the earth to the highest parts of the sky. The exhaust plume hangs in the air for hours and provides the only entertainment as we inch along. In the next four hours we will have driven only 39 miles. We are exhausted, sunburned and starving.

Thousands of miles and hours of waiting for the short two minute viewing seem like a poor tradeoff.

I look at Margee in the passenger seat and see a faint smile. I still think we got the better end of that bargain.

Is it tomorrow yet?

2007-04-09T13:05:00.000-07:00

...and does time heal all things?

The oldest profession

2006-10-08T06:53:00.000-07:00

Dusk on the Illinois prairie. The crisp October air flirts gently with the dew point.

Looking east, I see the red harvest moon begin to ascend. It is as if the moon knows that the soybeans are ready. The bean pods pop open to the slightest pressure of my thumb and forefinger. Tonight the full moon will play farm hand, providing just enough illumination for the farmers to keep the implements running well after dark.

A John Deere combine approaches me from the edge of the field. It makes a near impossible turn and rolls to a stop like a commuter plane ready for boarding. The roar of the diesel spins down to a low hum and I see my nephew Elliot open the door and walk out on a platform about ten feet above us.

During the week Elliott is your prototypical Frat Boy. He pursues his degree at a large university nearby in the city and makes the trip out to the family farm on weekends to work.

As he steps out of the cab, I see his father in him. His hair has grown long and scruffy. The last time we spoke we discussed methods of web programming for a site for his fraternity at school. I was the teacher then, but today I will be his student.

My son, Sam, has waited all day for this moment. He loves going to the farm and he knows today is the day he will ride in the combine. Sam fearlessly climbs the steep stairwell up to the cab. I follow him ostensibly to keep him from falling, but really I cannot wait to take a ride in this beast of a machine.

Inside the cab we find ourselves surrounded by as much technology as one would expect from a modern jetliner. The panoramic windscreen allows unobstructed 270 degree views.

Elliott idles up the big diesel and gently moves the hydrostatic drive control forward. I am struck by how much the power lever resembles the throttle handle of a modern jet aircraft.

We travel to the edge of the first unharvested row of beans and line up in position. Elliott looks at Sam and says, "You want to drive Sammy?" Before his sentence was finished, Sam had leapt to Elliott's lap and had both hands on the giant steering wheel.

Switches are thrown, parts begin rotating and the huge floating bean head settles on the ground. Suddenly we are moving forward at a decent clip. Sam grips the wheel firmly and with occasional guidance drives the combine with the skill of an experienced farm hand.

Rather than squeal with glee as a two year old would be expected to do, Sam wrinkles his forehead with concentration and scans the rows ahead. With a smooth and cautious touch he actually does a fantastic job of harvesting the beans.

By the time we reach the end of the row Sam hops down with a big smile and says, "Sammy drive combine!" immediately followed by "I wanna see tractor!"

Unfortunately, we will have to make a return trip to the eastern edge of the field where the grain wagon is waiting for our bounty.

Elliot spins the combine 180 degrees and lines up on the next row. He stops the combine and offers me the controls. Of course there is no way in hell I am going to be polite at this point and I practically hurdle him to get into the big captain's seat.

After a cursory briefing. I am engaging hydraulic switches, bringing systems online and getting ready to urge this beast forward. The switches for the important bits have a safety that has to be pulled up before the switch can be engaged. It reminds me of a fighter pilot arming his weapons while rolling inbound to a target.

As the various systems come online and I throttle up the big diesel, I have a fleeting sense of deja' vu. It occurs to me that the systems in this machine are not much different from the controls of a helicopter. The power lever has rocker switches that trim the height of the bean head, much like the hat switches on a cyclic make pitch and roll trim adjustments.

Even the hydraulic drive system is reminiscent of the helicopter transmission. At full throttle the hydraulic system begins to provide torque to the drive system and at the appointed moment when all systems are in the green it is time to move.

We begin to move. Elliott guides my control inputs with a calm voice, "Push the orange switch down one click. Set the speed to 3.2. Pick out a spot on the horizon and drive toward it."

Echoes of Greybeard begin to fill my mind. I over control the machine, weaving back and forth trying to stabilize my line. I realize that learning to drive this machine is exactly like flying. Every slight input is exagerrated until the student begins to 'feel' the aircraft.

I weave my way toward the eastern edge of the field, occasionally leaving uncut bean plants standing as I try to over think and over drive. I realize Sammy did a much better job than me because he has no preconceived ideas of how a vehice works. He simply held on to the wheel and let the combine do it's work.

We arrive at the edge of the field and Elliott gives me a flurry of instructions. Disengage this, idle that, raise the head. He asks if I want to dump the beans. Of course I answer without hesitation.

He guides me into position. I feel like the head is inches away from the wagon. An innocuous orange switch swings the dump arm forward over the wagon and another button begins the unload. I can help but think this must be how it feels to be an airline pilot lining up with a jetway.

All too soon our trip is finished. Sammy and I climb down the stairs with permanent grins. A couple of girls from Chicago that travelled down with my niece to see the farm climb into the cab with Elliott for their ride. He grins widely because one will have to sit on his lap. As a red-blooded 20 year old farm boy it can't get any better than having a 20 year old city girl sit on your knee while you dazzle her with your giant machine.

I stand at the edge of the beans once again. The harvest moon has climbed into the sky, illuminating the field with it's bright golden glow helping the farmers get a few more hours in bringing home the crops.

The crisp air, cloudless starry sky and distant hum of the combine make for a small blessed moment of peace. For the first time in months all my stress and anxiety melt and I stand in the moonlight, proud that there are still family farms in this country, working hard for us.

No truer words...

2006-09-27T14:51:00.000-07:00

I'm not a robot without emotions-I'm not what you see
I've come to help you with your problems, so we can be free
I'm not a hero, I'm not a saviour, forget what you know
I'm just a man whose circumstances went beyond his control
Beyond my control-we all need control
I need control-we all need control

I am the modren man, who hides behind a mask
So no one else can see my true identity

- Dennis DeYoung

Newer, Better

2006-09-26T13:22:00.000-07:00

I wanted to blow up my blog and make it more interesting.

So, here goes: