Guitarist Tyler Grant, a San Diego East County native, performed in concert Saturday night at the historic Valley Music venue in El Cajon. A member of the media was there and filed this report.
Tyler Grant presented a two-hour concert in the key of H Saturday night at Valley Music before a capacity crowd.
H for history. This was the last in a series of concerts that Grant has presented over the last seven years at Valley Music, providing the audience a stirring finale in this series of his emergence from a young player with skill and dedication to a world-class performer with command of his art and of the stage. Many in the audience were family and friends from Jamul, where Tyler grew up, and he was specific, between – and even during – numbers, in recognizing his old friends and family. The center of his fame as a multi-talented musician has risen from Nashville, his adopted home, but Tyler left no doubt Saturday night about where his roots were, and his heart still is.
History as transition. As well-known as he has become in musical genres such as bluegrass, flatpicking, and Americana music, Grant is struggling with a decision to take his music commercial. He has been the subject of a cover story in Flatpicking Guitar Magazine, and he is the reigning National and Merlefest Flatpicking Guitar champion, but those are niche accomplishments with minimal effect on CD sales. During this visit, he said he was looking for an agent, and he queried the local media, unsuccessfully, about coverage of the Valley Music concert.
It reminded this reporter of musicians like Elvis Presley and Randy Travis. Even Elvis, after his 1954 debut with "That's All Right, Mama," toured the small-town circuits before breaking out in 1955. And this reporter, specifically, remembers covering a Randy Travis concert at an El Cajon venue in 1986, knowing full well that the next time Travis visited San Diego, he would be playing at the Sports Arena.
For Tyler Grant, though, it's more than paying dues. It was clear Saturday night that he is very aware of what he leaves behind, if he decides to move forward. History: he played old country tunes (Waylon Jennings), rock and roll (Marty Robbins), primal bluegrass (Bill Monroe), classical guitar (Bach, for example), championship flatpicking (a la Doc Watson) and his original songs, with country, bluegrass and Cajun influences, from his first CD, "In the Light." He played all of these, in a two-hour concert (backed up by the great Josh Dake on mandolin), with facility and fire. It has been great fun, in his history, for his family and friends to observe his ever-emerging facility, to the point where his playing looks easy. But it was the fire, Saturday night, that revealed his love, and mastery, of the craft.
Agents, though, and the machine, show less interest, in the music business world, in fire than sales predictability. Saturday night, Tyler played the music he owns and loves, like a campfire he has built for friends, that he can manipulate with six strings into a slow glow, or into a hot chimney of flame, shooting up and twisting into a storm of fireworks that, at the end, sets off thunderous applause. Such chemistry and skill is so personal, and at risk of becoming history in the commercial vacuum, where stars may be made of skill, or of simple audience appeal, or the kind of media manipulation so obvious in a CMT-TV video like Justin Moore's "Back That Thing Up."
And so Saturday night will be held by those attending as a moment in the history of an artist they know and love. Grant took obvious pleasure, as he talked about it, in being the last artist to play on the stage at Valley Music, which has been in business at its present location since 1952, and will move this summer to a new site. Tyler is relocating also, from Nashville to Boulder, CO, and relocating with him will be Kathleen Harris, to whom he proposed, successfully, on a late winter day on a ridgeline above his beloved Jamul.
Showing posts with label Heroes. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Heroes. Show all posts
May 30, 2009
May 16, 2009
The heroine in "Madama Butterfly"
I keep going to the opera, I keep running into world-class heroines.
Three years ago (well, how many operas have YOU been to in the last three years?), it was the Queen of the Night, in "The Magic Flute." The heroine wasn't the Queen of the Night, it was Cheryl Evans, who sang the Queen's role. I was damned impressed – floored, actually – and I blogged about it:
"Both of the night’s big moments belonged to the Queen of the Night. First, she floated earthward from the loft in a huge cradle of crescent moon and cascading bows of purple gossamer (color of eggplant, I thought), like a brooch you would see Zandra Rhodes wearing on an airplane.
"Later, she sang an aria into which Mozart had inserted a lightning series of notes placed sort of like tiny footstep leaps of faith across a yawning void. Hit them all, he is saying, live to sing another day. Miss just one, just slightly, and down you go, into the void, falling until the end of time. She hit them all. I don’t know how. Imagine a hockey goalie, stopping eight shots in three seconds, left, right, up, down, middle. And then doing it again, a couple of minutes later. At the end, she got the night’s loudest ovation."
Cheryl Evans read it and sent me a nice email. She is a Pittsburgh native and enjoyed being compared to a hockey goalie but really wanted to be compared to Pittsburgh hockey legend Mario Lemieux. She also said she was a big fan of the Steelers' Troy Polamalu, which made sense. He plays strong safety the way she sings Mozart.
This time – last night, in fact – it was "Madama Butterfly." The heroine wasn't Madama Butterfly, though she did leach out the total of my paternal instinct. The heroine was Patricia Racette, who sang and performed the Butterfly role. This opera was two hours and twenty-five minutes long, in TWO ACTS. The first act was an hour, then a divine intermission. The official program showed Act Two and Act Three coming after intermission, but that was propaganda. There was no break in the action until the final curtain. Opera aficionados talk about the demands "Madama Butterfly" makes on an audience, and the audience is SITTING DOWN.
Patricia Racette NEVER sat down. In the 2:25, she was offstage for about two minutes. The rest of the time she was singing, not like you or I would sing, but in a voice of beauty and power that causes critics to pull out all the superlative stops. She was also a hell of an actress. Anybody who can sing for 2:23 straight, and act, too, is not an opera star, she's a world-class athlete. I was thinking, during a slow part early on, about all the stories in the theater, the 3,000 in the audience, each with a story being lived in real time that perhaps included, at that moment, individual commitment associated with being at an opera. Not all the good stories, I gravely intuited, were onstage.
But Patricia Racette kept singing, and in time she eroded that point of view. There was no other individual story of commitment in the room to compare to hers. At the end – and I must say the finale, in this San Diego Opera production, is stunning – she has stabbed herself and is sprawled on the stage, dying. The boor Pinkerton appears, kneels next to her, takes her hand, tugs so her shoulder rises and her lifeless head lolls. At the last note, he lets go, she slumps heavily to the boards. After what she has been through, it is the night's easiest bit of acting for Patricia Racette. The personal stories reverse. The scene blasts away the audience's fatigue, which rises, recharged, while on the stage the heroine has time for a relaxed inhalation or two before receiving our applause. We should applaud for two hours, but we can't.
Three years ago (well, how many operas have YOU been to in the last three years?), it was the Queen of the Night, in "The Magic Flute." The heroine wasn't the Queen of the Night, it was Cheryl Evans, who sang the Queen's role. I was damned impressed – floored, actually – and I blogged about it:
"Both of the night’s big moments belonged to the Queen of the Night. First, she floated earthward from the loft in a huge cradle of crescent moon and cascading bows of purple gossamer (color of eggplant, I thought), like a brooch you would see Zandra Rhodes wearing on an airplane.
"Later, she sang an aria into which Mozart had inserted a lightning series of notes placed sort of like tiny footstep leaps of faith across a yawning void. Hit them all, he is saying, live to sing another day. Miss just one, just slightly, and down you go, into the void, falling until the end of time. She hit them all. I don’t know how. Imagine a hockey goalie, stopping eight shots in three seconds, left, right, up, down, middle. And then doing it again, a couple of minutes later. At the end, she got the night’s loudest ovation."
Cheryl Evans read it and sent me a nice email. She is a Pittsburgh native and enjoyed being compared to a hockey goalie but really wanted to be compared to Pittsburgh hockey legend Mario Lemieux. She also said she was a big fan of the Steelers' Troy Polamalu, which made sense. He plays strong safety the way she sings Mozart.
This time – last night, in fact – it was "Madama Butterfly." The heroine wasn't Madama Butterfly, though she did leach out the total of my paternal instinct. The heroine was Patricia Racette, who sang and performed the Butterfly role. This opera was two hours and twenty-five minutes long, in TWO ACTS. The first act was an hour, then a divine intermission. The official program showed Act Two and Act Three coming after intermission, but that was propaganda. There was no break in the action until the final curtain. Opera aficionados talk about the demands "Madama Butterfly" makes on an audience, and the audience is SITTING DOWN.
Patricia Racette NEVER sat down. In the 2:25, she was offstage for about two minutes. The rest of the time she was singing, not like you or I would sing, but in a voice of beauty and power that causes critics to pull out all the superlative stops. She was also a hell of an actress. Anybody who can sing for 2:23 straight, and act, too, is not an opera star, she's a world-class athlete. I was thinking, during a slow part early on, about all the stories in the theater, the 3,000 in the audience, each with a story being lived in real time that perhaps included, at that moment, individual commitment associated with being at an opera. Not all the good stories, I gravely intuited, were onstage.
But Patricia Racette kept singing, and in time she eroded that point of view. There was no other individual story of commitment in the room to compare to hers. At the end – and I must say the finale, in this San Diego Opera production, is stunning – she has stabbed herself and is sprawled on the stage, dying. The boor Pinkerton appears, kneels next to her, takes her hand, tugs so her shoulder rises and her lifeless head lolls. At the last note, he lets go, she slumps heavily to the boards. After what she has been through, it is the night's easiest bit of acting for Patricia Racette. The personal stories reverse. The scene blasts away the audience's fatigue, which rises, recharged, while on the stage the heroine has time for a relaxed inhalation or two before receiving our applause. We should applaud for two hours, but we can't.
April 13, 2009
Tigerized by a nice afternoon of flog
My God, I’ve been Tigerized.
It is true that for several years, the likelihood of my watching a golf tournament on television went way up if Tiger Woods was playing. Ninety percent of the time, if Woods was playing, I could count on something unusual, or outright bizarre, happening.
But I think that was only a natural reaction, one that all, or practically all, humans are born with. It is standard human equipment to react to unusual events. “Novelty,” to a media professional, is one of the 12 basic media values, and I believe it is totally reasonable to suggest that Tiger Woods is a novel golfer. Bobby Jones in 1965 said of the young Jack Nicklaus, “He plays a game with which I am not familiar.” Dave Anderson of The New York Times used that line, after Woods won the 1997 Masters at 18-under, to set up his own line: “Woods . . . played a game with which even Nicklaus was not familiar.”
That was the kind of novelty on my mind that drew me in again yesterday for the Masters final round. Woods was seven strokes behind the leader, but pfsssh. Tiger could wipe out that lead by the fourth hole. He didn’t, ultimately, but anyone, including Woods, who has ever swung club at ball knows that in the long run, the course always wins. (There is a little-known historical fact why “golf” is “flog” spelled backward, but more about that in a minute.) Woods gave it a good run, though, all the way to the 17th hole. And that’s when I got Tigerized.
On the West Coast, the Masters was scheduled to end at 4 p.m. As Woods was walking off the 16th green, my eye caught the clock on the TV cabinet. It was a few minutes before 2. I went into one of those space-time disconnects that always happen when I think about the International Date Line. How could Tiger be walking to the 17th tee with two hours left to play? Adding to the confusion, the picture switched to something that players were doing on the front nine. How did they get back there?
Then I understood. On Sunday afternoons, I tell time by how close Tiger Woods is to the 18th hole. Sociologists spend a lot of time studying, and worrying about, the cultural influences of media. Do people become the events, the content, they consume in the media? I tend to think no, people only imitate media content without any actual change in behavior. Many times have I imitated golfers without actually ever becoming one. I was amused to note, by the way, another circle closed between me and a famous person. Two weeks ago it was Bill Cosby, who won a Mark Twain award, just as I won a Mark Twain award in 1990. During this Masters, Padraig Harrington set a Master’s record – or perhaps a professional golf record – by hitting the same tree twice on the same hole. Pretty good, but well short of my personal best of hitting MYSELF twice, on CONSECUTIVE SHOTS, including the second shot that had to hit a ball-washer post exactly right to come back and nail me in the left thigh.
That was utter simplicity, though, compared to gaining two extra hours on a Sunday afternoon because my cultural geography had shifted into Tiger Time. I didn’t say anything to Karen. No sense making her worry. She doesn’t particularly like golf, but she likes to watch Tiger for the usual novelty value. We were in the mountains over the weekend and left in plenty of time so we could, as she said, be home in time to “watch the flog.” In this case, she was imitating me. I like to call golf flog. But I wasn’t sure she knew the whole story.
“Do you think that ‘flog’ is a typo?” I said. I know that she, like me, likes to speak in typos sometimes. “Yes,” she said. “Actually,” I said, “’flog’ is ‘golf’ spelled backward,” and I told her the history of the early Scots, going out to the heath with a stitched-leather ball and walking sticks with which to hit the ball. They called it “going out for a flog.” Later, as the game caught on, the founders decided that “flog” may not be the most distinguished label for their new sport, so a committee was formed. At a national meeting of the Royal Flog Committee, a member happened to look at his nametag in the mirror in the men’s bathroom. And that’s where golf came from. You see why Karen might worry.
It is true that for several years, the likelihood of my watching a golf tournament on television went way up if Tiger Woods was playing. Ninety percent of the time, if Woods was playing, I could count on something unusual, or outright bizarre, happening.
But I think that was only a natural reaction, one that all, or practically all, humans are born with. It is standard human equipment to react to unusual events. “Novelty,” to a media professional, is one of the 12 basic media values, and I believe it is totally reasonable to suggest that Tiger Woods is a novel golfer. Bobby Jones in 1965 said of the young Jack Nicklaus, “He plays a game with which I am not familiar.” Dave Anderson of The New York Times used that line, after Woods won the 1997 Masters at 18-under, to set up his own line: “Woods . . . played a game with which even Nicklaus was not familiar.”
That was the kind of novelty on my mind that drew me in again yesterday for the Masters final round. Woods was seven strokes behind the leader, but pfsssh. Tiger could wipe out that lead by the fourth hole. He didn’t, ultimately, but anyone, including Woods, who has ever swung club at ball knows that in the long run, the course always wins. (There is a little-known historical fact why “golf” is “flog” spelled backward, but more about that in a minute.) Woods gave it a good run, though, all the way to the 17th hole. And that’s when I got Tigerized.
On the West Coast, the Masters was scheduled to end at 4 p.m. As Woods was walking off the 16th green, my eye caught the clock on the TV cabinet. It was a few minutes before 2. I went into one of those space-time disconnects that always happen when I think about the International Date Line. How could Tiger be walking to the 17th tee with two hours left to play? Adding to the confusion, the picture switched to something that players were doing on the front nine. How did they get back there?
Then I understood. On Sunday afternoons, I tell time by how close Tiger Woods is to the 18th hole. Sociologists spend a lot of time studying, and worrying about, the cultural influences of media. Do people become the events, the content, they consume in the media? I tend to think no, people only imitate media content without any actual change in behavior. Many times have I imitated golfers without actually ever becoming one. I was amused to note, by the way, another circle closed between me and a famous person. Two weeks ago it was Bill Cosby, who won a Mark Twain award, just as I won a Mark Twain award in 1990. During this Masters, Padraig Harrington set a Master’s record – or perhaps a professional golf record – by hitting the same tree twice on the same hole. Pretty good, but well short of my personal best of hitting MYSELF twice, on CONSECUTIVE SHOTS, including the second shot that had to hit a ball-washer post exactly right to come back and nail me in the left thigh.
That was utter simplicity, though, compared to gaining two extra hours on a Sunday afternoon because my cultural geography had shifted into Tiger Time. I didn’t say anything to Karen. No sense making her worry. She doesn’t particularly like golf, but she likes to watch Tiger for the usual novelty value. We were in the mountains over the weekend and left in plenty of time so we could, as she said, be home in time to “watch the flog.” In this case, she was imitating me. I like to call golf flog. But I wasn’t sure she knew the whole story.
“Do you think that ‘flog’ is a typo?” I said. I know that she, like me, likes to speak in typos sometimes. “Yes,” she said. “Actually,” I said, “’flog’ is ‘golf’ spelled backward,” and I told her the history of the early Scots, going out to the heath with a stitched-leather ball and walking sticks with which to hit the ball. They called it “going out for a flog.” Later, as the game caught on, the founders decided that “flog” may not be the most distinguished label for their new sport, so a committee was formed. At a national meeting of the Royal Flog Committee, a member happened to look at his nametag in the mirror in the men’s bathroom. And that’s where golf came from. You see why Karen might worry.
April 01, 2009
Bill Cosby and me
I see in today’s paper that a circle has closed, between Bill Cosby and me.
We both now have won Mark Twain awards. His award is a teense bigger than mine. His is presented by the Kennedy Center in Washington, D.C. Mine was presented (in 1990) by the western division of the Associated Press News Executives. But it is a Mark Twain award nevertheless. It weighs a ton, and there is a bust of Mark Twain right there on it.
Bill Cosby won his Mark Twain award for humor, and that is part of the circle closing. I once contributed to his humor, on an evening in 1961 when we both happened to be at the old hungry i, in San Francisco. He was starting his stand-up comedy career, and I was starting at Stanford University. I think my mother and my aunt were there, but I am not sure. I know for a fact that I was wearing slacks and black loafers and white socks.
Cosby spotted the white socks. I was sitting in, like, the second row. For a couple of minutes, he had great fun with those socks, giving the audience some laughs and me something to brag about to this very day. I am almost positive that he asked my mother – which is why I think she was there – if she had knitted me a reindeer sweater, to go with the white socks. But I may be mixing memories, which I am getting better at all the time. I do know that early in his career Cosby was very big on reindeer sweaters.
I got into the humor business myself, eventually. You could even say I was in the humor business at the time. Later, as a newspaper columnist making speeches, I would tell the audiences that I began at Stanford as a pre-med major. Then I flunked freshman chemistry. Then I flunked it again. “I didn’t leave a mark on it, and it didn’t leave a mark on me,” I said. They laughed like crazy.
So as a pre-med major, I made a good student of English, which was the first step toward a newspaper career during which I wrote a humor column for many years. I am trying to write humor right now. I try to write humor all the time. But my Mark Twain award was not for humor. It was for a long feature story I wrote in 1989 about, at age 46, meeting my father for the first time. That was a once-in-a-lifetime event, and I am glad the Associated Press News Executives thought I did it justice.
Bill Cosby, in the newspaper piece today, said Mark Twain inspired him, and he cited several of his favorite Twain pieces, one of which – “How to Cure a Cold” – I would also select. Cosby did not mention my two favorites, which are a special telling of “The Jumping Frog of Calaveras County,” translated into French and then back into English by Twain, and “A Hundred and Ten Tin Whistles,” an account of an evening spent by Twain at the home of Brigham Young. Mark Twain was one funny writer, and he stayed on top of the events, politicians and highly placed low-lifes of his day. I can’t bring myself to imagine how good he might have been as a blogger in 2008-09.
Cosby will receive his Mark Twain award on Oct. 26, at the Kennedy Center, before a live audience. I should try to wangle a second-row ticket, and wear white socks, and see if he remembers.
We both now have won Mark Twain awards. His award is a teense bigger than mine. His is presented by the Kennedy Center in Washington, D.C. Mine was presented (in 1990) by the western division of the Associated Press News Executives. But it is a Mark Twain award nevertheless. It weighs a ton, and there is a bust of Mark Twain right there on it.
Bill Cosby won his Mark Twain award for humor, and that is part of the circle closing. I once contributed to his humor, on an evening in 1961 when we both happened to be at the old hungry i, in San Francisco. He was starting his stand-up comedy career, and I was starting at Stanford University. I think my mother and my aunt were there, but I am not sure. I know for a fact that I was wearing slacks and black loafers and white socks.
Cosby spotted the white socks. I was sitting in, like, the second row. For a couple of minutes, he had great fun with those socks, giving the audience some laughs and me something to brag about to this very day. I am almost positive that he asked my mother – which is why I think she was there – if she had knitted me a reindeer sweater, to go with the white socks. But I may be mixing memories, which I am getting better at all the time. I do know that early in his career Cosby was very big on reindeer sweaters.
I got into the humor business myself, eventually. You could even say I was in the humor business at the time. Later, as a newspaper columnist making speeches, I would tell the audiences that I began at Stanford as a pre-med major. Then I flunked freshman chemistry. Then I flunked it again. “I didn’t leave a mark on it, and it didn’t leave a mark on me,” I said. They laughed like crazy.
So as a pre-med major, I made a good student of English, which was the first step toward a newspaper career during which I wrote a humor column for many years. I am trying to write humor right now. I try to write humor all the time. But my Mark Twain award was not for humor. It was for a long feature story I wrote in 1989 about, at age 46, meeting my father for the first time. That was a once-in-a-lifetime event, and I am glad the Associated Press News Executives thought I did it justice.
Bill Cosby, in the newspaper piece today, said Mark Twain inspired him, and he cited several of his favorite Twain pieces, one of which – “How to Cure a Cold” – I would also select. Cosby did not mention my two favorites, which are a special telling of “The Jumping Frog of Calaveras County,” translated into French and then back into English by Twain, and “A Hundred and Ten Tin Whistles,” an account of an evening spent by Twain at the home of Brigham Young. Mark Twain was one funny writer, and he stayed on top of the events, politicians and highly placed low-lifes of his day. I can’t bring myself to imagine how good he might have been as a blogger in 2008-09.
Cosby will receive his Mark Twain award on Oct. 26, at the Kennedy Center, before a live audience. I should try to wangle a second-row ticket, and wear white socks, and see if he remembers.
March 01, 2009
Paul Harvey, Bob Cluck, and the Top 50 Banquet
Bob Cluck and I lost a friend yesterday. Paul Harvey, the radio personality, died.
Mr. Harvey did not know that he was our friend, but he was, since the evening in spring of 1961 when he was the featured speaker at the Abilene High "Top 50" banquet. In fact he provided unique content to the friendship that Bob and I had begun in 1955, in seventh grade. We found great humor in insulting each other, gently. The trick then became always having something handy to insult each other about.
These weren't shouted insults, declared out loud, but almost an inside joke. Others might get our humor, but more by inference than intent. Both of us had – still have – low thresholds of mirth, but the mirth was low-key. I think our elders had a lot to do with that. My grandmother was an icon of taciturnity, and her humor was almost the soldier's humor, crafted and honed in the battles of the Great Depression, when she was a widow raising six kids. My uncle Clyde must have studied her closely. Yesterday in a blog, I asked you to look at my blog photo, and note the smile. Clyde smiled exactly like that. But not often. When he did, it was for him the equivalent of jumping up and down on the coffee table.
When Bob and I got to the point where we were going to each other's houses, I found a kindred spirit in his mom, Katherine. She was always composed, never laughed out loud, as most people laugh out loud. When she was really tickled, she would sort of chortle in place, and a look would come into her eyes as if to say forgive me for this outburst. She looked like she could have studied under Jack Benny, or Bob Hope. We formed a bond. I know she was usually glad to see me. I hardly ever walked in the Clucks' door on Grand Ave. that she hadn't just made a lemon icebox pie.
Charlie, Bob's dad, was an insurance executive and by necessity more emotive. Still, he was of a reserved turn of mind. One day, fooling around, Bob and I knocked a hole in the sheetrock of their living room wall. Well, actually, I was the one. I pushed Bob backward harder than I meant to. I thought that was it, for me, in the Cluck household, but Katherine and Charlie, inspecting the hole, found humor in it, as did Bob, heaven knows, who had something he could use on me forever.
When Mr. Harvey came to town in 1961, Bob and I were seniors at Abilene High. I was one of the top 50 graduates, gradewise, and was invited. Bob was not. He has never let me off the hook. Nor I, him. I took to telling people that I taught Bob everything he knows. Bob took to telling people that he knew Mike Grant, who was invited to the banquet and met Paul Harvey. Bob is a greeter at the First Baptist Church in Abilene and I would like to know how many people he told this morning that he knows Mike Grant, arguing, seriously, as a listener might begin to believe, why they don't have a Mike Grant Day in Abilene.
That is Paul Harvey's lifelong contribution to the friendship of just two people in the world he knew. I mourn his loss particularly for that.
Mr. Harvey did not know that he was our friend, but he was, since the evening in spring of 1961 when he was the featured speaker at the Abilene High "Top 50" banquet. In fact he provided unique content to the friendship that Bob and I had begun in 1955, in seventh grade. We found great humor in insulting each other, gently. The trick then became always having something handy to insult each other about.
These weren't shouted insults, declared out loud, but almost an inside joke. Others might get our humor, but more by inference than intent. Both of us had – still have – low thresholds of mirth, but the mirth was low-key. I think our elders had a lot to do with that. My grandmother was an icon of taciturnity, and her humor was almost the soldier's humor, crafted and honed in the battles of the Great Depression, when she was a widow raising six kids. My uncle Clyde must have studied her closely. Yesterday in a blog, I asked you to look at my blog photo, and note the smile. Clyde smiled exactly like that. But not often. When he did, it was for him the equivalent of jumping up and down on the coffee table.
When Bob and I got to the point where we were going to each other's houses, I found a kindred spirit in his mom, Katherine. She was always composed, never laughed out loud, as most people laugh out loud. When she was really tickled, she would sort of chortle in place, and a look would come into her eyes as if to say forgive me for this outburst. She looked like she could have studied under Jack Benny, or Bob Hope. We formed a bond. I know she was usually glad to see me. I hardly ever walked in the Clucks' door on Grand Ave. that she hadn't just made a lemon icebox pie.
Charlie, Bob's dad, was an insurance executive and by necessity more emotive. Still, he was of a reserved turn of mind. One day, fooling around, Bob and I knocked a hole in the sheetrock of their living room wall. Well, actually, I was the one. I pushed Bob backward harder than I meant to. I thought that was it, for me, in the Cluck household, but Katherine and Charlie, inspecting the hole, found humor in it, as did Bob, heaven knows, who had something he could use on me forever.
When Mr. Harvey came to town in 1961, Bob and I were seniors at Abilene High. I was one of the top 50 graduates, gradewise, and was invited. Bob was not. He has never let me off the hook. Nor I, him. I took to telling people that I taught Bob everything he knows. Bob took to telling people that he knew Mike Grant, who was invited to the banquet and met Paul Harvey. Bob is a greeter at the First Baptist Church in Abilene and I would like to know how many people he told this morning that he knows Mike Grant, arguing, seriously, as a listener might begin to believe, why they don't have a Mike Grant Day in Abilene.
That is Paul Harvey's lifelong contribution to the friendship of just two people in the world he knew. I mourn his loss particularly for that.
February 21, 2009
Archives: here's an interview I did with Willie Nelson in 1986
Willie Nelson grinned amiably -- all of Willie's expressions rise from amiability -- at the suggestion that, as the 800-pound gorilla of country music, he can sing anything he wants.
"Well, I am country," he said. "Always have been, always will be. Country is what I write, what I sing, what I think I do." He grinned again. "But I do like to sing other kinds of songs."
And so in any given concert, Willie with his Family Band will offer rock and roll ("Whiskey River"), hard country ("The Party's Over"), blues ("City of New Orleans"), ballads ("To All the Girls I've Loved Before"), ethnic folk ("Seven Spanish Angels"), maybe a classical instrumental ("Bach Minuet in G") if the mood strikes him, and of course "Blue Skies," "Georgia on My Mind," and other pop standards, including -- you can count on it -- "Stardust."
" `Stardust' is probably the greatest song -- well, `Stardust' and `Moonlight in Vermont' are the two greatest songs -- that I think were ever written," Willie said.
"This is the same guy that says, `I'm country,' but I also know what is really beautiful and what's good and what's difficult. `Moonlight in Vermont' is a difficult melody, it's a difficult lyric. Your regular ordinary run-of-the-mill picker don't jump out there and start playing `Moonlight in Vermont' like he might `Fraulein,' you know."
For the moment, Willie was only talking about music, over cups of coffee in his suite at the L'Ermitage in Beverly Hills. He had come to Los Angeles in T-shirt and jeans to dangle before distributors rough cuts of another in a series of movies -- this one featuring, among others, Morgan Fairchild -- in which Willie has basically played himself.
A month ago, in a studio he owns in the rustic Texas hill country, he and his pal Merle Haggard finished a duet album -- "I like to sing duets" -- for release next month.
This week, Willie picked up the tour again, 100 dates (including "Farm-Aid II," in Austin, July 4) carrying into August, where from Maine to San Diego he sings the songs he likes and the songs he writes and the standards that he grew up loving. Next Wednesday, Willie will be 53 years old, living beyond the need for image, dabbling in music and film and vinyl, an eclectic cowboy recording his autobiography one day at a time.
Its title song is his own "On the Road Again," and you can see the lyric coming again to his mind when he says, "People say, well, how long are you gonna be out on the road, and it's really hard for me to say, because I feel like I've always been out. I travel around, and I play music. That's what I do."
This is Willie's silver anniversary on the road. It was in 1961 that he left Texas for Nashville and his first music job, playing bass for Ray Price. Pretty soon he was writing songs and selling them to Price ("Night Life"), Faron Young ("Hello Walls") and Patsy Cline ("Crazy").
Those songs were country, and then again they weren't, quite. Willie built into their country framework a little of the sophisticated '40s styling that he so admired; "Night Life" was to "Fraulein" as a buggy was to a buckboard.
"There's a lot of people in Nashville that didn't think I was country when I went there, and maybe still don't," he said.
As a singer, Willie scored in Nashville with "Touch Me," but it was not until after he moved to Austin in 1972 that the gorilla began to stir. He tapped into the "progressive country" scene already underway in Austin, and later cultivated, principally with Waylon Jennings, the "outlaw" image that, in its appeal to studio executives, propelled Willie and Waylon into the recording mainstream.
Willie survived the image, moved beyond it, on the strength of musicianship and personal chemistry. Seldom is so compelling a face matched exactly by the voice.
A person's voice, when it is recorded and played back, does not sound the same to him, and it is a curious thing when the voice is Willie Nelson's. Is he the only one who doesn't know what he sounds like?
"I know now," he said. "I didn't; I thought I sounded different for a long time, and I couldn't get used to it. I've accepted it because I don't dislike it. It sounds probably higher than I would like it to sound."
Right now, the voice is about 70 or 80 songs ahead. The album by Willie and Haggard, due out next month, features the work of a young songwriter, David Lynn Jones, who wrote the lead song on Willie's new "Promiseland" album.
There are another "40 or 50 sides in the can" after a different session including Nelson and Haggard and a long-time but underpublicized Texas musician named Freddy Powers.
"I'm definitely going to do something with them," said Willie. "They're all the same kind of stuff we were talking about, '40s stuff."
And there is also Willie the singer re-interpreting Willie the early songwriter.
"I've re-recorded a lot of those songs with my band," he said. "I'm just kind of waiting for a slot to put them out. I've had so much product out there over the last few years that I don't want to flood the market.
"The only way to know if you're getting overexposed or not is if people quit coming to see you. So far, the crowds have been pretty good."
"Well, I am country," he said. "Always have been, always will be. Country is what I write, what I sing, what I think I do." He grinned again. "But I do like to sing other kinds of songs."
And so in any given concert, Willie with his Family Band will offer rock and roll ("Whiskey River"), hard country ("The Party's Over"), blues ("City of New Orleans"), ballads ("To All the Girls I've Loved Before"), ethnic folk ("Seven Spanish Angels"), maybe a classical instrumental ("Bach Minuet in G") if the mood strikes him, and of course "Blue Skies," "Georgia on My Mind," and other pop standards, including -- you can count on it -- "Stardust."
" `Stardust' is probably the greatest song -- well, `Stardust' and `Moonlight in Vermont' are the two greatest songs -- that I think were ever written," Willie said.
"This is the same guy that says, `I'm country,' but I also know what is really beautiful and what's good and what's difficult. `Moonlight in Vermont' is a difficult melody, it's a difficult lyric. Your regular ordinary run-of-the-mill picker don't jump out there and start playing `Moonlight in Vermont' like he might `Fraulein,' you know."
For the moment, Willie was only talking about music, over cups of coffee in his suite at the L'Ermitage in Beverly Hills. He had come to Los Angeles in T-shirt and jeans to dangle before distributors rough cuts of another in a series of movies -- this one featuring, among others, Morgan Fairchild -- in which Willie has basically played himself.
A month ago, in a studio he owns in the rustic Texas hill country, he and his pal Merle Haggard finished a duet album -- "I like to sing duets" -- for release next month.
This week, Willie picked up the tour again, 100 dates (including "Farm-Aid II," in Austin, July 4) carrying into August, where from Maine to San Diego he sings the songs he likes and the songs he writes and the standards that he grew up loving. Next Wednesday, Willie will be 53 years old, living beyond the need for image, dabbling in music and film and vinyl, an eclectic cowboy recording his autobiography one day at a time.
Its title song is his own "On the Road Again," and you can see the lyric coming again to his mind when he says, "People say, well, how long are you gonna be out on the road, and it's really hard for me to say, because I feel like I've always been out. I travel around, and I play music. That's what I do."
This is Willie's silver anniversary on the road. It was in 1961 that he left Texas for Nashville and his first music job, playing bass for Ray Price. Pretty soon he was writing songs and selling them to Price ("Night Life"), Faron Young ("Hello Walls") and Patsy Cline ("Crazy").
Those songs were country, and then again they weren't, quite. Willie built into their country framework a little of the sophisticated '40s styling that he so admired; "Night Life" was to "Fraulein" as a buggy was to a buckboard.
"There's a lot of people in Nashville that didn't think I was country when I went there, and maybe still don't," he said.
As a singer, Willie scored in Nashville with "Touch Me," but it was not until after he moved to Austin in 1972 that the gorilla began to stir. He tapped into the "progressive country" scene already underway in Austin, and later cultivated, principally with Waylon Jennings, the "outlaw" image that, in its appeal to studio executives, propelled Willie and Waylon into the recording mainstream.
Willie survived the image, moved beyond it, on the strength of musicianship and personal chemistry. Seldom is so compelling a face matched exactly by the voice.
A person's voice, when it is recorded and played back, does not sound the same to him, and it is a curious thing when the voice is Willie Nelson's. Is he the only one who doesn't know what he sounds like?
"I know now," he said. "I didn't; I thought I sounded different for a long time, and I couldn't get used to it. I've accepted it because I don't dislike it. It sounds probably higher than I would like it to sound."
Right now, the voice is about 70 or 80 songs ahead. The album by Willie and Haggard, due out next month, features the work of a young songwriter, David Lynn Jones, who wrote the lead song on Willie's new "Promiseland" album.
There are another "40 or 50 sides in the can" after a different session including Nelson and Haggard and a long-time but underpublicized Texas musician named Freddy Powers.
"I'm definitely going to do something with them," said Willie. "They're all the same kind of stuff we were talking about, '40s stuff."
And there is also Willie the singer re-interpreting Willie the early songwriter.
"I've re-recorded a lot of those songs with my band," he said. "I'm just kind of waiting for a slot to put them out. I've had so much product out there over the last few years that I don't want to flood the market.
"The only way to know if you're getting overexposed or not is if people quit coming to see you. So far, the crowds have been pretty good."
February 05, 2009
New evidence from an airplane in trouble
I have written before – more than once – of my experience on board an airplane that I believed was about to crash. Now comes information that compels me to visit it again, because it is new evidence of an odd thing that happened to me on that airplane.
The new information, now finding its way onto the blogs, is an account by Susan O’Donnell of her experience as a passenger on board U.S. Airways 1549, that ditched in the Hudson River on Jan. 15 after hitting birds on takeoff. But O’Donnell was no ordinary passenger. She is an American Airlines 767 pilot, based in New York, who, after completing her flight sequence, was hitching a ride – they call it “jump-seating” – on 1549 on her way home to South Carolina.
Her account is fascinating in its detail, which is detail only a pilot could provide. She made the presentation to the Allied Pilots Association, which is the pilots’ union for American Airlines, but I read it at a site called PlaneTalking. Here is the excerpt that applies to my experience. It begins shortly after O’Donnell felt thumps shake the aircraft, followed by “a bit of smoke and the stench of burning bird.”
She said: “The passengers were concerned but calm. I couldn't see any part of the aircraft out the window from my aisle seat. Although I didn't hear much that sounded encouraging from the engines, I expected we would have at least partial thrust with which to limp back to LGA. We rolled out of the turn, and I could tell we were not maintaining altitude. Then we heard the PA: ‘This is the Captain. Brace for impact.’
“Obviously we weren't returning to LGA, and I could see enough out the window to realize we'd be landing in the river. The flight attendants began shouting their ‘brace’ litanies and kept it up until touchdown. The descent seemed very controlled, and the sink rate reasonably low. I believed the impact would be violent but survivable, although I did consider the alternative. The passengers remained calm and almost completely quiet. As we approached the water, I braced by folding my arms against the seat back in front of me, then putting my head against my arms. There was a brief hard jolt, a rapid decel and we were stopped . . . .”
Now to go my experience of Nov. 28, 1958, over Big Spring, Texas. I was a member of the Abilene High School football team, flying to El Paso for a playoff game. We were on two planes, both chartered twin-engine DC-3s with 27 seats. About an hour out, without any sense of anything happening, or of time passing, I suddenly found myself glued, spread-eagled, to the ceiling of the aircraft. I could not move my arms or legs or even close my eyes, though I tried to. Directly below me was a window of the aircraft, and below that was the brown West Texas ground. I did not feel I was falling toward it, but that it was rising to meet me. My life passed before my eyes; I was only 15, so there wasn’t much on the reel, but I saw it all.
Again, without any sense of something happening or of time passing, I found myself on the floor of the aircraft. Another player was across me, and other materials, including a long, square stick, like a measuring stick, white with red and black markings. Since I was a nut for airplanes, I knew that this stick was used at the airport to dip into wing tanks to determine fuel levels. For a quick, reflexive second, I thought: this stick is supposed to be outside of the airplane. If it is, then I must be too, which means I must be dead.
But I wasn’t. We picked ourselves up and listened as our pilot, Charles L. Kageler, came on the intercom to explain we had almost been hit by a military jet trainer, taking off from Webb AFB outside Big Spring. Later he told reporters that to avoid the collision, he cut all power to both engines, stood the DC-3 on its left wingtip, and dropped like a rock for 1,000 feet. That was the g-force that glued me to the ceiling. Kageler also said he estimated the jet missed us by 25 feet.
We flew on to El Paso, played the game the next day, won, 45-0, and flew back without incident. But all on board that DC-3 had become members of a club. As a member, I knew three things: one, your life passes before your eyes; two, the ground comes up to get you; and three, there was no panic on that airplane at any time, no yells or screams, only silence throughout and a strange, complete calm.
Which is what O’Donnell described among the passengers on Flight 1549. After my 1958 experience, I formed the conviction that the brain, being a logical instrument, wants to place patterns on all the data it receives, but the data was coming too fast on Nov. 28, 1958, and Jan. 15. And probably on most of the other aircraft, that crash and kill people, which is why I am so interested in new evidence of my old conviction. It means all those people did not suffer the indignity of terror in those last seconds, and that has always been important to me.
The new information, now finding its way onto the blogs, is an account by Susan O’Donnell of her experience as a passenger on board U.S. Airways 1549, that ditched in the Hudson River on Jan. 15 after hitting birds on takeoff. But O’Donnell was no ordinary passenger. She is an American Airlines 767 pilot, based in New York, who, after completing her flight sequence, was hitching a ride – they call it “jump-seating” – on 1549 on her way home to South Carolina.
Her account is fascinating in its detail, which is detail only a pilot could provide. She made the presentation to the Allied Pilots Association, which is the pilots’ union for American Airlines, but I read it at a site called PlaneTalking. Here is the excerpt that applies to my experience. It begins shortly after O’Donnell felt thumps shake the aircraft, followed by “a bit of smoke and the stench of burning bird.”
She said: “The passengers were concerned but calm. I couldn't see any part of the aircraft out the window from my aisle seat. Although I didn't hear much that sounded encouraging from the engines, I expected we would have at least partial thrust with which to limp back to LGA. We rolled out of the turn, and I could tell we were not maintaining altitude. Then we heard the PA: ‘This is the Captain. Brace for impact.’
“Obviously we weren't returning to LGA, and I could see enough out the window to realize we'd be landing in the river. The flight attendants began shouting their ‘brace’ litanies and kept it up until touchdown. The descent seemed very controlled, and the sink rate reasonably low. I believed the impact would be violent but survivable, although I did consider the alternative. The passengers remained calm and almost completely quiet. As we approached the water, I braced by folding my arms against the seat back in front of me, then putting my head against my arms. There was a brief hard jolt, a rapid decel and we were stopped . . . .”
Now to go my experience of Nov. 28, 1958, over Big Spring, Texas. I was a member of the Abilene High School football team, flying to El Paso for a playoff game. We were on two planes, both chartered twin-engine DC-3s with 27 seats. About an hour out, without any sense of anything happening, or of time passing, I suddenly found myself glued, spread-eagled, to the ceiling of the aircraft. I could not move my arms or legs or even close my eyes, though I tried to. Directly below me was a window of the aircraft, and below that was the brown West Texas ground. I did not feel I was falling toward it, but that it was rising to meet me. My life passed before my eyes; I was only 15, so there wasn’t much on the reel, but I saw it all.
Again, without any sense of something happening or of time passing, I found myself on the floor of the aircraft. Another player was across me, and other materials, including a long, square stick, like a measuring stick, white with red and black markings. Since I was a nut for airplanes, I knew that this stick was used at the airport to dip into wing tanks to determine fuel levels. For a quick, reflexive second, I thought: this stick is supposed to be outside of the airplane. If it is, then I must be too, which means I must be dead.
But I wasn’t. We picked ourselves up and listened as our pilot, Charles L. Kageler, came on the intercom to explain we had almost been hit by a military jet trainer, taking off from Webb AFB outside Big Spring. Later he told reporters that to avoid the collision, he cut all power to both engines, stood the DC-3 on its left wingtip, and dropped like a rock for 1,000 feet. That was the g-force that glued me to the ceiling. Kageler also said he estimated the jet missed us by 25 feet.
We flew on to El Paso, played the game the next day, won, 45-0, and flew back without incident. But all on board that DC-3 had become members of a club. As a member, I knew three things: one, your life passes before your eyes; two, the ground comes up to get you; and three, there was no panic on that airplane at any time, no yells or screams, only silence throughout and a strange, complete calm.
Which is what O’Donnell described among the passengers on Flight 1549. After my 1958 experience, I formed the conviction that the brain, being a logical instrument, wants to place patterns on all the data it receives, but the data was coming too fast on Nov. 28, 1958, and Jan. 15. And probably on most of the other aircraft, that crash and kill people, which is why I am so interested in new evidence of my old conviction. It means all those people did not suffer the indignity of terror in those last seconds, and that has always been important to me.
January 26, 2009
Saturday night fever, Sunday morning sweat
Karen's Medal
Saturday was one of those days that just sails along. First we drove up to Carlsbad to get Karen’s bib number and other I.D. for Sunday’s Carlsbad Half-Marathon in which she was entered. Bright, sunny morning, even though rain was forecast. No traffic at the check-in site, though nine thousand people were entered in the thing. We picked up our friend Nataly, who was entered also – she is a veteran of events like this. She showed us a trick to beat the traffic on Sunday morning.
Driving home, we stopped for birthday cards and wine. We were going to a party Saturday night, one of those where couples get together regularly because they like getting together, they laugh a lot, and they’re all good cooks, plus this time two of the guys were celebrating birthdays. The first two cards we looked at were perfect. At the end of the card aisle and around the corner, we ran straight into a shelf on which sat the perfect gifts for these gentlemen. We found two good bottles of Cabernet (beef tenderloin was the entrée) for a combined $11 off, and were out of the store inside of five minutes. At home I didn’t even bother with lunch, preferring to entertain visions of the goodies to come at 6:30.
Can you see where this is heading? I sat down for a short snooze. Thirty minutes later, I woke up feeling weird. The day was still beautiful, but it didn’t much interest me. My appetite was gone. In my head was a tiny, whispering ache that said, “So you thought you were having a good day, did you?” I walked to the back and told Karen, “I don’t feel very good.” She felt my forehead and said, “You feel warm.” We took my temperature. It was right at 100. I would have preferred it to be 101 or 102, the hot, nasty kind that involves pain and toilets. But no, just 100, just enough to poke me in the gut and sneer, “No party for you, Mr. Hot Stuff.”
Karen called and cancelled and went to the store to get me some chicken noodle soup. She called Nataly to ask if they could meet and drive together to Carlsbad, since I probably couldn’t go. It was Karen’s first half-marathon, and I wanted to be there. But when she left at 5:30 a.m. I felt just bad enough to be happy to get on my back again. I hate those fevers that make you feel just bad enough, like, well, it’s not even the flu, you have just been having too much fun lately and now you are going to have to pay.
Karen got home at midday with cramps in her legs and a medal around her neck. She was very happy. “I did it in 3:45,” she said, where she had gone in reckoning on a 4:20. But that was if she walked the whole route. “I jogged part of the way,” she said. "About an hour." After the Breast Cancer 3Day in November, she saw the local half-marathons as good training for next November. She now has the first leg of the San Diego “triple crown” under her belt. Next is the La Jolla Half-Marathon in April, and the San Diego Half-Marathon in August.
“How do you feel?” she asked. “Better,” I said. The temperature was down to 99. This morning, our spring semester classes started at Grossmont. Guess what my temperature was . . . .
Saturday was one of those days that just sails along. First we drove up to Carlsbad to get Karen’s bib number and other I.D. for Sunday’s Carlsbad Half-Marathon in which she was entered. Bright, sunny morning, even though rain was forecast. No traffic at the check-in site, though nine thousand people were entered in the thing. We picked up our friend Nataly, who was entered also – she is a veteran of events like this. She showed us a trick to beat the traffic on Sunday morning.
Driving home, we stopped for birthday cards and wine. We were going to a party Saturday night, one of those where couples get together regularly because they like getting together, they laugh a lot, and they’re all good cooks, plus this time two of the guys were celebrating birthdays. The first two cards we looked at were perfect. At the end of the card aisle and around the corner, we ran straight into a shelf on which sat the perfect gifts for these gentlemen. We found two good bottles of Cabernet (beef tenderloin was the entrée) for a combined $11 off, and were out of the store inside of five minutes. At home I didn’t even bother with lunch, preferring to entertain visions of the goodies to come at 6:30.
Can you see where this is heading? I sat down for a short snooze. Thirty minutes later, I woke up feeling weird. The day was still beautiful, but it didn’t much interest me. My appetite was gone. In my head was a tiny, whispering ache that said, “So you thought you were having a good day, did you?” I walked to the back and told Karen, “I don’t feel very good.” She felt my forehead and said, “You feel warm.” We took my temperature. It was right at 100. I would have preferred it to be 101 or 102, the hot, nasty kind that involves pain and toilets. But no, just 100, just enough to poke me in the gut and sneer, “No party for you, Mr. Hot Stuff.”
Karen called and cancelled and went to the store to get me some chicken noodle soup. She called Nataly to ask if they could meet and drive together to Carlsbad, since I probably couldn’t go. It was Karen’s first half-marathon, and I wanted to be there. But when she left at 5:30 a.m. I felt just bad enough to be happy to get on my back again. I hate those fevers that make you feel just bad enough, like, well, it’s not even the flu, you have just been having too much fun lately and now you are going to have to pay.
Karen got home at midday with cramps in her legs and a medal around her neck. She was very happy. “I did it in 3:45,” she said, where she had gone in reckoning on a 4:20. But that was if she walked the whole route. “I jogged part of the way,” she said. "About an hour." After the Breast Cancer 3Day in November, she saw the local half-marathons as good training for next November. She now has the first leg of the San Diego “triple crown” under her belt. Next is the La Jolla Half-Marathon in April, and the San Diego Half-Marathon in August.
“How do you feel?” she asked. “Better,” I said. The temperature was down to 99. This morning, our spring semester classes started at Grossmont. Guess what my temperature was . . . .
January 15, 2009
Leadership on the wing
I have a blog on leadership all drafted and ready to revise and post next Monday, the day before the Inauguration. In the minds of many, leadership, or the potential return of same to The White House, will be the big story of the day.
The gods appear to be in agreement. They are so excited, they are giving us a preview. Forgotten what good things can happen when leadership is exercised? Let's give you an afternoon of television about a jetliner being crippled on takeoff. Less than two minutes into his climb, the pilot feels power failure in both engines. He's about 3,000 feet above New York City with 150-plus people on board. His first thought is probably reflexive. Power. Hit the throttles. No power. His second thought: where can I land. Speed, altitude, weight, maneuverability, airport locations, flashing into calculations. His third thought: the Hudson River.
He may remember these thoughts passing through his mind slowly and clearly, though in real time it may have been 15 seconds. Real time in critically short supply has the effect of triggering hyper-speed circuits in the brain, which played back later appear naturally to be slow. Many people have experienced this phenomenon. It feels like your life has passed before your eyes.
Why was his third thought the Hudson River? Because he's had it before, probably with every takeoff he has ever made out of La Guardia. The Hudson is no airport runway, but in a situation without choices, it is softer than the ground and doesn't have buildings poking out of it. I doubt there's ever a pilot who took off from La Guardia who didn't know and understand that.
But not many of them have ever been in the captain's seat 3,000 feet above New York City in an airliner with no power and 150 people on board. Here's where leadership comes into play. Conceptualizing the Hudson River as a landing strip, and actually taking action to land on it, are two different things. That captain had to act, based on the information at hand, and on his best estimates of providing his people their best chance to survive.
I have specific knowledge of one other airliner captain at that instant before taking action. His name was Charles L. Kageler, commanding a chartered DC-3 with 27 people on board on the afternoon of Nov. 28, 1958. He saw a military jet fighter coming toward him and acted. He cut all power and rolled his 25,000-pound aircraft hard left, standing it on its left wingtip, and dropped 1,000 feet straight down before recovering. I was in the back of that airplane, a passenger, and in that 1,000-foot drop, my life passed before my eyes. Kageler estimated the jet missed us by 25 feet. Without his action, I am not writing this today.
A strange thing about that experience: there was no panic on the airplane, because, I believe, there wasn't time for the brain to sort things out. That must account for the reported relative calm of the passengers yesterday when their pilot acted to save their lives. What about the pilot's brain? Insane as it seemed, he committed to a decision, a hard left turn into a powerless glide down to the river. That commitment was leadership, based on information at hand, best estimates, and willingness to act instantaneously, and it saved everyone on board. I am writing this only four hours after the accident, but if Obama's people haven't already sent an invitation to the U.S. Air pilot to be on the Inaugural dais next Tuesday, they are missing a terrific symbol for the day.
The gods appear to be in agreement. They are so excited, they are giving us a preview. Forgotten what good things can happen when leadership is exercised? Let's give you an afternoon of television about a jetliner being crippled on takeoff. Less than two minutes into his climb, the pilot feels power failure in both engines. He's about 3,000 feet above New York City with 150-plus people on board. His first thought is probably reflexive. Power. Hit the throttles. No power. His second thought: where can I land. Speed, altitude, weight, maneuverability, airport locations, flashing into calculations. His third thought: the Hudson River.
He may remember these thoughts passing through his mind slowly and clearly, though in real time it may have been 15 seconds. Real time in critically short supply has the effect of triggering hyper-speed circuits in the brain, which played back later appear naturally to be slow. Many people have experienced this phenomenon. It feels like your life has passed before your eyes.
Why was his third thought the Hudson River? Because he's had it before, probably with every takeoff he has ever made out of La Guardia. The Hudson is no airport runway, but in a situation without choices, it is softer than the ground and doesn't have buildings poking out of it. I doubt there's ever a pilot who took off from La Guardia who didn't know and understand that.
But not many of them have ever been in the captain's seat 3,000 feet above New York City in an airliner with no power and 150 people on board. Here's where leadership comes into play. Conceptualizing the Hudson River as a landing strip, and actually taking action to land on it, are two different things. That captain had to act, based on the information at hand, and on his best estimates of providing his people their best chance to survive.
I have specific knowledge of one other airliner captain at that instant before taking action. His name was Charles L. Kageler, commanding a chartered DC-3 with 27 people on board on the afternoon of Nov. 28, 1958. He saw a military jet fighter coming toward him and acted. He cut all power and rolled his 25,000-pound aircraft hard left, standing it on its left wingtip, and dropped 1,000 feet straight down before recovering. I was in the back of that airplane, a passenger, and in that 1,000-foot drop, my life passed before my eyes. Kageler estimated the jet missed us by 25 feet. Without his action, I am not writing this today.
A strange thing about that experience: there was no panic on the airplane, because, I believe, there wasn't time for the brain to sort things out. That must account for the reported relative calm of the passengers yesterday when their pilot acted to save their lives. What about the pilot's brain? Insane as it seemed, he committed to a decision, a hard left turn into a powerless glide down to the river. That commitment was leadership, based on information at hand, best estimates, and willingness to act instantaneously, and it saved everyone on board. I am writing this only four hours after the accident, but if Obama's people haven't already sent an invitation to the U.S. Air pilot to be on the Inaugural dais next Tuesday, they are missing a terrific symbol for the day.
November 23, 2008
Big heart, bad blisters
It's tough, living with an athlete who has had to go on the disabled list. They rage at themselves.
Karen called me yesterday noon to come pick her up. She was halfway through the 3Day 60-mile walk when she finally agreed with her feet that she couldn't and shouldn't continue.
At the close of the first day's 20 miles, she marched into the 3Day's sprawling pink tent city, pulled off her shoes and socks, and examined blisters the size of brazil nuts, one on each foot, where the deep part of the arch meets her heel. She wears plastic orthotics, to straighten out a natural pronation, and the edge of the device rubbed at that vulnerable arch-heel spot.
She got the blisters lanced and treated and next morning, with "Second Skin" applications and bandaging, she continued. Nine miles out, after a second lancing and treatment at a medical tent, she had to stop. I came and found her and took her home.
The hard part is that she knew she had the 3Day in the bag. She knew it after the first 20 miles. Everything was fine, except for a blister on each foot that truly looked like a brazil nut. At these, she raged and cried. She needed to be out there with her team, and the four thousand other walkers. They were like an army, marching to liberate a people, and residents came out of their houses and businesses along the way to cheer the army and tell how proud they were. Buzzing around the marchers were "spirit people," on bicycles and motorbikes and in cars, wearing whimsical costumes like parade mummers and cheering the walkers on.
"I feel great," she said. "Everything is fine. Except for two little bleeping blisters." I told her what a little something like a sprained toe can do to a magnificent athlete like Antonio Gates, and how a Cy Young pitcher feels when a finger blister puts him on the bench, but it didn't do much good. She wanted to be out there, part of the experience of thousands of people acting together magnificently in behalf of a cause, breast cancer survivors out there marching, and she couldn't be with those brave sisters because of a couple of lousy feet. "All that training," she fumed. "No blisters then. I'd like to add up the number of miles I walked. A hundred, two hundred."
I would say at least two hundred, probably more, and it wasn't fair for the blisters to wait until game day. Injury never is fair. But, now we know how it happened, and next year she'll get the footwear right. Part of being an athlete is knowing that there's always next year.
She wasn't ready to give up. She thought she might be able to go today. Blisters always harden up when they are exposed to air. We took the patches off and gave them most of the afternoon and overnight to dry out. I was actually optimistic that she could get out there this morning. But the damage underneath was too much and continued to ooze. When she took a little test walk out to get the papers this morning, she could feel how full they were.
Her teammates called her last night to tell her how great she was. We are going to meet them this afternoon for a drink at a bar up the street from PetCo Park, where the walk ends, and then Karen will join them on the field for the closing ceremony. The check that the 3Day writes for the breast cancer fight will include the several thousand that Karen raised, but that won't close the deal. She knows she owes them 30 more miles. She will be fine in 2009.
Karen called me yesterday noon to come pick her up. She was halfway through the 3Day 60-mile walk when she finally agreed with her feet that she couldn't and shouldn't continue.
At the close of the first day's 20 miles, she marched into the 3Day's sprawling pink tent city, pulled off her shoes and socks, and examined blisters the size of brazil nuts, one on each foot, where the deep part of the arch meets her heel. She wears plastic orthotics, to straighten out a natural pronation, and the edge of the device rubbed at that vulnerable arch-heel spot.
She got the blisters lanced and treated and next morning, with "Second Skin" applications and bandaging, she continued. Nine miles out, after a second lancing and treatment at a medical tent, she had to stop. I came and found her and took her home.
The hard part is that she knew she had the 3Day in the bag. She knew it after the first 20 miles. Everything was fine, except for a blister on each foot that truly looked like a brazil nut. At these, she raged and cried. She needed to be out there with her team, and the four thousand other walkers. They were like an army, marching to liberate a people, and residents came out of their houses and businesses along the way to cheer the army and tell how proud they were. Buzzing around the marchers were "spirit people," on bicycles and motorbikes and in cars, wearing whimsical costumes like parade mummers and cheering the walkers on.
"I feel great," she said. "Everything is fine. Except for two little bleeping blisters." I told her what a little something like a sprained toe can do to a magnificent athlete like Antonio Gates, and how a Cy Young pitcher feels when a finger blister puts him on the bench, but it didn't do much good. She wanted to be out there, part of the experience of thousands of people acting together magnificently in behalf of a cause, breast cancer survivors out there marching, and she couldn't be with those brave sisters because of a couple of lousy feet. "All that training," she fumed. "No blisters then. I'd like to add up the number of miles I walked. A hundred, two hundred."
I would say at least two hundred, probably more, and it wasn't fair for the blisters to wait until game day. Injury never is fair. But, now we know how it happened, and next year she'll get the footwear right. Part of being an athlete is knowing that there's always next year.
She wasn't ready to give up. She thought she might be able to go today. Blisters always harden up when they are exposed to air. We took the patches off and gave them most of the afternoon and overnight to dry out. I was actually optimistic that she could get out there this morning. But the damage underneath was too much and continued to ooze. When she took a little test walk out to get the papers this morning, she could feel how full they were.
Her teammates called her last night to tell her how great she was. We are going to meet them this afternoon for a drink at a bar up the street from PetCo Park, where the walk ends, and then Karen will join them on the field for the closing ceremony. The check that the 3Day writes for the breast cancer fight will include the several thousand that Karen raised, but that won't close the deal. She knows she owes them 30 more miles. She will be fine in 2009.
November 20, 2008
I have a 6:30 a.m. assignment for you
Karen is naturally athletic, but she did not become an athlete until about a month ago.
It started in August when one day her brain overheated and took a wrong turn. She decided she was going to sign up for our 3Day Breast Cancer Walk in San Diego. The 3Day starts on a Friday, and the walkers go 20 miles a day until they reach the finish line on Sunday afternoon.
I have had big ideas like that, but they always go away after I lie down for awhile and have a few sips of cool water. Karen did take a cool soak at my suggestion, but when she toweled off, she still had that look in her eyes.
She has connections to breast cancer and the 3Day. Nataly Pluta, her great friend, is a breast cancer survivor and has done the 3Day for the last three years. Each year, Karen and I have driven down to the overnight camp to say "Yay!" to her and give her a bottle of wine to sneak back to the tent. Karen is married to me, and I am a man whose late wife, Meredith, died of breast cancer in July, 2000. Karen has other family, friends and associates who have experienced breast cancer. She made a list of names, 32 when she was finished, and showed it to me.
"These are the people I will be walking for," she said. To the original names, she had added three more: Caitlin, her granddaughter; Addie, Meredith's granddaughter; and Evie June, my granddaughter. The idea being that what Karen did now might mean these three little girls might go through their whole, deserved lives in a world free of breast cancer.
She started off at three miles. Then we drove to Miramar Lake, where lots of people walk, bicycle and skate the five miles around the lake. Off she went in one direction and 90-odd minutes later, back she came from the other direction. I started getting impressed. I walked, too, all of 30 minutes, and then I waited in the car, drank coffee and read the paper. In fairness, I am just getting back on the trail after hip replacement surgery, but I could have all my original parts and be 30 years younger, and would not voluntarily walk 60 miles in three days, or five miles in 90 minutes.
She bought special shoes and socks; socks with toes in them. Weekends came when she left the house before daylight to meet her team and walk 12 or 14 miles somewhere. She would get back at noon with the classic rode-hard look. One day during the week she dropped me at school at 8 a.m. At 1 p.m. my phone rang. "Just got finished," she said. "Dang," I said. I had taught two classes and eaten lunch. All that time, she had been walking a trail at Lake Murray.
Her body was changing. It was more than weight loss. It showed in her skin, her eyes, her smile, her mood. "Just going out for a short one," she would say at 5:30 a.m. Five miles later, she was back in time to take me to work. She shifted from cotton to a kind of garment that wicks away moisture. She had a waist pack, a special hat, a scarf, an iPod, water, other paraphernalia. She was not just going out the door now, she was carrying gear. She looked like a baseball player getting on the bus. I said to her: "You look like an athlete." And of course she was. I told her she was "dedicated," but an hour later decided I had used the wrong word. "What you are, is distinguished," I said.
About a month ago, she came home from a 15-miler looking like she hadn't done much more than a little gardening. "I feel different," she said. "I feel like I've got 15 miles under my belt." She was in a place most of us don't reach.
Last week, she and her team did back-to-back training, 15 miles on Saturday and 14 on Sunday. Her last week has called for only one three-miler on Tuesday, then rest. But she can't rest. She has dreamed about the 3Day every night. She started getting her gear ready on Monday. Today we double-checked it all. "My mind is doing a million things," she said. She is jumpy. She paces. She's in there right now taking a soak. Nothing special for dinner, she says. I hope she can sleep tonight. Before bed, we are going to watch "Chariots of Fire."
I will drop her off at 5:45 tomorrow morning. Starting-line time is 6:30. At 6:30 California time, if you have read this, I want you to go outside and yell, "Go, Karen!"
It started in August when one day her brain overheated and took a wrong turn. She decided she was going to sign up for our 3Day Breast Cancer Walk in San Diego. The 3Day starts on a Friday, and the walkers go 20 miles a day until they reach the finish line on Sunday afternoon.
I have had big ideas like that, but they always go away after I lie down for awhile and have a few sips of cool water. Karen did take a cool soak at my suggestion, but when she toweled off, she still had that look in her eyes.
She has connections to breast cancer and the 3Day. Nataly Pluta, her great friend, is a breast cancer survivor and has done the 3Day for the last three years. Each year, Karen and I have driven down to the overnight camp to say "Yay!" to her and give her a bottle of wine to sneak back to the tent. Karen is married to me, and I am a man whose late wife, Meredith, died of breast cancer in July, 2000. Karen has other family, friends and associates who have experienced breast cancer. She made a list of names, 32 when she was finished, and showed it to me.
"These are the people I will be walking for," she said. To the original names, she had added three more: Caitlin, her granddaughter; Addie, Meredith's granddaughter; and Evie June, my granddaughter. The idea being that what Karen did now might mean these three little girls might go through their whole, deserved lives in a world free of breast cancer.
She started off at three miles. Then we drove to Miramar Lake, where lots of people walk, bicycle and skate the five miles around the lake. Off she went in one direction and 90-odd minutes later, back she came from the other direction. I started getting impressed. I walked, too, all of 30 minutes, and then I waited in the car, drank coffee and read the paper. In fairness, I am just getting back on the trail after hip replacement surgery, but I could have all my original parts and be 30 years younger, and would not voluntarily walk 60 miles in three days, or five miles in 90 minutes.
She bought special shoes and socks; socks with toes in them. Weekends came when she left the house before daylight to meet her team and walk 12 or 14 miles somewhere. She would get back at noon with the classic rode-hard look. One day during the week she dropped me at school at 8 a.m. At 1 p.m. my phone rang. "Just got finished," she said. "Dang," I said. I had taught two classes and eaten lunch. All that time, she had been walking a trail at Lake Murray.
Her body was changing. It was more than weight loss. It showed in her skin, her eyes, her smile, her mood. "Just going out for a short one," she would say at 5:30 a.m. Five miles later, she was back in time to take me to work. She shifted from cotton to a kind of garment that wicks away moisture. She had a waist pack, a special hat, a scarf, an iPod, water, other paraphernalia. She was not just going out the door now, she was carrying gear. She looked like a baseball player getting on the bus. I said to her: "You look like an athlete." And of course she was. I told her she was "dedicated," but an hour later decided I had used the wrong word. "What you are, is distinguished," I said.
About a month ago, she came home from a 15-miler looking like she hadn't done much more than a little gardening. "I feel different," she said. "I feel like I've got 15 miles under my belt." She was in a place most of us don't reach.
Last week, she and her team did back-to-back training, 15 miles on Saturday and 14 on Sunday. Her last week has called for only one three-miler on Tuesday, then rest. But she can't rest. She has dreamed about the 3Day every night. She started getting her gear ready on Monday. Today we double-checked it all. "My mind is doing a million things," she said. She is jumpy. She paces. She's in there right now taking a soak. Nothing special for dinner, she says. I hope she can sleep tonight. Before bed, we are going to watch "Chariots of Fire."
I will drop her off at 5:45 tomorrow morning. Starting-line time is 6:30. At 6:30 California time, if you have read this, I want you to go outside and yell, "Go, Karen!"
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