Jadah the Cat woke you both up before seven.
You woke up about two-thirty and Jadah wanted body warmth for about an hour.
The day is dark and dreary, not at all like yesterday. Here comes Jadah. Later,
dude. – Amorella
0929
hours. Jadah and I slept for about an hour. She only weighs seven pounds and
she snuggles in – I just fell asleep. Time for exercises then I’ll finish the
chapter.
You took the time for a soaker bath, then,
cleaned up your hand wounds by cutting off excessive dead surface skin with the
help of fingernail clippers. The inner skin is meat red in color, which makes
it look worse than it is. Forty minutes of exercise, that’s a good round
number, why don’t you do that most every day?- Amorella
1215
hours. I don’t know why I am on here; I don’t have anything to say.
Why
don’t you check BBC and your email while Carol is writing a check for the water
bill? Within the hour you will probably go to lunch. – Amorella
1244
hours. I didn’t really have much email but in ‘Feedback’ I saw an article on
the death of Jerry Roberts.
This is a heart and mind interest, boy. You
set the article up on you Facebook page adding that if friends were interested
two books you would recommend, The Codebreakers and A Man Called
Intrepid.
**
**
26
March 2014 Last updated at 16:09 ET
Bletchley Park codebreaker Jerry
Roberts dies, aged 93
Raymond "Jerry" Roberts - one of the last of a
top World War Two codebreaking team at Bletchley Park - has died, aged 93,
following a short illness.
Capt Roberts, from Liphook, Hampshire, was part of a
group that cracked the German High Command's Tunny code at the British
codebreaking centre. Their decrypts made it possible to read Hitler's own
messages during the war. The team is credited with helping to shorten the war
by at least two years.
Hitler's top generals
Capt Roberts joined Bletchley Park, in Buckinghamshire,
as a German linguist and was among four founder members of the Testery section
- named after its head Ralph Tester. Their target was to crack a system known
as Tunny, which carried the messages of Hitler's top generals and even the
Fuhrer himself. The system used four times as many encryption wheels as the
famous Enigma machine - which carried military communications.
Reminiscing years after WW2 - when he could finally talk
about his work - Capt Roberts said he had taken delight in reading Hitler's
messages, sometimes even before the intended recipient. He described the
intelligence the team had gathered as "gold dust" in a 2013 BBC
interview. It was "top-level stuff" referring to the movement of
entire armies, he said. This stream of intelligence proved vital in the Allied
D-Day invasion and helped save many lives.
'Exciting time'
"We were breaking 90% of the German traffic through
'41 to '45", Capt Roberts recalled in one interview. "We worked for
three years on Tunny material and were breaking - at a conservative estimate -
just under 64,000 top-line messages." He added it had been "an
exciting time" whenever the team "started getting a break on a message
and seeing it through". Capt Roberts later received an MBE and became a
tireless ambassador for the memory of those who had served in secret. He spent
years campaigning for greater acknowledgement of his colleagues, including Alan
Turing, who broke the naval Enigma code.
'Unique time'
And he argued the Testery group as a whole should he
honoured for its work - including Bill Tutte, who broke the Tunny system, and
Tommy Flowers, who designed and built the Colossus - which sped up some stages
of the breaking of Tunny traffic.
Capt Roberts said the work done at Bletchley Park had
been "unique" and was unlikely to happen again. He said: "It was
a war where we knew comprehensively what the other side were doing, and that
was thanks to Alan Turing, who basically saved the country by breaking Enigma
in 1941."
Capt
Roberts worked at Bletchley Park, Buckinghamshire, until the end of the war
before spending two years at the War Crimes Investigation Unit, and then moving
on to a 50-year career in marketing and research.
From -
http://www.bbc-dot-com/news/uk-26759034?print=true
** **
A
few weeks ago Aunt Patsy gave you notes that she wrote up about the war from
Uncle Ernie in which he described his time in the field, as he was a weather
forecaster, with a degree in physics from Otterbein. As member of the Army Air
Corps he had further work at the Meteorology School at UCLA with a Certificate
of Achievement, the equivalent of a Master’s Degree. Below is from Patricia
Ernsberger, wife of Warren, as told by Warren, age 92.
“From
UCLA he was sent to Harrisburg, PA to the AAF Intelligence School. Then he went
to Will Rogers Field in Oklahoma City where the 2nd Photo
Intelligence Squadron was formed. From there the Squadron embarked for England
from New York on the Queen Mary on February 3, 1944. He arrived in Glasgow,
Scotland on February 27th. The squadron proceeded by train to High
Wycombe, the US 8th Air Force Headquarters of which General Jimmy
Doolittle was the commander. Five days later, five men were put on detached
duty with the Royal Air Force and were sent to Medmenham British Intelligence
Headquarters. After spending his first three weeks studying aerial photos taken
by American P-38’s and P-51’s as well as British Spitfires, my husband was
assigned to what was called the Normandy Project.”
Late
afternoon. You drove to Potbelly’s for lunch then over to Kenwood Centre where
Carol stopped by Macy’s to find and buy a new twelve inch and ten inch skillet.
Coming home in I-71 traffic you decided to relax at the south end of Pine Hills
Lakes Park by the city swimming pool directly across from the east side of
Mason High School where you could see the third floor window of your classroom
(of which you were the first to occupy in 2002). While at the park you
completed chapter nine final. Let’s drop it in after completing Uncle Ernie’s
letter to Aunt Patsy.
“About
the first of April in 1944, word came the Normandy Project was to be involved
in plans for the invasion of the continent. Five men, four British and one
American, Lt. Ernsberger, were assigned to study landing sites for the
invasion. There were eleven possible sites. After five sites were selected, the
committee met with one of General Eisenhower’s staff, General Bradley. . . .
Soon
after the meeting with General Bradley, my husband, Lt. Ernsberger, was at work
when he was notified to meet with General Eisenhower’s committee in London. One
day at the end of May at my husband’s office at Medmenham, a call came into the
office for him to be prepared for a meeting the next day at General
Eisenhower’s Headquarters in London. A car would pick him up at 6 a.m. As he
was on duty until 6 a.m. he arrived in London at 8:15 a.m. without sleep or
breakfast.
At
the building in London there were military police everywhere. One of them
opened the car door for my husband and then walked him into the building. He was
shown to a waiting room with six empty chairs. After fifteen minutes a three
star general arrived. My husband stood up and the man introduced himself as
Omar Bradley. Then Eisenhower walked it and shook hands but they did not
salute. The conversation was very relaxed. My husband did not speak except to
say he didn’t know what the protocol was for a lieutenant among generals. They
laughed and Bradley patted him on the back.
General
Patton arrived next followed by British General Montgomery. Eisenhower was
sitting at the table in the conference room going over papers with the door
open. At precisely 9:00 a.m. Eisenhower’s aide, a Lt. Colonel, came into the
waiting room and said to “come in now,” and announced that General de Gaulle
would be late and for them to get started. They went into the conference room
and sat around a big, dark, very shiny, wooden table. Ernsberger was seated at
the tail end of the table, [Ernie] said, across from Montgomery and Eisenhower
was at the head. In a corner was a large urn of very strong coffee. Each
general was assisted by an aide and Eisenhower had a survivor P.O.W. with him
from Dunkirk. When the group got down to business, the aide left the room and
returned only when Eisenhower buzzed for them to serve more coffee.
Three
days later my husband returned to London. A car and driver were put at his
disposal. The second meeting was held in the same place, in the meeting room
adjacent to Eisenhower’s office. At this meeting things were set for the
invasion date, June 6th, after al the generals presented their
reports, questions were asked and details were all openly discussed. Eisenhower
asked if everyone felt they were ready. No one dissented or made a negative
comment. Ernsberger said there might be a glitch with the weather due to a low
pressure over Sweden but that it did not appear it would move down fast enough
to interfere on the 6th (actually it had been moved down on June 10th).
Between
the first and second meetings, Ernsberger sent a telegram to learn the
whereabouts of a meteorologist, a Swedish man named Bjerknes. Bjerknes was
Ernsberger’s professor at meteorology school at UCLA and had put together a
theory of air mass analysis, which is still used in weather forecasting today.
Ernsberger learned Bjerknes was in London at that time so they conversed by
telephone. Of course, no mention was made of why he asked about air mass
indexes. In Bjerknes’ opinion, he felt it would not be down to southern England
until after the 10th.
Ernsberger’s
report included the time of 6 a.m. which was what was wanted, and the 6th
was also at the highest tide so the ships could be above the I-beams the
Germans had set in the water to snag allied landing ships. It would not be at
the highest tide, again, for another thirty days. The report included wind
direction, which influenced dropping bombs, shelling and cloud height. He also
had to supply each general with aerial photographs of their assigned landing
areas and the area five miles inland. General Eisenhower said if there were any
hitches that they much be reported before noon on June 4th;
otherwise, the invasion was set. Ernsberger attended no more meetings. . . .
It
was later learned that the night of the fourth of June, de Gaulle and
Montgomery were in London. Patton was with his troops when they went in on
Omaha Beach. It was reported that President Roosevelt was on a battleship off
of Greenland. Professor Bjerknes, whom Ernsberger had consulted, traveled with
Roosevelt as his meteorologist and that is why he was in London and able to
consult with my husband by phone. . . .
On
June 4th, after the second meeting, when it was decided the invasion
would take place as scheduled, Ernsberger was to return to Medmenham by car. A
four-door, V-8 Ford army car picked him up and took him to an airport outside
Oxford. It had an extra long runway, a civilian airport taken over by the
military. There he met with one of the pilots assigned to Intelligence flights
by the name of Harry Orwell. They sat in the car by the entry guardhouse. Harry
was a flight lieutenant, an Englishman who had flown 2000 miles. He flew the
American P-38.
At
the airport, the driver was excused from the car and Harry was given
instructions for June 6th. He was to be over the English Channel by
7 a.m., taking off from Medmenham at 6:30 a.m. He flew at 7000 feet, the top
layer of the varying heights to which the planes were assigned according to
their mission. Harry was assigned to a section over which he was to fly while
photographing the action. He flew from three miles out into the Channel to
approximately one mile inland. The aerial footage stopped at 11 a.m.
The
P-38 is a two-seater plane. The pilot sat in the back seat. A very large camera
was in the front seat and the opening in the floor [was] there. Two other
cameras were placed on each wing and fuselages; three in all. Though there was
no seat for Ernsberger as he was not officially assigned to go on the flight;
at Harry’s invitation, he did go and rode piggy-back, his legs around Harry’s
waist. There was no wiggle-room. And they held these positions for two hours,
Ernsberger could only see out the side of the plane between the wings. He could
see a haze of smoke from the bombing and shelling, and enough vision was
allowed to see the carnage on the beach ... the many bodies floating on the
water. Nearly eight thousand Americans that day, plus British and other Allied
troops not in that count, perished on June 6th. Looking down and
seeing the bodies was horrifying; still my husband did not speak of it for many
years. He still does not like to talk about it as it brings back the horror of
the scene. He said no reports or publicity that appeared afterward adequately
described how terrible the mission was and that if he closes his eyes still, he
can see it. . . .
Harry
Orwell and Ernsberger never met again. Not too much later Orwell did not return
from a photography flight, the site where buzz bombs and V-2 rockets, which
devastated Britain were made. What Orwell’s fate was, was never known.
On
his return to Medmenham Lt. Ernsberger, without revealing the reason for his
absence, resumed routine duties and his meeting became a part of history.
[As
told by Warren Ernsberger, age 92, to his wife Patricia in November 2013.]
***
1818
hours. This took some time to type in. I don’t care. I would have typed this in
if it took days. I ‘feel’ when the words are keyboarded into this MacBook Air.
It is overwhelming to think and reason on this as well as my father’s Army
duties in liberating Dachau, which is somewhere earlier in this blog. These event when thought on even today
can leave me speechless. I was only a three-year old kid who didn’t know much
at the time, but I was breathing the same air as everyone else and I had hugged
both men when they returned from the service, but I did not know. I was leading
an innocent life. On my third birthday the bomb was dropped on Hiroshima. I did
not know. (1826)
Take a break add the chapter. I have
something to tell you later tonight. Post. - Amorella
***
Chapter
Nine
Opportunity
The
Supervisor has a little saying:
Ring-a-ring
o'rosies
A
pocket full of posies
"A-tishoo!
A-tishoo!"
We
all fall down!
We
rise from clay
On
Judgment Day
Be
we dead or still alive.
I,
Merlyn, have this little ditty above memorized to the point it sets stemmed in
letters out of which each four-leafed chapter dreams grow to clover size. I
knead the dreams into a word stream of music for the heart and soul and mind
with hope that when read, these stories cast a light into those living with an
imagination that casts no shadow.
The
Dead 9
Surprised,
Merlyn declares, ”Greetings, this is one of the few times I have seen you,
Mother Glevema and Sophia together. The resemblance of a mother and a daughter
separated by a multitude of generations has never been more remarkable.
Appearing the same age in spirit you are as identical twins." Merlyn then
adds politely, "I thought this was a private matter Takis, but I can see
by your sagacious presence this matter is of more overriding importance."
"Indeed,"
replies Panagiotakis speaking to Merlyn as if Mother and Sophia are not
present. "You, Merlyn, must communicate to the Living on the First Rebellion.
You have re-visited those days when the that rebellion began. You know
something of those times. You are an off-stage witness to the rebellious nature
of our species in spirit."
"I
am. I was given that privilege, by none other than yourself, I imagine."
Glevema
interrupts, ”It was by the Supervisor, Merlyn.”
With
this news, Merlyn discerns he was not the Dead's choice to return to the
Living. Merlyn's spirit moves into silent questions. How did the
Supervisor pull this off? That is my first question. What shall I do here
knowing my reason in the here and now was not instigated by Takis or Mother?
How much can I understand of my present role and responsibility in this Place
and in the twenty-first century?
“In
general,” comments Takis with intention, “the Dead agreed on substance of your
pick. We once thought that if we were not free in life, we would be freer in
death. You know we ruminate and find camaraderie within our honest
personalities, Glevema is the first allowed in this Place of the Dead which came
to be called Elysium by the Greeks. She is our common point. You are equal sons
and daughters through our ancestry. We are a hive of sensibly silhouetted
individual questions searching for reasonably just responses. What else can we
do? What else is expected of us, the Dead? You tell me, Merlyn, and if you
don’t know you must find the purpose for our existence in this place.
Merlyn's
soul does not seek the answers to Takis and to his own heartanmind questions.
Only Sophia now stands in Merlyn's vision. He asks, "How should I tell the
story, Sophia? You witnessed the First Rebellion. What is important for the
Living to know of something so very long ago?"
In
a Delphic-like trance Sophia drifted forth the words, "It was less than
three thousand earth years ago. We five sat around the oak table: Thales,
Kassandra, Mario, Salamon and myself. Our Mother had put me in charge. We were
at our favorite local eatery, a bar and cafe at the northwest corner of Lyceum
and Eleusis Streets, the Mikroikia.
“I
remember my very words. ‘We shall have a peaceful protest. I have been assured
by Our Mother that this demonstration will have a full ten thousand full souls
standing as one while I make our demand directly to the Supervisor.’ I
then pause as if in my present trance, (then I paused in my present trance),
and add, ‘I have directed my currier to contact the Supervisor who
should arrive shortly.’ Someone asks me, ‘Who is the currier?’ and I respond,
‘Aeneas, because he is protected by his mother, Aphrodite.’”
Merlyn
short smiles confidently, "It is not so strange, a similar story was told
in Avalon, different names."
"True.
We see this today, but not in those times. Our culture was the center of our
Spirit World. Our culture was our womb, a comfortable society, a place to be
others of our own culture. I remember Thales and Salamon debating shortly after
— Thales asserts, ‘we do not know the Supervisor is Hades.’ Salamon
assumes the Supervisor is most likely Zeus and he muses, ‘what
difference will it make, Zeus or Hades? Zeus will have his way, no matter.
Aeneas is currier. This Supervisor is a decoy. The Gods are taking sides.’
Salamon grumbles, ‘Olympus is aligning itself, I feel this through my soul.’”
"What
ominous words we had while sitting at breakfast,” notes Sophia sadly. “We Dead
did not know what we were doing. Merlyn you need to let the Living know this.”
With
that, Merlyn and Sophia faded to their personal sanctuaries, leaving
Nothingness unturned. The Supervisor remains nearby, as always, unbound.
The
Brothers 9
Richard
sits in his favorite black leather chair studying Robert’s pungently worded
poem titled:
“Nature
Junkie”
a
bumblebee --
the
big black one
with
yellow stripes
enters
the bright
white
flower
of
a hosta.
From
the front porch
my
chocolate Lab
mouths
a stinging memory.
I
see the bee
body
working inside.
I
suspect
other
creatures,
unseen,
see
a meal --
ants
waiting
its
fall to earth,
or
a lizard
immune
to venom.
If
it wanders to ground
in
the chicken yard,
the
hens will rush,
pop
the droning pill.
I
walk off the porch,
pinch
shut
the
flower petals
to
hear the panic of wings,
to
get the buzz
of
bee
up
the fingers,
hoping
it
will go to my head.
“Good
poem, Rob,” comments Richard. “Precise. I love the line, ‘to get the buzz of
the bee up the fingers hoping it will go to my head.’ Rob's poetry always has
the feeling of a slight twist of phrase. I wasn’t expecting ‘up the fingers,’
who would have thought, ‘up the fingers’? I love it, Rob.”
“Thank
you,” says Rob’s slow, deep, methodic voice. “When it comes to poetry we
usually agree.”
“One
of our first favorites has always been Coney Island of the Mind, ‘Number
Five’.”
“Ferlinghetti.
That is was a great poem and still is as far as I am concerned,” states Robert.
“Real poetry, with no traa-lee-laa crap.”
“I’m
still stuck there,” voices Richard. “You moved on with the poets to modern
times, but my heart is with the Beats.”
Robert
adds abruptly, “That’s when you stopped your style. There are other ways to say
things.”
“I
like the Beats' soul.”
With
a sheepish grin Robert questions, “Then you won’t mind me asking you about your
automatic writing?”
“It’s
not really automatic, Rob. That is what some people call it. It is a part of my
writing process. I have to be in the right frame of mind to write the Merlyn
stories.”
“Is
that what you are calling the stories now?”
“The
stories are dead Merlyn’s dreams in his natural frame of mind,” answers
Richard. To me, it is writing in a light hypnotic trance. In fact, there is a
word for it that relates to autosuggestion.”
“Ideomotor
action; William James wrote about it,” grins Robert.
Richard
reflects, “You saw my dowsing rods over in the corner didn’t you? That’s the
ideomotor action you are referring to.”
“I
saw those unscientific re-bent clothes hangers. I knew what they were. What
were you doing, dowsing for water in the back yard?”
“I
was looking for unmarked graves in the cemetery,” responds Richard
enthusiastically.
“Dowsing
has been debunked, you know, water-witching and the like. Studies show that
finding water by dowsing is a fifty-fifty proposition.”
Richard
counters, “The rods do move though, I think it has to do with electro-magnetic
energy."
Ever
the medical doctor, Robert comments nonchalantly, “The divining rods work
because of unconscious suggestion to small muscles in the fingers that work
through subconscious response.”
“Well,
then, when I am in form and in a semi-transcendental state while keyboarding,
same thing. What’s wrong with that?”
Robert
deadpanned facially reflecting, “Nothing as long as you aren’t going off the
deep end and believing it.”
Richard
parries, “Anything that exists whether we know and understand it or not is
natural. My bet is that is a quirky nerve impulse within one of my temporal
lobes or another nerve response from brain to the fingers. In either case it is
biophysical.”
“So
why were you dowsing for unmarked graves?”
“It
was fun. I think it is interesting that the finer finger muscles can move by
involuntary suggestion alone. It makes you wonder on who pulls the trigger in
some murders. I think of Shakespeare’s character MacBeth and his killing of
Duncan. Lady MacBeth suggests it. His hands and fingers take up the action
whether he is fully conscious, that is, that he is in full realization of what
he is doing.” Richard pauses, “The end of the play shows another side of
MacBeth. When he fully realizes he killed an innocent man and a guest in his
own house. That is, until the rash conclusion.”
“It
is just a play, Richie,” countered Robert, “and few would agree with your
assessment because he has to be fully conscious of his actions in order for the
play to be a tragedy.”
“What
if MacBeth doesn’t realize this is an updated Greek play? Still, it is
interesting that a simple dowsing rod can show we are not fully consciously
responsible for some muscular action. It doesn’t take much consciousness
to shove a knife into somebody, especially if you are a battlefield general to
begin with.”
Clearly
concerned Robert emphatically replies, “I can assure you that it takes a great
deal of consciousness to push a sharp surgical blade into a living human body,
even a fully trained soldier like MacBeth.”
Richard
glances at Robert’s poem, “To get a buzz — hoping it will go to my head,” gives
his brother a soft-edged smile, gets up from his chair, leaves the room saying,
“Don’t leave, I’ll be back in a minute.”
Grandma’s
Story 9
Grandma
draws an aside. This dead woman remembers trekking a beach the same time King
Simon, in Grandma’s previous
story, is being murdered for revenge.
This is a reminder that Grandma is everywhere the human heart and mind are and
then some.
Grandma
here. Storms are a part of human life. People deal with them because they have
no choice. One can look the names and descriptions of infamous storms in various
places. A long time ago, the young woman, Abbatoot,has confronted a major storm
as is walking along a well ruffled beach now call Australia.
Abbatoot’s
ghostly remembrance is that of youthful aboriginal woman is trudging the
shoreline alone some three thousand years ago. After surviving the
wrath,Abbatoot mutters defiantly, “You won’t ever catch me messing with Mother
Nature.” I am fortunate. The old shaman told the tribe a great storm was
coming. He said, ‘I feel it in my elbows and knees; and when I feel a storm in
any four joints at the same time it is going to be one doozy of a storm.’ He
told the tribe to leave for higher ground but half the tribe ignored his
warnings and stayed.
In
one way it is very exciting to confront Mother Nature in her fury with the face
forward into the winds, thinks Abbatoot; however, the witnessing-at-the-moment,
the immediate surviving, leaves a monumental scar — such wonderful and
terrifying power both at once. Ten who stayed near the beach are dead as well
as mangled and in body parts. Abbatoot suddenly wondered, what would I be
without any body points? I can see bodies without limbs and finger-point
extensions. What would be the point of having no limbs or neck or any body
extensions whatsoever?
Abbatoot
ruminates, I am still four limbs plus one. Observing her right hand closely she
comprehends, I have five points at the end of each of the four limbs. She added
those five points on each limb and gave a separate sound for each of the twenty
points and one more. Abbatoot
carefully observes her nakedness. I have twenty digits on a total of two arms
and two legs; this equals twenty-four digits, plus a head and I have
twenty-five digits. I have two breasts. Plus, I have a nose and two ears and
thus I have thirty digits, men hang a penis and testicles, so they equaling
thirty-two parts plus the body itself.
As
Abbatoot climbs to higher ground she also climbs into a new conscious and a
sudden revelation: I understand something no one else knows. I must tell
the shaman.
*
The
next day the Shaman sits watching the peaceful beauty of the sunset reflecting
on Abbatoot's ability to count meaning into body parts. ‘We shamans do not make
such associations. We know the story of the Ungambikula who once arose in
Dreamtime before we humans were fully created. The Ungambikula had discovered
human-likenesses doubled over in clumps of shapeless sacks near the water
holes, and with stone knives the Ungambikula carved limbs and faces and hands
and feet and finished the humans with points not lumps. After this was
completed the Ungambikula withdrew into the Earth, into their eternal great
sleep. Only a shaman could know this great secret yet Abbatoot has discovered
similarities by counting the digits and by such allows me to discover something
hitherto unknown.
*
Grandma
shifts into glee, “The Shaman listened to Abbatoot and asked questions. Later
that year on the last morning of his life the old Shaman suddenly understood
the magic in Abbatoot’s observations of the aftermath of the great storm when
Abbatoot ran to the ancient Shaman and saying, “I thought of one more
extension, the belly button!” And, she pointed to her own outie.
The
shaman grins for the last time then whispers, “Don’t tell anyone. The belly
button is not an extension at all, Abbatoot it is less than one. It is a
zilch, a nada, a diddly-squat, a zero.” He points to his own innie, “See, the
belly button is really less than one. Don’t you see, Abbatoot, it is one less,
it is nothing?” He died peacefully shortly thereafter.
Grandma
bends down, slapping her thundering thighs; then, as she stands and
unconsciously readjusts her large bosoms, she breaks into continuous laughter.
“The old Shaman discovered the zero and told Abbatoot just before he died.”
The button is rounder
than a digit of one,
And sits in the belly
as a visual lesson.
Today Abbatoot would
be quite a hero
For witnessing the
discovery of nothing, the wonderful zero.
Alas, she and many
others were not so clever in those times,
But, in my calmer
breeze it makes a timeless rhyme.
Diplomatic
Pouch 9
Blake
sits comfortably in the pilot's seat, Pyl is co-pilot and Justin is in the
third seat back so he can see out both sides equally. The Cessna 210 is flying
east at 150 miles per hour and 16,500 feet above the eastern Cleveland
shoreline. The three are enjoying the visual pleasantries of the sun behind the
crispy clear blue sky beyond a layer of thickening rain clouds below.
Blake’s
appraises the beauty of flying the Silver Eagle in full sunlight on an
otherwise cheerless, dreary day in early March, when the engine abruptly stops
cold.
Blake
and Pyl automatically check the fuel, ignition and air to the engine. Improper
combustion. All three tighten their seat belts. Pyl attempted to work the dead
radio. 'Slow descent', deduces Blake who is well trained for a variety of
outcomes at any given point. He tries the engine several times then once again.
Nothing.
Pyl
states crisply, "Ashtabula County should be below the clouds
shortly."
"We
are in a good, controlled glide," humors Blake. "How you doing back
there, Justin?"
He
replies, ”I’m fine. You two do what you need to do. I'm fine." At least we
are not going straight down, muses Justine following Blake’s lead.
"Good."
says Blake, "If we can't get it started we will land on an airstrip, road
or a farmer’s soybean field. We have time to think this out."
"Fuel
pump?" questions Pyl.
"No,
it shouldn't be. I think it is vapor lock but I am not sure why. She was going
along pretty as you please."
"As
a kid we had vapor lock once in a car in Death Valley. We survived,” relayed
Justin.
"You
visited the Valley in July, right?" counters Blake while feeling and
checking the rate of descent . . .
"I
don't know what is wrong with the radio, Blake,” responds Pyl. “We have
electric except for the radio."
"Cloud
ceiling is about three thousand feet. We have plenty of room, plenty of
time." Here we go through the top.”
"Ashtabula
County Airport, HZY in Jefferson; 924 feet above sea level," notes Pyl.
"But we cannot contact them."
“Making
adjustments,” says Blake. ”They should spot us visually."
*
At-the-same-moment,
Ship sets itself thirty feet above the Cessna with blackenot narrow-banded to
also camouflage the Silver Eagle as it drops below the clouds. The airspace
between Ship and the plane thicken into an appearance of a fractallized mirror
from the ground. Seeing the town of Ashtabula Blake glides southeast towards
I-90 and the Ashtabula County Airport beyond. Ship remains parallel above the
Cessna as it continues a long steady glide for a safe landing. Blake puts the
wheels in down and lock while readjusting the flaps up.
Pyl
asks, "Why don't they see us?"
Dumbfounded
Blake replies, "I don't know. I don't understand. And we have no damn
radio." He attempts to restart the engine one more time hoping they will
at least hear the plane. The engine re-starts. Flaps are down for better
control. The fuel line appears to have condensed, he reasons. Then the plane
begins a slide like it is on a sheet of ice. Blake realizes he is going to
overshoot the runway and just beyond and slightly to the south Blake observes
the deserted township road, Route 193, lying straight east. He calmly states,
"I'll land on the road."
Pyl
adds, "Do it."
"Go
for it, Blakie. Looks good. No one in sight." comments Justin also
deliberately and calmly.
"Land
where the road cuts through the woods. Nothing but fields before and after but
up ahead are houses," declares Pyl, feeling the Cessna is under control
even though the engine again stops. "You are on the mark."
The
wheels touch the rough tar and chip road pavement. "Down." states
Blake while breaking the wheels. When the three climbed out their first focus
is on the engine.
An
older man ambles up from near the tail section saying, "Can I be of any
help?"
Yermey
stands surprised when no one responds. He takes a step closer but the freezes
in sudden apprehension. Behind him another louder voice, "Pyl. Blake and
Justin, how are you? What happened? Why the forced landing?"
Ears
electrified with shock, the three earthlings turn and can hardly believe their
eyes. Here stands Fran with an unidentified older man. The earthlings see no car
nearby but here is Fran with a stranger in tow. How can this be so?
***
You had scrambled eggs and toast for supper
and an ice cream treat for dessert. You and Carol watched the news, “A Person
of Interest” and “NCIS LA”. I began talking about you, your senses and empathy
but you erased it. – Amorella
2139 hours. I don’t have anything to say. It is time to
listen to some music on Pandora then go to bed. Tomorrow I will work on chapter
ten. It is very refreshing to go over a hard draft, then after some time, correct
or re-correct editing and clarity on the keyboard. I become alive when I am on
the keyboard with the revised hardcopy right beside me. It is a rush and I find
myself once again within the words and between the lines and margins. I become
the sentence and paragraph as it is written. Only for a split second, I know
better, but it is a rush nevertheless.
Indeed, this is a selection of words
depicting who you are. It is the preamble to an original haunting if there ever
was one. Post. – Amorella
2148 hours. A haunting, now, that is something I would like, at least on
paper. - rho
2250 hours. What is most important to me in all this on today's post is simply that imagination and empathy teach perspective on the basic human condition where the we and me meet. - rho
Post. - Amorella
2250 hours. What is most important to me in all this on today's post is simply that imagination and empathy teach perspective on the basic human condition where the we and me meet. - rho
Post. - Amorella
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