Hachikō, Shibuya Crossing, and Pepper Lunch

Day Three of Tokyo, concluded:

Here's a heartwarming little tale for you:

Hachikō was an Akita dog born on a farm near the city of Ōdate in 1923. His name had the word "Hachi," or "eight," in it, meaning he was the eighth in the litter, and the suffix "kō," which here means "prince" or "duke."

Hachikō, the latter years.
From Wikimedia Commons.

A year after the dog's birth, a fellow named Hidesaburō Ueno, a professor with the University of Tokyo's agricultural department, took it in as a pet.

The pair of them, Hachikō and Professor Ueno, began a daily routine. Ueno would head off to work in the mornings and return to Shibuya Station in the evenings. Hachikō would always await his owner at the station, and return home with him. They kept this up for about two years.

One day in 1925, Professor Ueno suffered a cerebral hemorrhage at work and died at his desk, never to return to Shibuya.

Got your handkerchief ready? Good. You'll need it.

Every day for the next nine years, Hachikō went to Shibuya Station and waited for his master to return. Without fail, he would appear at the moment the professor's old train arrived, plunk himself down, and sit patiently. Every day. That's at least 3,285 days, just so you know.

At first, the other passengers and the station staff were hostile to the dog. But then he began to attract attention. Soon, a newspaper article was published about him. Something about the Akita's pointless but heartrendingly loyal conduct touched the hearts of Tokyoites. People started to bring Hachikō food and treats to sustain him while he waited.

In 1932, a former student of Ueno's, who had some expertise with Akitas, followed Hachikō to Ueno's former home when the dog returned there after another fruitless day of waiting. There, the student learned the dog's history. Intrigued, the industrious young man conducted a census of purebred Akitas still remaining in Japan, and to his astonishment he found there were only thirty left—one of which was the faithful Hachikō. Over the next few months the student published many articles in the Asahi Shimbun newspaper about Hachikō's unswerving behavior. Soon the dog became a nationwide celebrity. He struck a cultural chord with the Japanese, you see. His fidelity and filial piety to his master's memory was seen as an ideal toward which all citizens should strive. Schoolmasters used the dog as an example to their students, and children began to refer to the Akita as chūken Hachikō: "Faithful Dog Hachikō." He became a national icon of loyalty, even coming to be associated with the emperor.

Hachikō himself died in March of 1935, and was found on a street near Shibuya Station. His autopsy revealed that he had terminal cancer and worms. There were four yakitori skewers in his stomach, too, but they had not contributed to his death or impaired him in any way.

His stuffed and mounted remains are kept at the National Science Museum of Japan, in Tokyo. His monument is in the Aoyama Cemetery in the Minato district of that same city. But that wasn't what I was interested in when I climbed on a subway train to Shibuya on the evening of August 2. I wanted to see Hachikō's statue.

The original statue was put up in 1934, a year before the dog's death. Hachikō himself was present at its unveiling. The metal sculpture was subsumed by the Japanese war machine in the 1940s, but a second was erected in 1948, and still stands today. It is currently Tokyo's most popular meeting spot for the young and the restless. Dozens of twenty-something Tokyoites, dressed in the latest fashions, may be seen standing around his statue, clicking away on smartphones and waiting for their posses to show up.

Each year on April 8, there is a solemn ceremony of remembrance; hundreds of dog lovers attend and stand reverently by the faithful pooch's likeness, heads bowed. Perhaps the most touching memorial came in 1994, though. That year the Nippon Cultural Broadcasting company was able to piece together an old record they'd found and retrieve from it a recording of Hachikō barking. On Saturday, May 28, millions of listeners across the nation tuned in to hear ol' Hachi "speak."

Brings a tear to your eye, doesn't it? Excuse me for a moment... [whoonk]

Okay, I'm back. It was August 2. I had seen and paid my respects to Hachikō. Now I wanted to step a few feet farther away from Shibuya Station and catch a glimpse of what has certainly been used for every single Japanese travelogue, documentary and tourism commercial since the Dawn of Time:

...Shibuya Crossing.

You all know it. You've all seen it, even if only on TV. Every time people think of Tokyo, or see it on the telly, they see this scene: a gazillion people crossing the street between Shibuya Station and the trendy, glitzy shopping and party district nearby.

Now I can honestly admit that, yeah, it is really that crowded. All the time. Every 45 seconds or so the light turns red, the traffic dissipates, and hundreds of people swarm onto the pedestrian crossing in a pulsating phalanx. It was an absolute madhouse. Every 45 seconds.

Tokyo's big, did I mention that?

Then it was time for dinner. I scouted around for a bit and finally found this place under the railroad tracks.

It's called "Pepper Lunch" (as you can clearly see from the photo) and it's a teppan-style diner. A teppan is a large metal griddle used to fry up meaty dishes, you see. Some places cook the food for you, and with others, you cook it yourself. 

Not my photo. This is from a website called Japan in Melbourne.
Apparently they have Pepper Lunches in Australia, too...

With Pepper Lunch, there's a strict protocol. You walk in, turn right, insert some money into a machine, then punch in what entrees and drinks you want. I ordered some steak with corn on the side and a draft beer. The machine spat out a ticket, which I gave to the lady behind the counter. Before long, a tall mug of cold beer and a teppan full of only-just-beginning-to-turn-brown steak arrived in front of me. (I was too busy cooking to take pictures...sorry, you'll just have to imagine the sight and smell.) The teppan was still broiling hot, so I finished cooking my steak and tucked in. It was gorgeous. The side dishes were mashed potatoes and salad, and they really complemented the steak dinner and beer. I waddled out of that place, happy as a clam.

And that was that: Day Three of Tokyo, done.

I mentioned that Tokyo was big. But you'll hear how truly big it is in two days, when I tell you about TOKYO TOWER. Before that, though it's ZŌJŌ-JI. My fourth and final day in Tokyo starts tomorrow! Don't miss it!

Korean myths and legends

Neither Miss H nor I had ever been to Seoul Tower by night. We decided that, on New Year's Eve (that's Western New Year's Eve, not Korean New Year; the latter is this weekend), we would go and look down upon the ocean of light which is Seoul by night.

The view was spectacular, and if I wasn't a cruddy journalist who keeps forgetting his camera, I'd post a picture or two here. But I am, and I can't. So there.

That's not what I want to talk to you about, though. I found this book in the gift shop:

EUREKA! Do you know long I've been trying to find something like this? I've wanted to read about Korean mythology for ages. I used to quiz my Korean friends and students whenever I got the chance, trying to find out more about the ancient legends. I met with varied success. But finally, just when I was least expecting it, a book appeared (in a gift shop, no less!) that enabled me to delve into the diverse pageant of peninsular fairy stories.

This is the best book I could have possibly found on the subject, too. It was written and published in 1952 by In-seop Jeong, a professor of Korean culture and history. He copiously collected these stories from all corners of the country, gleaning them from aged storytellers and childhood friends who remembered the old days of the Korean kingdom. Professor Jeong taught a course in Korean studies at Oxford University for many years, and was the first Korean man to make a deliberate effort to share his nation's culture with the world. He cleverly divided this book into sections: myths (which deal in the creation of the world and its pantheon of deities); legends (stories about human heroes which contain some historical facts); fairy tales (innocent stories for children); fables (which contain a moral); and old novels, which were autobiographies written by venerable ancient Koreans, and have become almost legendary in their own right.

What I have found within this book is most incredible, and it has answered many of the questions I had about Korea in general—and even cleared up some of the mysteries of their culture.

The reason they like fart jokes so much, for example.

Seriously. Anything involving poop or passing gas sends Koreans, old or young, into paroxysms of mirth. (They were like this before the American cinematic juggernaut inundated the world with fatuous bathroom comedies, too.)

I just read one legend called "General Pumpkin" about a boy who loved pumpkins so much that he bankrupted his parents trying to feed him. Not only that, but he broke so much wind that they kicked him out of the house. He traveled the peninsula for many years, working odd jobs (for pumpkins) until he happened upon a prosperous Buddhist temple. The monks saw how big he was and figured he'd be a good guy to have around, for this temple was always getting robbed by bandits. The boy (now a man) agreed to help in exchange for all the pumpkins he could eat. When the bandits attacked that night, "General Pumpkin" bade all the monks hide in the corners of the compound with drums. The bandits swarmed over the walls, and then the monks started beating the drums. General Pumpkin passed gas for all he was worth. The noise and the stench threw the bandits into a panic, and the wall collapsed and killed them all as they tried to swarm back over it. Pumpkin lived the rest of his life at the temple, and eventually died by crapping himself to death.

This is actually one of the least disgusting stories I've read in this book.

In general, I've found that the tone of Korean folk tales is not so different from the Japanese or Chinese myths that I've read. (Some of them were even inspired by Chinese or Japanese tales, just as Korean tales inspired theirs; there was a lot of cross-pollination.) There's just more of an emphasis on, um, gross bodily functions. Generally speaking.

That's not what I wanted to tell you about, though. I'd like to reveal the most momentous discovery I've made by reading Korean Folk Tales. Are you ready?

Ever since I came to this land, something's been bugging me. It's the word "Seoul." Seoul is, of course, the name of Korea's capital city. But the name is different from any other Korean city name I've seen. It just sounds weird. Seo-ul. Very few Korean municipalities end with the -ul suffix. Common suffixes are -cheon, which means "river" (Bucheon, Incheon, Gwacheon); -san, which means "mountain" (Busan, Ulsan, Ilsan); -ju, which means "province" (Gyeongju, Gwangju, Jinju); or -won, which I'm guessing means "valley" (Suwon, Namwon, Changwon).

But what was "Seoul"? The meaning was a mystery. I knew the word "seo" in Korean meant "west." So maybe the meaning of Seoul's name was "Western" something? Wikipedia and the Internet proved unhelpful. They vaguely stated that "Seoul" was derived from a Chinese word (as many Korean words are) which meant "capital city." I was forced to swallow this half-baked explanation until a better one came along.

Well, a better one did. Right after the fart-heavy "General Pumpkin" story, I read a little tale called "The Castle of Seoul." And it told me everything I wanted to know. Listen to this:

Apparently there was this Buddhist monk called Doseon, from the Silla Kingdom. He had prophesied that "the king of Korea shall be Yi," and that the "capital will be moved to Hanyang."

There were two problems with this prophecy. First, the king was not named Yi. Second, the capital was in a town called Gaeseong (which now lies just north of the DMZ, and is the site of an industrial complex jointly administered by North and South). "Hanyang," just in case you're wondering, was Seoul's original name. It wasn't officially known as Seoul until 1882, near the end of the Joseon Dynasty. It was called Hanyang during Joseon times.

But lo and behold, the prophecy came to pass. A man named Yi deposed the king. However, the old king's loyalists made it warm for Yi in Gaeseong, so he enlisted the help of a Buddhist monk called Muhak to find a location to build a new capital.

Eventually Muhak found the perfect spot, with mountains on three sides and a broad river to the south. King Yi was delighted and moved his court and ministers there at once, and built a city. They couldn't decide where they wanted to build the king's castle, however.

Then it snowed one night. In the morning, the king's men found a perfect circle of snow ringing the area marked out for the castle, and decided to built the wall along this line. And so the capital was nicknamed Seoul, which is derived from two ancient Sino-Korean characters: seol, the Chinese word for snow, and ul, an original Korean word, meaning "fence."

I sat back when I finished reading this story, and stared out the window. I felt like Indiana Jones holding the Holy Grail. Finally. I'd finally found the answer I was looking for. Now I understood why Seoul's name was so different from every other Korean city. It was a nickname from an ancient legend. The word meant "snow-fence"! That's why it ended in "ul," because ul means "fence"! All the other Korean cities ended with "province" or "valley" or "mountain" or "river"! But only Seoul ended with "fence"!

I had a serious geek-out right then. And now I'm sharing it with you. Enjoy. To heck with you, Internet! You let me down. The True Way is to be found in books: real, tree-paper books. Thank you, King Yi. Thank you, Muhak. One mystery solved.

a talk with Mr. Song

I had completed my morning run from Songnae Station to Jungang Park. I have no idea what the distance is; it must be something like two kilometers, tops.

As I was busily engaged upon the exercise machines in the park's outdoor gym, an elderly Korean man walked up to me. With a few English words, he provided me with an excuse to cease my pathetic attempts to do more than one stinking pull-up.

"Hello, good morning. Where are you from?"

Most of my conversations with Korean people have begun like this. The first question I'm asked is not "What's your name?" or "How are you doing?" but "Where are you from?" I'll admit that there are some undercurrents of resentment, dislike and even racism in this country, but generally the Koreans are friendly, polite, and curious about new people in their neighborhood.

This particular man stood straight and proud, and was a few inches under six feet. Spikes of thin, sweaty hair stuck out from beneath his black baseball cap. He wore polyester running clothes, a nearly ubiquitous getup for Korea's oldsters—a purple short-sleeved shirt and black trousers. His skin was mottled, but barely wrinkled. His eyes were clear and bright. His teeth, though slightly yellow and riddled with gaps, were straight and intact. His accent was thick but intelligible, and his above-average grasp of grammar and vocabulary set him apart from most adult ESL speakers.

Introductions were made, and we began to find out about each other. I told him I was an English teacher working at a hagwon just a block away. Though he wasn't able to clearly articulate what his job had been, this man—Mr. Song was his name—said that he'd worked for the Korean government, and had traveled to Vietnam, Thailand and Bangladesh as part of that work.

That's probably why his English is so good, I thought.

We moved from the warm sun into the shade of a wooden portico, sitting on a bench and watching the old men on the exercise machines. We talked of this and that. I usually try to assay the main currents of the Korean mindset whenever I speak to a national. I plied Mr. Song with various topics, focusing on Japan, Korean history, and warfare. He kindly informed me that kimchi had been invented as a winter food in Korea, something for the people to eat while they huddled in their houses, blizzards raging outside. I mentioned that the Japanese have claimed that they invented kimchi (as my students have told me). He said that the Japanese do make their own kimchi, but they began long after Korea did. He told me this in an impassive, impartial tone that most Korean don't use when speaking about Japan. He possessed a striking lack of hostility toward that country. Perhaps he concealed it well, or perhaps the Korean children I've been speaking with are being their usual inflammatory selves. Either way I was impressed. 

I turned the conversation toward Korean history. He gave me a brief lesson in the progression of the kingdoms and empires of the ancient peninsula: Goryeo (from which is derived the Western name of "Korea"); the "Three Kingdoms" Period or Samguk Shidae, with Baekje (present-day Jeolla province), Silla (Gyeongsam provinces), and Goguryeo, which is now North Korea; and the following era of the Joseon Dynasty, which is generally accepted to be Korea's golden age. Hangeul was invented then, and metal-type printing, and Korea won some of its most glorious battles against Japan. I mentioned the invention of metal-type printing, but Mr. Song did not know anything about it. The talk of war, especially Korean implements of destruction (like the hwacha), seemed to make him uncomfortable. I promptly steered the conversation away from such topics. We talked of the weather. He was quite articulate. He didn't know much more than two-syllable words, but I helped him out with those. He was quite impressed with my grasp of the Korean alphabet. Upon hearing that I was from California, he mentioned that his son was a Samsung executive, living and working near Los Angeles.

The conversation ran on for 20 minutes, punctuated by short pauses, where we'd gaze over the leisurely old men on the exercise machines. The cool breeze brought our temperatures down by degrees. Then, not wanting to detain the poor man (he being too polite to end the conversation himself), I said that I must take my leave. We shook hands, whereupon I noticed that he was missing the tip of his right thumb. He said that he often exercised in Jungang Park at this time in the morning, and I mentioned that I would be in the vicinity as well, and hoped to speak with him again. We parted as friends.

This was just one encounter among many. I have often been approached by Korean strangers, usually elderly men, but occasionally youths. They all want to know more about me, where I come from, and how I like Korea. For my part, I'm always glad of the chance to speak with someone who comes from a completely different continent, background, and moral standard. It's a refreshing chance to gain insight into the human condition...as well as make a friend who lives an ocean away from the world I know.

Life in Korea ain't too bad, folks.

escape from Bukhan

Bukhan is the way you say "North Korea" in the native language. Buk is north and han is Korea. (South Korea is Namhan.)

Even if the average American is aware of the deplorable situation in NoKo, not many realize just the enormity of the North Koreans' plight, even those who have escaped the Kim regime and sought their fortunes elsewhere.

Those North Koreans who get up the courage to make a break customarily go through China. They are aided in this by Korean and Chinese "brokers," who perform a similar function to the coyotes in Mexico, forging false documents for the refugees and providing maps and routes. Once into China, however, the refugees' plight is far from over. The People's Republic, in complete defiance of international law and common decency, routinely and rigorously captures North Koreans and repatriates them.

I probably don't have to tell you that attempting to defect is a capital offense for a North Korean. Those refugees caught by the Chinese and shipped back to North Korea face execution, imprisonment in gulag-style concentration camps, torture, and untold suffering. Pregnant refugees are subjected to brutal abortions. Dissidents are thrown into work camps where they perform hard labor for 12 hours and attend reeducation classes for four more, only getting four hours' rest. The slightest complaint is answered with a public execution. There's a reason North Korea has been branded the world's largest prison camp.

In case you think I'm bloviating, I have a source for this information. His name is Mr. Lee.

Lee is one of the lucky ones. Not only did he pull off a successful escape, he saved up enough money to get his mother, his wife and his children out as well. He moved through China to Thailand, emigrated legally to South Korea, and worked any odd job he could find to pay the way for his family. He bussed tables and swept streets because he couldn't find anything better.

And now we come to the third and most perplexing part of the sad tale of North Korean refugees. Should they manage to escape their homeland and traverse unfriendly China in safety, they still face hostility, prejudice and callous indifference from South Koreans. The average South Korean holds the North Korean refugee in lower regard than a Pakistani or Cambodian...and believe you me, that is saying something. Mr. Lee reckons it has something to do with money. South Koreans judge foreigners by their monetary worth and potential. That's why they bring so many American, Canadian, English and South African nationals to this country to teach. We Anglos are from affluent countries and are classed as skilled labor. People from poor countries like Vietnam, Bangladesh, and elsewhere are looked upon as wastes of time and space. The average North Korean refugee shows up in South Korea as a penniless migrant. Guess what kind of reception he gets?

Mr. Lee beat the odds. He made enough money to get his family across, at something like $3,500US a head. (Nowadays the fee is roughly $10,000.) They're living quite happily in the Itaewon area. Mr. Lee works hard to support them, and still finds time to devote to his charitable foundation, North Korea Peace. It's a divine mission, he says.

To hear a North Korean speak of God is almost laughable. Mr. Lee was brought up to believe that Kim Jong-Il was the people's one true god, and that Christianity was merely a ploy by the Western powers to weaken and oppress the Korean people. In school he was taught that the Joseon War (what North Koreans call the Korean War) was begun by Christian missionaries, with the backing of the U.S. military. He never saw any evidence to the contrary; he knew no other alternative. So he believed.

But when the Chinese police were walking toward him down the aisle of a rattling train car on a midnight run to Shanghai, Lee prayed. He prayed feverishly, passionately, determinedly. He asked God to spare him, to save him. And in His way, God answered. A knife-fight broke out in the adjacent train car. The policemen had approached to within 10 meters of Lee, checking IDs and asking tough questions. Neither Lee nor any of his party spoke a word of Chinese. They would have been caught for sure. But the fight drew the cops' attention. They rushed away to the adjacent car and Lee got his reprieve. It was a seminal moment. Lee believed that God had saved him for a purpose. God was handing him a mission, and by the time Mr. Lee had arrived in Thailand, he'd figured it out. He would help as many of his fellow North Koreans as possible, still held in bondage on the other side of the DMZ.

So he started North Korea Peace, and with the aid of a few other Koreans who were fluent in English, began recruiting foreigners to his cause. The balloon launch on February 25 was the culmination of that endeavor. Mr. Lee, his assistants, and foreigners from six different countries (from Austria to Indonesia) inflated weather balloons, suspended cardboard boxes of warm socks from them, and released them into the wispy white skies over the city of Paju, a stone's throw from the Demilitarized Zone.

Here are some pictures.

Unpacking the hoses. The boxes of socks are on the left.

Adjusting the first balloon for inflation...hah, adjusting for inflation, geddit?!

The hydrogen tanks. Apparently helium is expensive and hard to come by in Korea. These spawned a lot of Hindenburg jokes...most of which may or may not have been told by yours truly.

Inflation commences...

...and it's ready!

My turn to help out.

Whoa Nelly!

Merciful Balloon #4, ready for launch!

Hana, tul, SET!

And there she goes!

After the balloons had been launched, and had floated away out of sight into the stratosphere, we piled back on the bus, chilled to the bone, and drove to the Imjin River. There stood the Imjingak, "Freedom Park," a sort of monument/museum to the Demilitarized Zone. I wish I could properly describe the place to you, but words simply can't capture it. Shall I tell you about the thousands of paper prayers hung by North Korean refugees in tribute to their imprisoned loved ones a few kilometers to the north...?

The rusting, hole-ridden hulk of a steam locomotive on a scrap of track, which was once the proud railway link between Seoul and Pyongyang?



The miles and miles of barbed wire stretching into the distance? Dim, distant Songhaksan, my first glimpse of North Korea, nearly hidden on the horizon behind the Imjin Bridge?

Or shall I mention the observation platform with its 500-won binoculars, the incongruous kiddy fun park with its tilt-a-whirl and carousel, the souvenir shop selling North Korean fruit wines and maps of the Joint Security Area printed on red and blue handkerchiefs...?

Combine these things and you get the Imjingak.

It was while we were waiting to board the bus that I received a drop of tonic to soothe the ache in my soul. As fun as the launching of weather balloons can be (trying to hold onto a fully-inflated balloon in the brisk Korean breeze was like trying to hold a bucking bronco at bay), the joy was tempered by the ever-present knowledge of the cargo's eventual destination. One could not help but brood on the suffering of the shoeless, starving North Korean people, and the monstrous injustice which put them in such a position. My distress had been further compounded by the Imjingak. Nothing makes me sadder than seeing a railway line that ends in the middle of nowhere, and a once-functioning locomotive rusting away to nothingness on a forgotten siding. I could only ponder on the romance and adventure of taking the train from Seoul to Pyongyang, and thence to Beijing or Vladivostok, or even across Mongolia and on to Europe. But no: the locomotive forever stares across the uncrossable gulf of barbed wire, empty fields, frozen river and skeletonized bridge supports. Across the barren, lonely hills with their bare trees lies a land of death, suffering, and political oppression.

Depressing.

So that drop of tonic on my soul was greatly appreciated. I began chatting with Mr. Lee via his translator, Cecilia. He asked me if I was particularly interested in North Korea and its citizens.

"Just Korea in general," I answered. "My grandfather fought in the war."

"Wow," Cecilia, of Korean descent herself, answered. "Will you thank him for me? From the bottom of my heart?"

"Uh, sure," I said, taken aback. "Absolutely."

Cecilia translated this for Mr. Lee, and he began speaking very quickly.

"He says he'd like to thank your grandfather personally for his service," Cecilia said. "South Korea is as great as it is today because of what the Americans did in the war. If they hadn't fought the Communist North, the entire country would have been taken over. Whenever Mr. Lee hears someone say bad things about America, he thinks they're not right in the head."

Well, folks, that bowled me over. This fellow, who hadn't even met my grandfather (and had been born on the wrong side of the fence to appreciate his sacrifices) was thanking him with every fiber of his being. It blew me away. All I could do was jerk my head, thank him profusely, and promise to relay his message at the earliest juncture. It seemed a poor thank-you for the sentiment Mr. Lee had expressed. But somehow, even though I was merely a conduit for this man's heartfelt gratitude, I was nonetheless buoyed by it, soothed by it, calmed by it. The weight on my heart seemed lessened somewhat. They call Korea "the forgotten war"...it was nice to know that there were some people, in some far-flung corner of the world, who hadn't forgotten, and still appreciated what the skinny, shivering draftees had fought and died for in the frozen mud of the Korean peninsula.

When I told Grandpa over the phone about what Mr. Lee had said, he chuckled. Then he cemented his status as a true American hero by saying that war memorials should not be built for the men who fought and came back, but the ones who made "the supreme sacrifice" and lie buried in foreign fields. He said I should relay that to Mr. Lee the next time I saw him.

I'll leave you with a video that was taken by a real journalist at the balloon launch. It conveys what I'm trying to express with more eloquence and less pomp.

Your humble correspondent, signing off.

sordid tales of me and music

Dear Blogsphere,

I've joined a writer's workshop here in the High Desert. We meet every alternate Wednesday at this charming little coffeehouse called The Grind. The affair is supervised by an English teacher from the local community college (and the mother of one of my high school buddies). It's mostly for poets, but we stick some fiction in every now and then. I've already gotten help with one of my short stories, and was glad to find out what worked and what didn't.

The overseer doesn't give us "prompts" at the end of every meeting; she gives us "dares." One of the ones she gave us yesterday entailed the following: write about the first time you ever heard a particular song. Any song. Pick one. Write about the context. Where were you? What were you doing? Who was with you? Describe the scene in excruciating detail. (She didn't the word "excruciating"; that's creative license on my part.)

So, for your consideration, I thought I'd give you my response to that dare. It concerns South Korea, for which I am leaving in three weeks. And it concerns one of my very favorite songs, one which I shall forever associate with Korea, friends, being an expatriate, godawful Korean lager, and...well, a whole bunch of other things. Read for yourself.

     I was halfway through my fourth glass of beer and moving steadily into to a lolling, drunken stupor.  Adam sat across from me, as tipsy as I was, a toothy grin on his whiskery face as he dealt the cards for another round of Tripoley.  Elaine and Jeff were in the kitchen, mixing up some vile concoction of soju, orange juice and various liqueurs.  The scent of cigarette smoke hung heavy in the air, soaking every surface in the apartment—skin, clothes, hair, upholstery, wallpaper.  Gossamer strands of vaporized carcinogens drifted up to the ceiling and hung there like lopsided spider webs.
     It was pitch-black outside, except for the streetlights and neon-lit storefronts.  The apartment was brilliantly lit by overhead fluorescent lighting.  The curtains were closed, providing few hints about the dank, humid night outside.  The linoleum floor was covered in crumbs, dingy tennis shoes, dog-eared paperbacks, smutty magazines.  The glass-topped card table was populated with stacks of shuffled cards, sweating beer glasses and their telltale wet rings.  Squashed beneath the glass were scraps of lined notebook paper with odd missives scribbled upon them in untidy ball-point: pot, kitty, king, queen, king-queen, ace, jack, 10, 8-9-10 all one suit.

     Another day in South Korea had drawn to a close, and four beleaguered expatriates—Jeff (the Canadian), Adam, Elaine (a Geordie couple from Newcastle-upon-Tyne), and their American friend had gathered together for a long night of decompression and relaxation.  A comforting dinner of beef and vegetables had been laid to rest in our bellies, various grievances had been levied against fractious students, copious amounts of booze were being consumed hourly, and the evening had gotten into its stride.  Now we all sat down to the table, drinks in hand and giddiness in our heads, to play cards for unshelled peanuts.

     Behind Adam, balanced on the ottoman, was a battered laptop computer hooked to a pair of squat speakers.  From this was blasting an endless stream of music—house rhythms reminiscent of English nightclubs, highlights of 1960s American rock, and several contemporary selections.  Among this was scattered a pleasing ensemble of R&B.

     And then it happened.  As Adam dealt the cards (a Marlboro hanging from the corner of his mouth), a wave of sound slammed into the alcoholic fog hanging over my brain.  It was a simple sound, but powerful, primal, elemental in its ferocity and intensity.  The power, the melody, and the pounding rhythm seized my soul in their sinewy clutches and refused to let go.

    It was an electric guitar and a drum kit.  That’s all.  Okay, there was some bass in the background, but the guitar and the drums were what got me. Two instruments bare-knuckling their way out of jerry-rigged speakers, filling the smoky air with raw noise.  It was the blues—but the kind of blues which human ears hadn’t heard on this earth since the fabled days of John Lee Hooker and Buddy Guy.  It was dirty, gritty, unfiltered, like a cigarette butt ground into the pavement.  It started low and slow, and then got loud.  It was impossible to keep my feet from tapping and my head from bobbing as thundering drums and jagged guitar riffs blasted ‘round the room like a sonic tsunami.  Even in the midst of a boozy funk I was stricken, overawed.  I leaned ravenously forward, elbows on my knees, straining to absorb as much of the music as possible from my remote position five feet away.

    “Adam,” I asked, “who is this?”

   Adam craned his head around and swiped a finger across the laptop’s touchpad.

   “The Black Keys, mate,” he said. “They’re mint.” 

   So it was.  I leaned farther forward and squinted.  The song was called “Busted.”

   Even the godawful Korean lager tasted good that night.

left behind: Harriet's eulogy

In every damn movie I ever saw some wiseacre walks into the station house or up to the campfire or out of the boardroom and says "I've got good news and bad news. The good news is..."

I get sick of the jackass always treating his audience to mood whiplash by throwing out a hope spot and then negating the nugget of good cheer with some apocalyptically bad tidings a moment later.

So here's the bad news:

My dog died.

Yes, my dog. Harriet. The lovable Chow-Shepherd cross I've had since I was thirteen years old.

We were together for twelve years, that mutt and I. She was thirteen when she died (I'm going to use the word "died" instead of a euphemism like "passed on" or "pegged out" or "kicked," and you may thank George Carlin for it).

When I met her, she was squished into the corner of an enclosure at the old animal shelter down on Zuni Road. That was 1999, the year when everybody was still in a flap about something called "Y2K," the year The Matrix came out in theaters, the year Bill Clinton was acquitted of being a large and unfaithful ham, the year Nunavut (Canada's third territory) was created, the year Joe DiMaggio died, the year Napster debuted, the year the Columbine shooting took place, the year the euro was established, and the year that my brother and I first went to see a movie unescorted (Star Wars, Episode I if you want to know).

I found it to be an odd picture: the cutest dog in the world was being oppressed by the ugliest, in the same cage, no less. Harriet, who used to look like this (she's the brown one):

...and who had an expression on her muzzle akin to this...

...was being bullied by this thing. I can't even describe it. I went to Google and typed in "ugly dog" and nothing the cybersphere threw at me could even come close to encompassing this animal's unsightliness. Seriously, this was an ugly dog. Gray skin, like an anemic walrus. Woolly white fur that was flaking off in bundles. Stubby legs, a tubular body, a hideous, angular head, and a mean look in its sunken eyes. If Harriet even looked as though she was about to budge out of her corner, Old Butt-Ugly would let out a blood-curdling growl. Harriet would freeze in place and give a plaintive stare to whomever walked by the cage at that point.

And, at some point, I happened to walk by.

They say dogs can't talk, but it would've been harder for Harriet to say "Get me out of here!" any more clearly, even if she'd opened up her mouth and yelled the words in a Flatbush twang.

It was the Bambi eyes that did it, though. Harriet gave me one look out of those dark, somber, tear-jerking eyes and my heart was gone. I had to have that dog. I had to save her from Whizzo the Crazy Ugly Dog-Thing. She had to be mine. I had to be hers.

So we brought her home.

She was an unusual dog. Unique, maybe, is the term. You can't say "all pets are unique," because that flouts the very definition of the word "unique." But Harriet was, all the same. She didn't like to run or play fetch like most dogs did. She was a tug-of-war kind of girl. She loved rope toys and pig's ears and other things you could chew on. She had some bad habits at first, too. She liked to bark and she liked to dig. I can't tell you how many times I had to get up in the dark of night and go yell at her to quit barking. She dug so many holes under the perimeter fence that I began to wonder if her previous owners hadn't been Mexican immigrants.

(I'll pause a moment while you boo and hiss at that awful joke.)

We never had to go far to look for her when she escaped the yard. She always came back. It was filling in the holes that was the problem. They were many and they were deep, and if they weren't properly filled in and barricaded, she'd re-excavate them the next night. I used anything I could find: scraps of plywood, walkway tiles, rocks, whatever we had lying around. It drove me to distraction.

But finally, after repeated lessons, coaxing, persuasion, and some harsh disciplinary action, Harriet was trained. She didn't dig out anymore, and she shut up barking (almost completely). She was a healthy, amiable pup, and though she had some annoying habits (like jumping up and putting her paws on people's stomachs) she had some whimsically cute ones, too. On hot days (it frequently got up to 105 and higher in the summer) she liked to dip her front paws into her water bowl. With all her fur, it was all she could do to keep cool, short of me brushing her. I even sheared her completely sometimes, right down to the skin. She looked ridiculous (like a sheep or a poodle) but she was cool for a while.

She never forgot about me, even when I left her for months—even years. I saw her every Christmas and summer for three and a half years while I attended college. She never failed to greet me at the door or the gate, chasing her tail, hopping about like a mad thing, sniffing me all over to take in some of the exotic scents I'd picked up in my absence.

Then came the big one: Korea. I was gone for a whole year, and then some. For all that time the most I saw of her was the pictures I had brought with me, and some which my parents sent me electronically. She had some adventures of her own while I was gone. An ear infection affected her balance so much that she went around with her head tilted at a crazy angle. Fortunately it was cured quickly.

She wasn't the same dog she'd been when she left. Her muzzle was grayer. Her movements were slower. She had less tolerance to cold. She didn't chase after thrown toys anymore, didn't play tug-of-war with as much enthusiasm. Two more years went by, and she had become...old. Undeniably old. Even I could see that she wasn't the doe-eyed puppy dog she'd been when I brought her home. She was stiff, bent. She spent most of her time sleeping. She hardly ever barked anymore, unless my parents' new dog, Dash, stirred her up.

And soon it was time to make the Hardest Choice. At some point I had to ask myself whether her quality of life truly justified her continued existence. And ultimately I decided it didn't. She was in constant pain. Cataracts clouded her eyes, forcing her to look side-on at anything she wished to examine closely; she could no longer find dropped treats in the dark. Her arthritis was so paralyzing that she could no longer bend her rear legs; and sitting and laying down were painful, torturous, lengthy concepts for her.

I couldn't stand seeing her that way. Not my dog. Not the excitable pooch who used to spin in circles so fast she became a blur. Not the mutt who used to take naps in snowdrifts in Wyoming. Not the jealous girl who'd leaped headlong into the lake after Molly just to keep her from getting the stick first. Not the digger, the barker, the paw-dipper. Not my Harriet.

So I took her to the vet to have her put down.

I can't tell you how often I considered scooping her up, scrambling out of the vet's office, throwing her into the back of my Jeep, and just running away with her somewhere. About once every two seconds, probably.

I even thought of trying to end her life myself, but I knew in my heart that I didn't have it in me to load a gun and point it at her. What if I missed? What if I didn't kill her with the first shot? What would go through her mind in her last few seconds of her life? Would she wonder why her master, the boy she'd grown up with, betrayed her? Hated her?

I couldn't bear the thought.

I think it was the hardest thing I've ever had to do: to sit on the floor of the vet's office with Harriet while the poison went into her veins, and she let out one final sigh and went limp in my arms.

I'll spare you the details. You can guess the rest.

I buried her myself. I insisted on it. It seemed the least I could do. She wasn't the first dog I'd ever owned, but I'd known her the longest, and loved her the most. This was the dog I'd spent twelve years of my life—half of my entire existence—getting to know. The same dog I'd patiently trained to sit, to stay, to shake. The same one who used to dig out of the paddock and go running all over creation while I, heart in my throat, searched and called for her. The same one I couldn't stand to brush, because she had the coat of a musk ox and I always got enough fur off her to stuff a mattress with. The same stocky, fluffy, bull-nosed girl who'd come up behind me when I was sitting on the back porch and poke her head under my arm. The same one I'd dreamed of entering in the Iditarod one day, she had so much fur. The one I hoped to take flying sometime. The one I wanted to come to Alaska with me and live out her retirement chasing moose off my property.

So the veterinary staff wrapped her forlorn little body (she seemed so much smaller now, in death) in a black plastic body bag and handed her to me. I put her in the back of my Jeep, closed the door, and leaned my head against it for a moment, trying to get a hold of myself. Miss H, much more honest with her feelings, laid a hand on my arm. It helped so much. I could never find words to thank her for being there, nor what she did to help me along. I squared my shoulders and drove us home. I backed the Jeep into the horse paddock (next to the big one-acre paddock where Harriet had run in olden times). I selected a quiet spot between the yucca plant and the old corral. With Miss H helping, we dug a three-foot hole in the hard-packed sand and grit. Miss H went in the house to let me pay my last respects. I lifted Harriet out of the Jeep, laid her in the hole, arranging her legs and head as comfortably as I could through the black plastic. I hesitated a moment longer, then put the first shovel-load of dirt on her.

After that, things were easier, a little.

I filled in the hole. I put a chunky clump of dirt on top, as a sort of marker. Just so I could find the spot again if I wanted to. I poured some water over the hole, to help tamp down the loose earth and make sure no one disturbed her. Then I put the tools back in the shed, closed the rear door of the Jeep, parked it by the garage, and closed the paddock gate.

That was September 2, 2011.

I haven't visited her grave since.

I think I might be able to sometime soon.

(aluminum) skin deep

I've given you a modicum of insight into the character of the pilots whom I habitually hang with, and the people you're likely to meet at an airport.

But thus far I've said nothing about the character of the airplanes.

And trust me, airplanes have a lot of character.

Every car on the road has its idiosyncracies. A unique temperament, a spark of hauteur or rebellion or jocularity, a private set of pet peeves. Dare we suggest...a personality?

Airplanes are like that, too. Only their personalities are more noticeable, existing as they do in three dimensions, rather than a motorcar's mere two.

Some airplanes hate to climb.
Some can't grab the air fast enough.
Some planes refuse to come down.
Some drop like rocks.
Some planes wobble a bit on turbulent days.
Some of them wobble a lot.
Some birds cough and sputter at low throttle and mixture settings.
Some of them run smooth as butter on any power setting.

Maybe the radio won't come on unless you flip the switch just right. Maybe you have to drop the nose a little bit to raise the gear. Maybe you have to pump the priming handle just one more time, or pull the mixture just a little farther out, or keep the key on IGNITION and your hand on the throttle and sit there sweating for ten seconds while the prop rotates aimlessly and the electrical system buzzes and every naughty word your mother ever scolded you for saying streaks through your head before the engine finally starts.

Every plane is different.

The fun part is figuring out those differences.

My company retains two Mooneys (E-models, circa 1966-67) for chase operations out here in the Mojave Desert. Sit back and I'll tell you a little bit about them. 

N214SH: We call her "Sierra Hotel" for short. She was our flagship airplane, a mostly standard Mooney M20E. She's got an autopilot (doesn't work), manually-operated landing gear (Johnson bar, very reliable) and we've had a few extra gauges put in to watch our engine temperature. Like most Mooneys, she's maneuverable, fuel-efficient, fast, and tough. Mooney airframes are built to withstand 3.8 Gs, which comes in handy when the thermals are kicking up over the desert. Unfortunately, in regards to the type of flying we do, the Mooney airframe has some drawbacks. The wings are so wide and stiff that they catch every little molecule of air that blows under them, so the effects of thermals and turbulence are magnified twofold. 

Having said that Sierra Hotel is "mostly standard," I should explain what that means. In hot weather, she don't climb too well. In cold weather, she climbs like a homesick angel. She'll cruise at about 120 miles per hour, and can do up to 180 if we're descending into Apple Valley from 10,000 feet. She does her job quite well, if not exactly flashily. 

N3480X: Our second airplane, direct from Colorado. Nicknamed "X-Ray," it had recently had its engine replaced when we took possession. X-Ray is...a little different from Sierra Hotel. She has speed-mods. The windshield is swept back for a more aerodynamic profile, the propeller is scimitar-shaped, and the controls are just...well, tighter. X-Ray is a precision instrument, built to move. She cruises at slightly higher velocities than Sierra Hotel, and is somewhat more agile in the air. I got my first taste of this when Mr. Mooney threw X-Ray into a two-G three-sixty the first day we took her out on a mission. Once I'd retrieved my stomach and peeled my eyeballs off the back of my throat, I had to admit that X-Ray was something more of a "hot rod" than Sierra Hotel.

And now for the pet peeves.

Hot rod though she may be, X-Ray's comm panel is set up inconveniently. You can listen to the first radio (Comm 1) and the second radio (Comm 2) at the same time. You can also talk on Comm 2 and monitor Comm 1 in the background. But for some reason, when you transmit on Comm 1, Comm 2 cuts out. So we have to leave the knob on Comm 2 while we're in the air, constantly, and switch to Comm 1 whenever we want to talk on it (and hope that the people on Comm 2 don't say anything important while that's going on). It's a bit of a pain, to be honest. Sierra Hotel has no such problems. Comm 1 and Comm 2 can be monitored and transmitted on indiscriminately.

Sierra Hotel's ventilation system is terrible, though. X-Ray's used to be the same way, but in desperation we've pried the ventilation hatch open with strong steel wire and now we have the whole slipstream blowing through the vents on us. Given X-Ray's better climb profile, the Green Machine is the preferred vehicle for chase operations, even if seasoned pilots like Dawg and JM-2 are more comfortable in Sierra Hotel.

Did I say "Green Machine"?

Haha, I haven't told you about paint jobs yet, have I?

Airplanes come in...a variety of colors. Obviously you can't go completely crazy with the skin on your old bird. There are FAA regulations regarding color and placement of registration numbers and so forth. But there is some wiggle room. And often, pilots choose to wiggle in the wrong direction.

Mr. Mooney's personal Mooney (not one of our company planes) used to belong to a dentist. I find this nothing short of hilarious, seeing as how Mr. Mooney's personal Mooney is stark white with a turquoise stripe running down the side. It looks like a giant tube of toothpaste sitting on the tarmac. Apparently this dentist let his wife pick the color scheme, which is always a sound course of action in my book.

One of the pilots who flies out of Apple Valley (an acquaintance of JM-2's; I'll call him "Mack") flies a Cessna 172 with large red and yellow patches overlying a white undercoat. Mack nicknamed his plane "Carls Junior," acknowledging the paint job's blatant similarity to ketchup and mustard.

I've seen airplanes the color of boiled asparagus. Neutral colors and pastels mixed without remorse. Shamelessly cheerful shades of royal blue, lime green, banana yellow, and cherry red, often in some gag-inducing combo.

N3480X is no exception. You can almost immediately tell that the plane was a product of the late 1960s, for its color scheme is a sort of light tan, underscored by slate grey and forest green stripes down the sides and on the wings.

Tan, grey, and green. Who let that plane out of the hangar?

Sierra Hotel's color scheme is far more dignified. Its upper half and wings are white. The lower portions are light grey, and the two primary colors are separated by a thin maroon stripe running down the side. Maroon is also the chief color on the tail, giving the airplane a sort of roguish air. As an added bonus, the paint scheme closely matches our company colors.

Every plane has its quirks, from the way it looks to the way it flies. As with human beings, I've learned not to trust my eyes, and look past the surface. A plane spattered in incongruous hues and beaten with an ugly stick still might be the best-flying machine at the airport. Likewise, the immaculate white stallion parked by the ramp might be the most clumsy, awkward, tricky beast you've ever flown.

Beauty is only (aluminum) skin deep.

Well, except for this. This is just "plane" awesome...

as the prop turns

It sure beats me why Wings was the only well-known, successful sitcom to take place at an airport. This blogger is frankly puzzled by the fact. There's enough drama (and comedy) at small airports to sustain at least five sitcoms on daytime TV, no problem. It'd be a piece of cake. I can envision at least three seasons' worth off the top of my head as I sit here in the briefing room. Yes, even this innocuous airport in Apple Valley has all kinds of stuff going on in the background which would escape the average citizen's notice, but would be commanding fodder for a drama or afternoon soap.

And I ain't lyin'.

My pilots and I have openly acknowledged that an airport drama set at KAPV would likely succeed. As the Prop Turns was our chosen title.

I'll introduce the cast of characters first, and then the premise. I'd like you to meet some of the flawed and florid characters we have hanging around here. Names have been changed to protect the guilty.

(Disclaimer: As the Prop Turns is a work of fiction. Any resemblance between the characters and any real persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and unintentional.)

TOM: The airport café's owner and head cook. Tall, bald, and congenial, Tom is somewhat lopsided, the result of a nasty motorcycle accident in his youth. A good chunk of his stomach muscle was grafted onto his ankle to replace the flesh gouged away. He walks with a permanent limp, and constantly slips on the grease on the café's kitchen floor—despite the Crocs he wears to prevent this from happening. A full-length fall upon the floor is not uncommon. Tom invariably burns his hands, cuts his skin or breaks his bones when this happens. He chipped his hip a few weeks ago, and most recently broke his femur on his way to the bathroom. He's on crutches now, and has hired extra help to mind the store. The economy being where it is (in the U-bend of the national toilet's drainpipe), business isn't so good, either. Combine low income with broken bones and you get Tom, stumping about behind the counter, chunnering ceaselessly to himself. He expresses political opinions openly; checks gas prices (and women's undergarments) with a pair of scuffed binoculars; and claims that Cream's original lineup consisted of Eric Clapton, Robert Plant, Jim Morrison and George Harrison. Tom's definitely one of the more colorful characters here at the airport.

VINCENT: The airport manager, employed by the county. A large, imposing man with a white mustache and a goatee down to his chest. His dress is always impeccably professional, button-down shirts and slacks, as befitting an airport manager...and a hog rider who needs to conceal the sleeve tattoos on both arms. He takes the details of his job seriously, and ministers minor duties with his own brand of zeal. A few years back it was discovered that some unscrupulous character was coming into the pilot's briefing room in the dead of night and downloading pornography. Upon receiving this intelligence, Vince laid in wait, grasped the man by his collar, and threw him bodily from the airport building. The brazen pervert hasn't been heard from since.
You will notice, however, that I used the words "details" and "minor" in referring to the way Vincent does his job. A shadow hangs over the manager's office. All sorts of nasty rumors are swirling around around Vince. From what I hear, he's a snarky, secretive, dishonest martinet who runs shady backroom deals out of his office. He won't allow new businesses onto airport property, because he's worried they might expose his illegal dealings.
I'm not sure how much truth there is to the secrecy and dishonesty, but I do find Vince to be a snarky martinet. He's always the first to jump down the throat of anyone he perceives breaking rules or doing something wrong.
Okay, so I might've been driving a little fast around the airport. It wasn't a big deal. I never came close to hitting anything. Nevertheless Vincent noticed, and had one of his maintenance men keep an eye on me, and report to him if I did it again. Sure enough, I proved a repeat offender. Vincent stopped me on my way to Tom's restaurant. He scolded me and told me to slow down. I agreed, wondering why he had chosen to pick on me and not the half-dozen other pilots who rip around the airport like stock car drivers. When someone chopped up a parked car with a propeller two weeks ago, Vince was called from home to assess the damage. The first thing he did was admonish the flight school's chief mechanic, Lenny, to move his car away from the wreckage. Lenny was well outside the line of cones surrounding the jumble. There was no need to move. Evidently Vince, and his authoritative ego, thought otherwise.

LAURA: Vince's pretty secretary. She looks way, way too good to be 30 years old and a single mother of two. This long, tall and leggy brunette has been turning heads at the airport for several years. All the old men at the airport feel that there must be some trick behind her comeliness, and spend a good portion of their time looking behind her, just to be sure. (It doesn't help that her wardrobe consists mostly of knee-length halter sundresses.)
Laura is nice: friendly, outgoing, accommodating, and conversational. But she's a wolf in sheep's clothing. She realizes that her position at Apple Valley depends on her superior's good will, and as such she is firmly "on his side." She's Vince's informant, his confidante, his unquestioning toady. Anything a pilot says to her can and will get back to the airport manager. Laura may give you a friendly, smiling, trustworthy look, but woe betide you if you reveal any sensitive information to her. Vince will be breathing down your neck in short order. Laura is not your friend if you are late on your hangar rental payments, haven't stumped up for transient parking fees, or get caught washing your airplane on airport grounds. She'll sell you up the river without a second thought. A femme fatale indeed.

HERB: An instructor and part-owner of Apple Valley's second flight school. (Why are there two flight schools here, you ask? I'll explain in a moment. It's quite the piece of drama.)
Herb is a marvelous man. He's the most amiable, peaceful, tolerant and equable human being I've ever met. He's a flight student's dream: he won't harp on, howl at or harangue a pupil. Flying with him is more like flying with your favorite uncle or a friendly neighbor. He merely points out what you could be doing better, and congratulates you on what you did right.
But...he's not that good at flying. His total number of solo hours could be counted on fingers and toes. Most of his flight-time was spent instructing, and instructors don't fly unless their students do something drastically wrong. But more than that, Herb just doesn't know that much. Flight instruction is like any other kind of education, and among its teachers, there are good eggs and bad eggs. The good ones are constantly seeking to improve their skills, adjust their lessons to fit new examples, call on situations they've experienced or read about, possess a bazillion flight hours, aren't just gunning for a job with the major airlines, and know all there is to know about the airplane, the airframe, the engine, and what's going through the student's mind (and fingers).
The bad ones...well, they're just not up to code. Maybe their methods are out of date. Maybe their benchmarks and rules-of-thumb are airport-specific, or apply only to certain situations. Maybe they don't communicate very well, or don't place proper emphasis on the most important subjects. Maybe they're not good at teaching students useful shortcuts or mnemonic devices. Or maybe they're just not that good at teaching, or don't know what the heck they're talking about. (Unfortunately, there are a lot of flight instructors out there like that.)
There's been a few things Herb has taught me that JM-1, my current instructor, has had to fix. I like Herb a lot and thank him for getting me through the bulk of my private pilot training, but he's not the best, and that's the honest truth.
Herb was recently diagnosed with multiple sclerosis, a terrible blow to him as a human being, a business owner, and a pilot. His flying will have to be severely restricted from now on. He can barely get from the truck to the flight school office some mornings, and that's a level walk of barely 30 yards. I feel truly sorry for the man and respect his valiant struggle against the disease. He is truly a good man, but like any man, he has his flaws. 

BARBARA: Herb's sensible, straightforward wife. Her body is a twisted parody of humanity, contorted into an awkward, shambling wreck by rheumatoid arthritis. Each of her ten fingers points in a different direction. Watching her take someone's debit card and swipe it through the reader is almost physically painful. She keeps a stiff upper lip, however, despite the hardships of running a flight school in this day and age. She's just as nice and supportive as Herb is, if not more: her encouraging words helped me get back on an even keel before and after my private pilot checkride. 

OLD JOE: The bent, wrinkled, smiling ass-kicker-turned-airport-bum. Serving in the Air Force for over 20 years, a veteran of two wars (Korea and Vietnam), Joe was and still is an accomplished pilot who flew everything from the F-86 to the F-111 and wound up with an armload of amazing stories to tell. Ask him about dodging SAMs over Vietnam, dogfights with MiGs, the burst of flak that blew out his windscreen and nearly blinded him, night raids over enemy territory, racing Phantom pilots to the ground, dust storms in Nevada that cut visibility to a quarter-mile. Those and other hair-raising tales, too numerous to mention, are just the beginning. Now, it seems, Joe's settled down to a quiet life of sweatpants, tennis shoes and sugared coffee. (I've never seen him without his blue Air Force baseball cap, either.) You can find him at the airport any day of the week, his gnarled hands in his pockets, his voice hoarse from years of shouting over jet engines. He tends the flight school when Herb and Barbara aren't around, and enjoys a good chat with anyone who happens by.

LENNY: The mechanic-in-residence at Herb and Barbara's flight school. Billing himself as a prop balancer, Lenny's abilities run the gamut from tightening bolts to full-on engine replacement. I don't have much on him. He has a crop of white hair, is about 5'6", drives a silver SUV, and is generally regarded as an idiot and a thief, even among his fellow mechanics. I can't say. I've never had direct proof, only secondhand accounts. And speaking of secondhand accounts...

SONJA: I've mentioned her before. The chain-smoking Dutch matron of the original flight school at Apple Valley, M______ Aviation. Short and plump, with a lined face, auburn hair and twinkling eyes, Sonja's accents are often heard on the traffic advisory frequency. (She pronounces "r" like "w.") Sonja is outgoing and helpful, but the way the pilots tell it, she's the next thing to a highway robber. Renting a hangar from her is like showing up to an IRS audit without last year's tax forms: she'll rake you over the coals if you're behind on your payments. And good luck trying to rent-to-own an aircraft from her. Sonja, the story goes, has a nasty habit of adding miscellaneous and superfluous charges onto any bill she processes. Repair bills always have an extra quart of oil tacked on for no apparent reason. Herb and Barbara once tried to lease an airplane from her, but couldn't make any headway at all toward ownership thanks to the superlative charges they paid each month. They finally gave up the ghost, told Sonja to stick it, and went and founded their own flight school down at the other end of the runway. (That's how there came to be two flight schools at this airport.) Neither Herb nor Barbara—nor hardly anyone who's had their plane serviced at her garage—has anything complimentary to say about Sonja.

PETE: The venerable, soft-spoken, eternally grease-stained master mechanic at M______ Aviation. You know him, you love him. What you don't know is that he and Sonja used to be romantically involved. When they split, M______ Aviation fell on hard times. For all Sonja's faults, she was extremely good at keeping the books. So Pete fired his inept secretary and hired Sonja back on, and the two cigarette smokers have run a tight ship ever since. Pete is a capable man and will loan out tools and equipment for free, but his reputation around the airport has been soiled by the price he charges for inspections (and his complicity with Sonja's money-grubbing).

I guess those are the major players. What a motley crew, eh? Quite a diverse representation of personality types we've got here. This should be more than enough to feed a drama and satiate it indefinitely. I can just see the episode titles now: "Bank Robbery at 5,000 Feet," "The Straight-In Narrow," "All's Well That Pays Well," "King of the Runway," "That Airplane Won't Wash," "A Nice Piece of Asphalt," "Sectionals and the Single Mom," "Bait-And-Master-Switch," "The Men on the Flying Trapeze," "Three (Hangar) Doors Down," "Tom Takes a Trip"...need I go on?

And think of the guest-stars! Elderly couples from Cable and Tehachapi. That thirtysomething NASA engineer with the kit-built canard plane. Warbirds from Chino, like Thunderbolts and Corsairs. Businessmen and peace officers in Pilatus PC-12s. (Why, the lieutenant-governor of California flew in once in his Cessna 414.) Glider pilots from Palmdale. Weekenders from Big Bear City, Lake Havasu, Las Vegas, Flagstaff and Phoenix: Comanches, Arrows, Barons, Skyhawks, Centurions and Cardinals. Cross-country trekkers from Alaska and the Midwest, in tail-draggers like Cessna 185s, Piper Cubs and Bellanca Champs. Amphibians from Catalina Island and the coast. The personal transports of millionaires and sports players, Caravans and Citations and Phenoms. 

Why, as I type these words, a skinny Japanese gent (with a T-shirt which reads Advanced World Aerobatics Championships, Team Japan 2008) is standing here, working on the computer in the pilot briefing room. Now he moves into the lobby and I can hear him conversing rapidly with his copilot, a shorter, balding man in an olive-drab flight suit. Who are they? Where are they going? What did they fly in on? How far is it from here to Japan, anyway? Can I hitch a ride, boys? 

Such drama!