Oshkosh Diary -- Friday July 25, 2008

(Cross posted at Letters from Flyover country)

Many of you know I wasn't going to go to Oshkosh this year; I just couldn't seem to work up a heck of a lot of enthusiasm for it. If it weren't for a couple of fellow RVers, a crushing amount of pain in my shoulders from crouching over my computer in my day job, and J.W. French, I wouldn't be going. I'd be working on that RV-7A canopy. At the reception for J.W. French the other night, fellow RVer Paul Hove looked at the project and said, "man, you have a long way to go; you haven't even started the systems yet." It was at that moment that I realized that my project is years away from completion and while spending a week working on it is not only necessary, but therapeutic, it was nothing that was going to make a big difference in the big scheme of things. So what, really, do I have to lose by sitting in a field for a week, watching planes and hope people stop by to say "hello."

This diary has become an annual tradition of the RV Builder's Hotline. I'm starting the writing a day early so that I can talk a little about camping in Camp Scholler. Every year on Van's Air Force, a newbie or two will ask about camping at Camp Scholler. Not many people ever write about it, possibly because it's old hat. So this year I'll write about it and next year -- when my RV-7A project will still have a long way to go -- you can Google it. So if you're reading this in 2009, don't tell me who won the presidential election. Let me surprised.

Friday July 25, 2008
Dateline: Woodbury, Minnesota. It's muggy as all getout, some thunderstorms are passing to the north and normally I'd be putting up the tent in a muggy field in Oshkosh. But I decided to wait a day. It's not that important that I stake out my usual spot in Camp Scholler on 12th Street between Lindbergh and Elm, because I'm not doing the RV Builder's BBQ this year (Note: It's been surprising how many e-mails I've received this week from people asking if I'm doing the BBQ. It's a reminder that a lot of folks don't read this blog, get the RV Builder's Hotline, or peruse Van's Air Force or Rivetbangers.).

With the price of gas being close to $4 a gallon (it actually dropped around here to $3.65 today, a day after I filled the tank.), I'm taking the 2004 Cavalier rather than my wife's AWD, but lousy gas mileage, Subaru. This requires me to pack a little light this year. I figure if the RV-7A project ever gets done, I'm going to have to get use to living light, since the baggage payload is only 100 pounds.

And, guess what, it fits? So what do you need to set up a good campsite at Oshkosh?

A tent
One of those bit canopies you get at Fleet Farm
An air mattress
A cooler filled with a couple of frozen jugs of water (the ice concession is a rip-off in the campground)
Shorts and T-shirt
Tons of bug repellant an sunscreen
Cooking stove, plates and all that
The Van's instruction manual
A GPS if you have it with weather
A computer, and digital camera (if you have a blog or a newsletter that a lot of people don't read)
Binoculars

That's pretty much it. What? No food? Pointless if space is at a premium. You'll be spending as much time over at the WalMart across the street. Why carry it over?

Surprise! It all fit in the car.

There's free wiFi at the campground but as more people show up, it becomes somewhat problematic. It wouldn't hurt to pick up a $20 Starbuck's card and register for the free 2 hours a day of service at Starbuck's. There's one on the frontage road. Don't bring too much clothing. The Maytag coin-op laundry in Oshkosh also has free wiFi.

I've been getting e-mail already from companies and such that want to do interviews while I'm there (I'm media). On Saturday, there's a Chevron-sponsored event with Barrington Irving, the first black pilot to fly solo around the world, and someone who tries to encourage young people to strive to achieve their dreams. If that's through aviation, so be it. But that's not the prerequisite. Unfortunately, it's at 11 a.m. and I'm not leaving here until 8, which should put me in a muggy field just in time for the afternoon thunderstorms.

As always, if you have questions, drop me an e-mail and I'd be happy to answer them for you.

Off to Oshkosh

I'm off to Oshkosh.

As you might've read earlier, I haven't been entirely enthusiastic about the air show this year for reasons I can't quite fathom. But I probably just need to sit an empty field for a few days, watching people walk by and planes fly overhead.

The trick will be not spending money. A few days ago, a barnstorming pilot stopped at my hangar and I put him up for the night. A few RV builders (the plane I'm building) also stopped by and looked over the project, which I'd pushed over to the side of the hangar for the occasion.

"You have a lot left to go," one said. "You haven't even started the systems, yet."

Well, yes, that's exactly what I needed to hear after 7 years and 1,800 of work and a ridiculous amount of money. The sad part is: he's right. So what's stopping me? Money.

At one time I had enough to finish the plane, but kids needed cars, some computers went on the fritz and there were needs here and there and, voila!

The engine for the plane is due to be built next month and delivered, I presume in September. $23,000. I'll "home equity" that (that's a verb?) and pay it off as I would a new car.

But back to Oshkosh. There's a ton of stuff you can buy there; stuff you might even need. But I looked into the cockpit of that biplane that spent the night in my hangar the other day -- altimeter, airspeed indicator, turn indicator. And the guy flew -- solo -- to all 48 states. I'm going to keep that mental picture in mind when I'm walking past the temptation over the next week.

Mini-news Sean bought a new (used) car last night. A 2005 Cobalt. He got a good deal I think for the car with 40,000 miles. Gone is the car with the breaks that are shot, wires that run everywhere, the button you had to push before you turn the key (assuming you didn't lock the steering wheel because then you can't turn the key without some serious shenaningans) and the ignition key that broke off in the front door lock.

It'll be another couple hundred dollars a month for the young man, and adding debt is always sobbering and a little maddening, but his mother and I couldn't be happier.

A REAL letter from flyover country

When it comes to aviation, I guess I'm mostly a 'gee whiz' style of writer, which is not at all the style of writing I tend to do for my day job.

Many folks seem to like both, but I can't say I've encountered a letter like the one I'm posting below. Especially when it comes to publishing the weekly RV Builder's Hotline, I'm aware that people all over the world open it up each Saturday and I think that's pretty cool. This is even better.

A few months ago, I wrote an article for Kitplanes magazine on the history of my RV airplane-building project. This week, editor Marc Cook forwarded a letter he received about the article. I admit that the way it started, well, I was pretty scared.

I am writing to demand that you never let Bob Collins ever write
anything for your magazine again. In my opinion he poses the single
greatest threat to aviation...ever.

We all know the single most important element in aviation is, of course, looking cool! Forget safety, without looking cool, who would want to be a pilot. Now, imagine me, a major airline pilot sitting in my cockpit at 35,000 ft. reading Kitplanes magazine (which, of course, I would never do because it's against the rules).

I come across the June article "Letter to a Friend" by Bob Collins and begin reading about the core elements of beauty and dedication that make us build and share this amazing experience that is homebuilding. I read about the experiences that change our lives and those of our families for the better and bring us together as a ommunity of common travelers.

And, let's say for the sake of argument I have a little moisture welling up in my eyes. Now I have to set the magazine down on the glare shield (which, of course, I would never do because it's against the rules) and turn toward the window pretending that I have dust in my eye so nobody will know that I am getting a little weepy in the cockpit! This man is a menace and must be stopped!


Yours, ever so cooley,

Chris Hawley

Talk about cool. Wherever you are, Chris Hawley, safe travels.

Summertime blues

It's official! This summer blows. I blame the Republicans and Democrats.

Just two years after having an entire summer off and making the most of it, I find myself captured by the yang of summertime yin.

For the last couple of months, it's seemed my summer was booked before it even started. AirVenture at Oshkosh, long the highlight of my summer, automatically gets a week on the calendar. But I'm also supposed to go out to Denver the last week of August to cover the Democrats, and then turn around and spend the next week covering the Republicans in St. Paul.

It's hard to relax and enjoy the summer when you have the Republicans and Democrats on your schedule as the big finale, sucking every last bit of air out of what used to be the carefree time of year.

Chances are, though, if I weren't covering the national conventions, I wouldn't be doing anything anyway. Life has become a pattern of work, home, TV, bed, work. You know, one of those patterns. It's off kilter and I can't seem to get it back on track.

My wife and I are still young, but health concerns now set the agenda for both of us. Getaways are canceled for whatever malady is in play and the little free time afforded by an economy that requires us to work until we drop, is frittered away. No trip East, no time on the beach, the bikes are gathering dust in the garage and the cost of gasoline is making things problematic. Throw in the occasional kid in need of attention here and there and it's enough to make one look forward to winter.

The deck project that's been going on for four years is still mocking me. I'm running out of time to do something -- anything -- on it this year. The famous "bench," scene of afternoon happy hours where we can relax and separate the work day from our lives, has been used this year exactly once.

There's nobody to blame for this but ourselves, of course. But I'm pretty sure this is a rut shared more and more by Americans in this current economy.

What to do? Regroup. I've decided not to go to Oshkosh this year. I'm getting tired of doing it solo, and this year it's more expensive to get there and many of the acquaintances I have aren't going either. Besides, I've seen it before. I'll probably spend the week working on the deck instead.

And maybe a little work.

Making memories

On holidays, most of my neighbors head for the lake or campground in search of quiet and relaxation. I don't have to because when they leave, they take their noise with them and I'm left with all the quiet I need, and some bird songs to go with it.

It is, of course, the 4th of July, which is my favorite holiday of the year even though I have no particular plans... ever... for it. But it's a good time to sit in the quiet of a holiday morning and reflect on how great summer is, and, of course, think of summers past.

Growing up, I'm sure we did other things in the summer besides head to the beach -- we had a trailer on the beach in Newburyport which at the time -- and even, today -- seemed like the height of luxury, but most summer memories begin and end with Plum Island. We might've stayed up there for weeks on end; we might've stayed up there for five days, it all blurs to me.

This, of course, was back in the time when parents let their kids out in the morning and expected them back for dinner. We'd go fishing, or scavenge for lures that washed up overnight, play "Army" on the dunes, build a sand castle, sit out on the tip of a jetty as the tide was coming in and pretend to be the captain of a ship in rough seas (scurrying off the jetty before the rising tide cut off our path of exit).

At night the family would have a fire on the beach and do the marshmallow thing. At least once, we'd head over to Hampton Beach for fireworks. A kid can't ask for better memories and my parents did a great job of providing them.

I often wonder what memories my kids have of their childhood and what will blur together as they get older. Will they be good ones?

When they were much younger, we'd take them somewhere and quite often it seemed as if they weren't having any fun. Then later they'd be telling someone about it and we'd overhear them talking as if it was the best day of their young lives.

But I wonder what summer memories will survive? Will they remember Sheffield, Mass. and the great cast of characters in that neighborhood on the mountain? Will they remember the July 4th up at Lynne and Robert's pond, with the picnic and the nighttime fireworks (real fireworks) over the water? Will it be Oshkosh? Will it be pounding golf balls into Newark Pond in Vermont, and then swimming for them, only to shoot them right back into the pond?



The picture at the top of the page is from 2003 and Sean and Patrick were atop Mt. Monadnock in New Hampshire. It was during their "paintball period," so I think they were plotting what sort of strategy they'd employ if they had their weapons, which they didn't. My parents took us to Mt. Monadnock for a picnic at least once a summer, it seemed. This was the last time I went with them. A few months later, my Dad was dead.


This week Sean and Patrick moved out of their apartment up in Maplewood and moved into new places. Sean has moved to a complex in Woodbury, just 2 1/2 miles away from the empty nest. Patrick has moved into some student housing in White Bear Lake, a stone's throw from Century College, where he'll be finishing up his paramedic training.

I rented a truck and we packed them both up, they spent a night at the nest, and then I unloaded them at their respective places the next day. I wouldn't be 20 or 22 again for anything. Setting out on new frontiers is always a bit disconcerting for young people, made more so now by a difficult economy and rising prices. But I'm betting they're already making good memories.

I hope so, anyway.

Questions

This is the question I've been pondering recently. Can dogs get embarrassed? I think of it whenever I take Otter for a walk, oddly enough. He doesn't seem to have the exact look I usually see when he takes his dump, but trust me: there is one -- a sort of "hey, close the door" look. I see it on other dogs, too.

What about the algae eater in my aquarium?



What does he think about all day as he glues himself to the side of the tank? Does he think his life sucks? If there's a God -- and I'm not saying there's not -- what was he thinking when he created the algae eater? If there's reincarnation -- and I'm not saying there is -- what the hell did the person do in his/her previous life to come back as an algae eater? Is there, like, a pervert in my aquarium?

These are important questions.

It's been a quiet, non-existent spring here in flyover country, although the first real signs of summer -- hot and humid days -- have finally arrived. But the days are getting shorter. I want to believe that summer just started, but the days are getting shorter.

I'm trying to figure out my schedule for the summer. I've got Oshkosh for a week at the end of July. Then I have to go to Denver in August to cover the Democratic National Convention, then back home to St. Paul to cover the Republican National Convention and that takes us to.... Labor Day!

Where the hell did summer go? It's times like this I look forward to retirement. I want my summers back.

In around-the-house news, the weird spring weather created a first. The delphiniums bloomed before the peonies did.



By the way, the yellow siding and blue trim will be disappearing soon. The roofing and siding guy is stopping by today. We're picking a new color. I'm leaning toward colonial red -- both my and Carolie's parents' homes are colonial red, although it's a color that may work better in New England. The dark color may fade quickly, though. Anything but beige, I guess.

Continuing our tour: In the backyard, wouldn't you think the hummingbirds would be all over this beast?



Alas, no hummingbirds.

And what is this plant:



It came back to Minnesota a few years ago when I dug up some bee balm at my mother's house. I transplanted it from the perennial garden because it was clear it was going to spread. It makes a nice ground cover, even though it's heading for the grass and will probably be a major pain in the neck. It'll probably attack the neighbor's house soon. Good.

Update It's Creeping Charlie. I better start digging.

I'll show you mine

This is a nothing post. Just a picture of me showing a colleague how lame and out of date my cellphone is, at least where the camera is concerned. The lens is all full of lint and it takes crappy pictures. This picture, on the other hand, was taken by my colleague -- Julia Schrenkler -- on her phone.

She wins.

Jim Mitchell, 1950-2008

When I look back at 30+ years in the radio industry, there was no place I felt more at home than at WHDH in Boston. I was a Massachusetts kidding living my boyhood dream, working in radio in Boston. Even better, the people I worked with really were like family.

Word came today that another family member has passed away. Jim Mitchell was one of our newscasters. I used to joke that he was in the CIA, because he'd swoop into town from -- it seemed -- nowhere, plop down and do a great job and then disappear, only to reappear again. I'd heard he was in some sort of secret ops in Vietnam, so I was only half-joking.

When my old friend Nick Young (I've written about him here before, too), Jim took on the morning anchor duties on the Jess Cain show (and I've written about Jess here, too). I wish I could find some clips of the old Cain's Crew TV commercials.

I hadn't seen or talked to Jim since and that was about 25 years ago. But I'm not surprised to find his love had taken him to a bookstore.

Here's his obituary (written by his sister), which was forwarded to me today by another "family member."

Henry Milnor “Jim” Mitchell died June 4, 2008 of a heart attack in his home, MainStreet Bookends of Warner. Born March 17, 1950 in Charlottesville, VA, he was the first child of Arthur Hayne Mitchell, Jr. and Edith Looker Mitchell.

With his sister and brother-in-law, he in 1998 created and became co-owner of the community bookstore MainStreet BookEnds of Warner. In his ten years operating the store, it won numerous awards, including Yankee Magazine’s “Must-See Bookstore of New England,” and NH Magazine’s “Best Community Bookstore.” It became the focal point and gathering place for the town. Here he coordinated over 300 events a year, including concerts, lectures, classes, story hours, and the meeting of primary presidential candidates. He was a former director of the annual Warner Fall Foliage Festival, served on numerous town committees, and was named Warner’s “Citizen of the Year” in 2004.

Jim was a decorated Vietnam veteran, being named “Airman of the Year” in 1970. He began his long radio career as a news anchor with WLNH in Laconia, New Hampshire, and moved to WSB Radio in Atlanta, GA where he stayed until 1981. He then came back to New England to anchor the morning news at WHDH Radio in Boston, the afternoon news at WEEI-AM, and then in 1998 became the weekend news anchor for WBZ NewsRadio 1030. He also served as a union negotiator for the news crew. He received numerous broadcast awards including several awards from the Associated Press for "Best Newscast." He was most proud of his award for "Best Spot News" coverage of the World Airways crash at Logan International airport in Boston in 1982, and was known in the Boston area for bringing human interest stories from all around the world. He had traveled extensively in Europe, Asia, South America and the South Pacific.

He will forever be remembered for his clear voice, his humble nature, for his million small gestures of kindness, his ability to make everyone laugh and feel at ease, and his “free balloon hour” in the bookstore.

He leaves behind his adoring sister, Katharine Mitchell Nevins, and her husband, Neil, of Warner. Their children Lane, Matthias, Colin and Klare were his greatest loves. He is also survived by a brother Arthur Mitchell of Virginia, his wife Monica, and their children Katharine, Andrew and Thomas, his aunt Karen Hyde also of Virginia and many cousins. He leaves behind a huge and grateful community of friends in Warner, at WBZ, and within the world of radio news.

Jim’s passion and greatest pride was the little town of Warner. He worked to encourage and promote all the artists, writers, musicians and children that live there. To honor Jim’s spirit and life work, his plans and dream for a community park between the bookstore and the Pillsbury Free Library of Warner will come true. Any donations should be directed, in his name, toward MainStreet Warner, Inc., P.O. Box 248, Warner, NH 03278, a 501(c)3 nonprofit organization that he created. Burial will be private, but a celebration of his life will be held at the Warner Town Hall on Tuesday, June 17 at 2 pm to be followed by a reception at his home, The Gallery at MainStreet Bookends.

Why journalism is dying

This is very mean of me, but it's not posted with anything but curiosity. We're having layoffs -- a lot of layoffs -- in the media industry right now and we're told -- and appropriately so -- that part of the reason is the Internet.

But merely being on the Internet doesn't mean you take the culture of the dying-trees media and plop it down on the Web, though if you listen to people long enough, you'd swear that the medium by itself is rendering traditional media obsolete.

That's not true.

Take, for example, the front page of an online news Web site I respect... but not today.



Back in the '70s and '80s, I'd occasionally speak to AM radio newsies about the then-dying state of commercial radio news. They blamed everybody but themselves. "What killed radio news?" I'd say to them. "Radio newspeople."

You can't wait 14 hours in today's media landscape to tell people what happened. I see firsthand, all the time, the apparent belief that we in the media get to set the rules by which people will have access to information. Maybe 20 years ago news consumers would adjust to our schedules. But those days are gone.

Which is the primary reason why a lot of newspeople are gone, too.

Pine paranoia

I can't quite put my finger on it, but I'm suddenly haunted by the feeling that the pine trees in the backyard don't like me.

The derelict's game.

Let us be clear about the two most obvious things in life:

I love to golf.

I can't golf.

And here, your honor, is Exhibit A.



The prosecution rests.

Have you ever seen such a horrible swing? If the ball were, say, a crazed rabbit threatening to eat my nostrils, maybe the approach is warranted.

Patrick and I golfed down at Bellwood Oaks in Hastings. I really like the course. I like the fact it was mostly empty and nobody could see me.

It's Patrick's birthday. He's 20. He's no longer a teenager. He's my youngest. Soon, my body will give out and I will be put on life support. I will drool my oatmeal. I will, perhaps, expose myself. I will most certainly have to have my behind wiped after I soil myself.

Then, and perhaps only then, my golf game will be a fitting statement for my life.

I shot a 115. And that's after kicking the ball out of tough lies, taking an extra shot here and there etc.

Patrick? He bought some new irons with some birthday money and he was smoking the ball like I've never seen. He shot a 101, but that wasn't bad for getting used to the feel of new clubs.

Not that I'd know, of course.

Game, heal thyself

I don't know why that -- every year -- I expect my golf game to somehow get better over the winter, as if it were healing itself. My game, however, is terminal as the first trip to the golf course of the year showed.

Patrick and I played at the Ponds at Battle Creek golf course, the one we usually play the most.



I shot a 60 for 9-holes. Truth be told: Even without the almost-broken ankle and the bad rotator cuff, I'd have probably shot a 60.

Patrick shows some good form -- pitching onto the green -- on the way to a ... 55. I think I'm dragging him down.

At the end of a long day...

It's a blast to share a couple of Cuban cigars on the deck. Sean, who works with me, stopped by this afternoon after work (I'm on vacation), lured there by the prospect of a Cuban cigar. They were generously supplied by a co-worker (who shall be nameless to avoid the Homeland Security forces) who brought them back from vacation.

Life is good.

A trip to Tower Hill

Here's some pictures from the visit to the botanical garden at Tower Hill in Boylston, Mass.

I took this shot to show the dandelions. I'm back in Minnesota now, and the dandelions are starting to coming out. How come some lawns -- this one, for example -- look good with dandelions and others don't?



My mother checks out the daffodils.



I really miss New England's architecture.


Spring is quite farther ahead in New England than Minnesota. It was great to see lots of flowering trees. Coming home, I realized I didn't miss much here.



I should've written down what this tree is called. It sure is gorgeous!



Tell the truth: You want your house to look like this, right?



The estate overlooks Wachusett Reservoir, which provides drinking water to Boston, about 35 miles away. Mt. Wachusett -- the highest peak in Eastern Massachusetts -- is on the right.



Here's a slideshow on Flickr with about 3 dozen photos from vacation.

Fitchburg's fate

I've been on vacation in Massachusetts this week, mostly helping around my mother's house with an occasional side trip. I wish I'd brought my cord that connects the camera to my computer because I took some nice pictures of the Tower Hill Botanical Garden in Boylston yesterday. The trip over went through a combination of old colonial towns -- Lancaster, for example -- with fine old architecture and tree-lined streets, then through some of the old mill towns of New England.

It was a study in contrasts and a lesson in opportunities. Leominster, the birthplace of the plastics industry in this country, is doing quite well. Its downtown, even, is bustling. Fitchburg, my hometown, is not. I haven't even bothered to take a look at the downtown because I know what I'll find.


My city was a hell of a city in its day. Many of the factories -- the old Simonds Saw and Steel, for example -- sprung up to build the tools necessary to help the railroads push west through the granite mountains of the Berkshires and beyond. The paper mills along the Nashua River operated 24/7, providing jobs to the immigrants who moved here -- the Finns, the Italians, the French Canadians, the Greeks -- when I was a kid. They polluted the river, fouled the air, and built a country.

We went to school just down the street. The city had fine old neighborhood schools, then. There were more than a half-dozen fire stations, all built on a granite bedrock. The color of my city was brick red -- mile after mile of brick factories followed the river from west to east as it made its way to the Merrimack River, and then on to the Atlantic Ocean.


We had enclaves -- Greek Town, and Cleghorn for the French Canadians, for example -- and yet we never thought twice as kids about the other kids we went to school with, from other cultures. If there was a poster child for "melting pot," Fitchburg was it... helped along in part by the owner of one of the paper mills -- George Wallace was his name -- who actually lived in the city, gave a rip about it, and paid for a library, a civic center (The Boston Bruins practiced there. It's where I met Bobby Orr and Derek Sanderson.), even a planetarium. He's gone, now, and most of his philanthropic legacy is dying.

The city is down to about 39,000 people now. There are a few little factories still running, but not many. The city has a new mayor, Lisa Wong, the daughter of Chinese immigrants. She's quite a success story overseeing a city that is decidedly not. She's got a city council that's made up of some of the people I grew up with -- the kids that sat at the back of the class and threw spitballs. Now they throw them at her. These are the types of people who rail against "elitism," because -- they figure -- there's no nobility in intelligence.

The mayor has got herself a $5 million deficit and every day I've been here, the local paper (which used to be a fine publication but now is poorly written and has fallen into the hyper-local trap) has another front-page story to document the decline. Yesterday the library announced it will now open only three days a week -- all in the middle of the week.

The library, of course, was the place where we all went to write our term papers, but it also served as the meeting place for kids too shy to ask girls out on dates. The library was a "safe" zone where you could have a date without calling it one.

On Tuesday, the story was that the fire department would remove at least one truck from service and lay off more firefighters. The Senior Center is going to cut hours and staff and close an additional day. My mother is concerned that the city is going to add a trash fee. Meals on Wheels is cutting its service.

The thing is: this is still a hell of a city. People -- some people -- still look out for each other. It's still a place that still has -- by accident, perhaps -- something that my suburb in Minnesota hasn't gotten, despite years of trying everything to get it: a sense of community.

My mother, who's 85, needs someone to mow her lawn this summer. She mentioned it to the check-out lady at the grocery store yesterday morning. Yesterday afternoon, the phone rang. It was the "check-out lady" with a recommendation for a college kid who might like to have the job.


If that doesn't work out, the mailman -- who still brings the mail to the door -- might be able to help. He helped find the last person to have the job (who has now moved out of the city). He knows someone who knows someone because he's from a family who's been here for years.

I stopped to talk to the guy next door the other day. We'd never met before but he's the brother of a guy with whom I went to high school. He was on the basketball team. I was the sportswriter for the high school newspaper. My first big "scoop" in the business was the report that the basketball coach had ordered him to cut his hair. Hey, this was 1971; being ordered to cut your hair was a big deal. The neighbor roared with laughter when I told him that story; it's still a big deal in his mother's house, he said. She's still mad at the coach, apparently. Fitchburg knows how to keep a grudge.


As I chatted with the neighbor, cars driving by honked and their driver waved. The neighbor waved back. It's still that kind of city.

As we were driving over to the botanical gardens yesterday, we drove over a bridge that was being repaired in a nearby city that also is crumbling. "We're building a bridge in Afghanistan," my mother said. "We've got a lot of stuff we need doing right here." She's right. There's a war going on in the hometowns of America and the hometowns of America are losing, and nowhere near enough people seem interested.

Someone should give a damn about Fitchburg. Someone should care that its kids don't have a library, that the public transportation system -- once a vibrant street railway -- is gone, that the senior center is cutting hours, that the fire department -- the very definition of a basic service -- is being gutted, that teachers are being laid off in the few schools that are left, that roads are crumbling, that the newspaper stinks (a fascinating online paper exists, however), that the radio station (we used to have two) is just a satellite service, that Meals on Wheels won't be checking on the old folks as often.

The city is hanging on by the fingernails of its sense of community. For what it's given to this country -- and that includes the politicians who milked everything they could out of it, it deserved better.

Back when I did a talk show on the old WFGL, the mayor in town commented, "I don't know what Collins' problem is with me." He never figured it out. He, too, was a politician who twiddled while his city died, aided and abetted by a city council too ignorant or stubborn to go down any road but the one it was already on.

Airport chronicles

I dropped my oldest son off at the airport this afternoon; he's heading to Las Vegas for week-long Microsoft conference. I'm back home but following his flight on FlightAware. Why do I do that? For the same reason you watch your loved ones go through security, just to make sure they get through OK, and you don't turn to head back to the car until you can't see them anymore.

As I watched today, a man about my age and his wife took up their post near me.

"You just want to hold on to every last moment," he said to me.

"Yeah," I said, as I turned and headed for the garage. "I know."

The home in your heart

Some browsers won't display this properly but this is an essay I wrote for the day job. Find it here. Judging by the response, I'm in the minority... again.

The Field of Dreams

There are moments when all you can do is smile at your good fortune. And there are days when you feel guilty for jamming so many moments into a day.

I spent most of the day working on the RV out at the hangar I rent at Fleming Field in South St. Paul (KSGS). I spent most of the day smiling.

I've read an occasional builder log online where the builder complains that people kept stopping by the hangar to see his project, so he couldn't get anything done. I didn't get that much done today, but I'm not going to complain. As the RV continues to grow, each dream is being realized; one of them was to have a project in a hangar, and have people stop by to introduce themselves, and to sit and watch planes in their native environment.


After a day of scratching my head yesterday over the various configurations that could spring out of the very, very poor Van's instructions for the brake and wheel pants bracket on the 7A landing gear, I called up Walter Tondu's excellent site (See landing gear info here) and within a couple of minutes, I had all the answers. Walter is one of the truly good people in the RV community and although I've pulled back from the online forums, exchanging the occasional e-mail and story with builders is always inspiring. It was a pleasure meeting him at the RV BBQ at Oshkosh I put on (but am taking the year off putting on this year; maybe next year).

And so today, I headed back out to the hangar and when I turned the corner on Cessna Lane, I knew I was in for a good day. An RV-9A was sitting outside, waiting for its owner to take it for its first ride of the spring. The morning 40 degree temperatures and clouds were clearing, so I opened up the door on the hangar.

As the RV-9A came taxiing by, and the owner looked inside, then braked and shut off his engine. He and I had the same reaction about each other's plane: "An RV!!"

His name is Bruce and he moved up from Iowa, and just picked this airport out of his hat to house his plane. He was on his way down to Airlake and asked if I wanted a ride. I did, but I also needed to do some work. I gave him a tour of the project and then Vince drove up. Vince is building a QB RV-7 and he needed to look at my rollbar again to see how something works. Imagine that, people are looking at my work to see how something is done. You can't beat that with a stick.


After a half hour or so of standing out in the "street," talking RVs, I announced I had to get back to work. Bruce had to get down to Lakeville, Vince had to go wrestle a rollbar, and I had to get some bearings packed with grease.

One of the smartest moves I ever made was putting one of those EAA Chapter 1000 workbenches on casters, so I could move it out near the door and work while watching planes take off and land. What an inspiration it is to hear and see planes while working. Why didn't I do this years ago? (Answer: because of the $220 a month rent!).

I plugged in the iPod and sang along, as usual, to the steady stream of Sprinsgteen, Clapton, Norah Jones, B.B. King, ZZ Top and AC/DC. They're the soundtrack of my project.


As I started dispensing grease, I thought I heard something and looked up and "Ray" was driving by in his van on his way to the hangar. I met Ray yesterday. "Hi Bob," I heard him say over "Hard Times" by Clapton, as he waved. "Hey, Ray," I said. Hmmm, Bob and Ray. I like meeting my neighbors and this is becoming the best place in the world to spend a beautiful Sunday afternoon.

As I finished packing a bearing, I realized I'm now the old guy with a greasy rag hanging out the back of his jeans. Cool, I always wanted to be that guy; the guy with a plane in a hangar at an airport, while watching planes, and talking to people passing by.

One of Wipaire's big amphibs came roaring over. Is he on a upwind leg? Then I saw the wind had shifted slightly and a Cessna was landing opposite him. He must've gone around. Fun times at an uncontrolled field.


And so it went all afternoon, all sorts of planes to watch, plus the base-to-final turn for MSP is directly overhead. Can it get any better?

South St. Paul is a cool, little airport. It's not one of the Metropolitan Airports Commission relievers. It's a former Navy field (George Bush the elder learned to fly here) that was deeded to the city in exchange for keeping it an airport. Wipaire has a nice facility here, partly in old World War II hangars. Ballistic Recovery Systems, the Cirrus parachute people, are also on the field. They're building a big new facility nearby, too. The Commemorative Air Force is here and there's a couple of really cool turbo prop firefighting antiques. I don't know what they are (see picture) but they roar like a Mustang on floats.

We have a nice little terminal with wireless on those rare occasions when I feel like doing some work (I have to actually go to work to work, mostly).

I Packed the bearings, got the wheel put together and the tube put in the tire. Hey I've got a wheel!! Whoo hoo. I mounted the wheel and dragged the whole contraption around the hangar; then spun in circles pretending it was taking off... airborne for a second, and then landing. Man, that makes me dizzy.


I started on the left side and realized I needed some 1/4" washers. I know I've got some stuck somewhere, but Wipaire has a parts counter that's open on Sunday, so I walked over and saw Linda, the woman who loves soaring. She set me up with some washers and some Torque seal and I walked in the warm sunshine back to work.

I was having so much fun, watching airplane, singing to myself and occasionally talking to folks, that I had to call home. I felt guilty having so much fun watching airplanes, singing to myself and occasionally talking. My wife told me to get back at it. I went back at it, occasionally laughing like James Earl Jones as he entered the corn field in Field of Dreams.

By 5 I reached my self-imposed 'quittin' time,' so I picked up and swept up after deciding repacking another bearing can wait to another day.

I can't wait.

A Day in the Life of a Blogger

Today was the first test of the "new gig" at work, covering breaking news via blog. In my case, this is "News Cut" at Minnesota Public Radio. As people get more used to blogs, telling stories incrementally becomes a faster -- and in many ways a more complete -- way to get lots of information to people on their timetable, rather than waiting until reporters , umm, research, report, write and eventually -- if you're listening at just the right time -- deliver the information.

I think the two methods are most compatible in radio and I'm thrilled that Minnesota Public Radio is courageous enough to try it. Not many mainstream media folks will say to its newsroom blogger, "go do your own show and make it interesting." Traditionally in mainstream media, nothing ends up on the blog that hasn't first been on the radio (or TV or newspaper) or isn't gathered primarily for the purpose of getting on the radio (or TV or newspaper).

The MPR way allows me to actually have conversations with the audience, have them ask the questions, and then I go find the answers. That is then sprinkled around thenuts-and-bolts of a breaking story.

Believe me, I've had my share of sleepless nights wondering whether this sort of thing can work, but today convinced me of some of the possibilities. In a market like this, a reporter usually works one angle. This method makes the blogger more like a "talk show," turning from one angle to another and then another and then another (this is the old "talk show," not the current "let's set fire to a cross on somebody's lawn" version of a talk show).

So what was I able to do? Over the last 24 hours, I:

**Get an analyst at Clark University to give me first impressions

**Provide an immediate FAQ on what the merger means to people.

**Live blog the investor conference call

**Live blog -- sort of -- the news conference

**Examine the "branding" issue and why it's important for a merging company to get rid of the old logo,colors and message of the company being taken over.

**Find out about the frequent flier programs and what people should do to maximize their miles' worth.

**Provide an interview with an economist about what investors were saying about this in helping the stocks to tank.

**Put together an admittedly "turdy little piece" on repainting airplanes.

**Examine the influence of Southwest Airlines, consider the future of regional airlines, and answer a few more questions from the audience.

You know what? For one person, that's a hell of a good day's work. And it's the way a typical day used to be for us newspeople in small market radio in the old days; still, I think, the best form of radio, may it rest in peace.

Oh, and I threw a bone to the core medium, in this segment with Tom Crann on All Things Considered (Listen here in mp3 format).

Man this was a fun day!

Stirrings from the Empty Cubicle

I have no reason for posting this other than I didn't want it to go to waste, even though it should.