Monday, February 29, 2016

DIY - Food and Friends

Sunday we were up early as that was the day we were pulling the old sink and counter top (one piece stamped steel) out of the kitchen, dismantling the plumbing to it and adding the antique farmhouse sink with a temporary drain until we can get the wall apart to plumb it back behind the wall in prep for the new cabinets.
It's not that big but that sucker is going to be heavy.  Once all the small appliances were moved to the basement, we rearranged so the farmhouse sink could get wheeled in. The fridge is still wheeled from when the tile went in as it will get moved one last time for plaster work and painting.
 Ding Dong - the back up troops have arrived to help.

 Midwest Chick and Mr. B. are Here!  Scritches for everyone!
OHHHH! Midwest Chick brought a goodie bag.  Hammond's candy bars, some Italian dressing in a wine bottle from St. Julian winery and. .
incredible truffles from the Chocolate Garden in Michigan - the Citrus Ginger ones were the bomb.
But back to work.
After the counter top was carried off to the garage, it was time to "exterminate" the plumbing as they say on Dr. Who.
 Midwest Chick and I fled to the safety of the jeep with some new cookbooks to peruse.
One section of cabinets was removed so we had space to put the temporary drain from the farmhouse sink until it can get plumbed back behind the wall as the cabinets go in.  Then a temporary wood counter top went in so I had a clean space to work the next few weeks. I am so going to love having a solid space of counter from wall to wall.  With the appliances and the sink in the middle, weekly bread baking was challenging.

Time to eat. While the menfolk worked away Midwest Chick and I caught up discussing important things like raw honey face cream, wine, and if there is a physiological correlation between too much botox, the frontal lobe and voting liberal. It was good to laugh and be silly  - the last year with aging parents was tough on us both and we had little time to do this.

Then, while the menfolks were at a stopping point, we  hit a local family owned Mexican place. Sometimes the tiny little "hole in the wall "places are the best.

No tomatoes for this redhead but I do love my Americanized (on request) carne asada tacos with the homemade hot sauce and lime. (the tortillas are made every morning from scratch).  Their hot sauce is so good I ask for extras for my eggs later in the week.
It seems like the other day when this wall (home to a long, ugly window) looked like this. (I do NOT miss the red peeling linoleum floor).
The walls will be painted a light creamy yellow which will really make the sink and the window"pop".
It's in - and we have water.  A few more weeks for the cabinets to be completed and then we can touch up plaster and paint the walls and ceiling after the soffit is removed and on to the next project.

Reinforcing the front porch which has all the fortitude of a campaign promise, new front steps and fresh paint trim around some of the windows.
It never ends when you have a 100 year old house and it's SO worth it. Especially when you have wonderful friends to help relax and unwind after the adventures.

Sunday, February 28, 2016

Ciabatta Sundays

Today the old sink is unplugged and the antique farmhouse sink is set up with the drain system to be put in. The countertop to the left which is solid, is coming out with a little help from two friends, and a piece of hardwood is going on top as a temporary counter as the custom cabinets are being finished up (about five more weeks). We're going to wait and finish the paint and plaster work after the cupboards, backsplash and inlaid light is done as the whole soffit is coming out and we'll have to repaint anyway.

This wall originally had a long, ugly window that Partner replaced with the smaller stained glass. Then he plumbed it to free up the single countertop to the left for a long counter, without a sink in the middle.  The kitchen is quite tiny, so space is carefully planned.


So - before the water was turned off, breakfast. I usually make French toast with leftover white bread but today I had some crusty Ciabatta that was getting old and I have to say it made the best French toast ever. Because there is so many large holes, there was lots of opportunity for the rich batter to seep into every nook and cranny. You will need to let it soak in the egg an extra minute and swish it around gently to get the holes filled in but it makes a GREAT breakfast.
It's about as easy as breakfast gets.  Slice four slices per person and set aside.  Using one egg for each person whisk in bowl and add a splash of milk (about 1/4 cup for two people), a few drops of vanilla and a small spoonful of honey.  Soak the bread for about a minute each side then cook on a hot griddle. The center is all soft and pillowy, almost like brad pudding and the crust has a nice bite to it without being "crisp".
I don't think I'm going to make my old French toast again. Pair this and a plate of bacon and some orange juice and coffee and everyone will be happy.


Friday, February 26, 2016

Happy Birthday Big Bro

Today would have been my Big Brother's 60th Birthday.  I think about what I would have done today if he was still here - probably onlibe looking for a horrifically tacky and politically incorrect floral bouquet to send him (teleflower, you are MUCH too tasteful, all you have  are beautiful flowers in lovely arrangements, I couldn't find anything involving cactus, spent brass and a fart cushion.).  If I'd been able to visit him where I would have made his favorite cake.  He baked one for me one time when he was a teen - it was burned on the outside and raw in the middle  - apparently in "doing the math" he thought if 45 minutes at 300 F was good, 20 minutes at 500 was even better.  Dinner that went with it was egg rolls and Tater Tots. But I loved him for the effort. By the time e got into his 20's though he was a good of a cook as I, though he went to his grave with his recipe for Bullie Beans (with tequila, I'm sure of it) refusing to give it to me until I gave him his Rat Fink ring back, a much beloved joke between us).

He always did something special when I came home, balloons for my bedroom, a gallon of my favorite Tillamock Marionberry ice cream in the freezer, a card.  Always.

I know if I could turn back time and see him again,  I'd hold him close in a hug, even though he towered above me and was twice my size, telling him I loved him and he'd tell me back, for he never had a hard time with those words.

So for tonight - I'll raise a toast and share a chapter from Saving Grace - A Story of Adoption which is as much about he and I as my having a child and giving her up.  This months proceeds from both books are going to the Ontario SPCA .

That's Ontario Canada, not California, an organization some friends are part of.
--------------------------------------------
Chapter 49 - Lifespan

I tried to visit Dad as often as I could in those first weeks after we lost my brother. He wished to remain living in his home, so a home health nurse was hired to provide full time in-home care and drive him where he needed to go. I had mentioned his getting another dog---but he was having difficulty standing up, so a dog that had to be let out would probably not be a good idea.
But Dad has had a number of rescues over the years, the last being a Dalmatian named Ashlee. When he got her he was 90 and the dog was almost 12. There was no telling who would outlive whom; but he was so happy to have that four-legged friend to share his big old house with.
But with good quality food and regular veterinary care, Ashley the Dalmatian lived two very comfortable years with her; and Dad at 94 now is doing better than average.
Think about it. As a society we now live decades longer than our ancestors. I remember reading the book Alaska by James Michener; in the opening chapter, there in the dawn of time they speak of "the Ancient One," a woman who was a great healer and spiritual leader. She was in her thirties. Oh great, I thought as I read it, first the big three-oh, now I'm ancient.

These days most of us can expect to live well into our seventies and eighties, some even into their hundreds. Yet some creatures live only months or even days.
Late one fall a cricket moved into my garage of the house. Night after night he chirped away on the other side of my bedroom wall. Leaving the garage door open a bit didn't encourage him to leave, only to have a party with some of his bigger friends. I was able to shoo them out, but he hopped into a little crack to hide so he could continue to serenade me. After a few nights of that I was wondering as to ways to dispatch him. (Would using a silencer on a cricket be illegal or apropos?)

I did a little checking online---apparently
the life span of the average field cricket is just a couple of months. Already an adult, he likely had only a few weeks to live, if that.

The poor little guy wouldn’t even make it to Halloween; but each night he sang as if he would live forever. I didn't have the heart to capture him and move him outside. He could stay safe in my garage as my pet cricket. I named him "Mort."

Consider the hummingbird: such a small creature with such a high metabolism, yet it has a life span much greater than you'd think, with some living more than a decade. I watch them from the feeders in summer, warring for the liquid nectar found within, fending off others that wish to take it; watching, guarding, always wanting more of life's sweetness. No different than what we want.
I think of lives cut short that achieved so much for their brief time here, like my favorite poet John Keats, who threw over medicine to write some of the most sublime odes in the English language and died at 25 from tuberculosis; Percy Shelly; M.F. Xavier Bichat, French army surgeon turned pathologist; Évariste Galois, mathematician and inventor of group theory who died at 20; Robert Fergusson, Scottish Poet; Saint Albertus Magnus. Their words, their teachings still follow me where I go, whispering to me in unexplored depths or darkest of nights---such great thoughts tinged with wonder and mystery, those whispers of slain genius.

Fortunately our human life span is much longer than most creatures’---if we are blessed and take care of ourselves. But even the greatest expanses of time seem so short in recollection. Walking through the little village where I live, the sidewalk glinted with little bits of mica. Not the prophet Micah who told us our human task is to do justly, but the geological kind. As a kid, the sidewalk would glitter like broken glass upon the tide flats from the small glints of mica within it. My brother said it was made of broken starships, and I believed him. For though there are limits to what we may accept as children, there is no limit to what we can believe, nourished as we are by the embrace of the incredible that is found right beneath our feet.
Into the warm days of fall that is childhood's longest hour, in those weeks of summer vacation we believed we'd live forever. We weren't content just to ride our bikes on these glittering trails of star-stuff; we'd get big pieces of chalk and drew on them, hopscotch, tic-tac-toe, our names. We'd play well into the dark, coming in only when we were hungry, the front doors unlocked to our comings and goings---time for us was something we could pick up and put in our pocket.

When I go home and my brother’s laughter is silent, there is no weather of distance between that time and now. It seems like yesterday. But I have realized that the saying is true: man does carry his life in his hand. My dad's siblings, though blessed with a hardy disposition, also possessed an intrepidity of spirit and courage that might have been called reckless in others; but in them it was a natural trait when tempered with a soundness of choice. They honored their bodies as vessels of God and didn't abuse them with drugs or an excess of alcohol or even food. In the pictures I have of them together I see only lean, honed strength and purpose of duty.
I look at a collection of bones on a table, beautiful to me in their pristine immobility. I look at a glass box my aunt left me that sits on my desk. In it is Urania ripheus, more commonly known as the sunset moth, hovering on lifeless wings that glow in the light as if lit aflame. The sunset moth is found on the shaded areas of river banks in Madagascar. The essence of life floats elusive, half submerged in the waters of science, buoyed by God. I've spent the last fifteen years studying the many tragic ways life ends; and still I draw great comfort for the way it fights to remain.

Somewhere a thousand miles away, meal time drawn to a close, Dad will be in his recliner reading that old family Bible, the book for all the days remaining. Dad never knew his destiny would be to live to great age, to love deeply, outliving children and two wives. A love that entranced him and made him its own to the most secret of thoughts, to the disquiet of blood, to his last exhalation. He did not know his destiny but he followed it with unfaltering footsteps. The Bible is gently laid in his lap as he nods his head for a nap. The winter window fades, then glows---a living spark there among the shadowed embers as at his feet lies an empty dog bed.


Thursday, February 25, 2016

There's Not Much that Can't Be Improved by Chocolate Chips

On the wall at Dad's is a platter that my Uncle the engineer brought back from a business trip to Iran back in the late 50's or 60's.   He had told my Dad that it was a serving plate, covered with olives and all sorts of tidbits and they gave him the platter as a gift.  I went to snap a photo and only after enlarging it, did I see someone in the kitchen pilfering a cookie.

When I arrived at Dad's on a recent trip out, Dad only had packaged cookies from the store, made out of special Keebler Kevlar, so I said I'd make up a batch from whatever was on hand, once I got a nap. He's sleeping a lot more now, but for being almost 96, I'm just astounded he still gets around, riding his exercise bike each morning and going for a walk on any day it's now snowing or pouring.

Dad was a little low on chips, sugar and real butter. so I added in some sour cream for moistness, and a hint of cardamom and orange zest to accent the reduced dark chocolate.  It made a soft, almost cake-like cookie that Dad raved about.

2 cups flour
1 and 1/2  tsp vanilla
1 tsp baking soda
pinch of sea salt
1/2 tsp cardamom
1 tsp. orange zest
1/2 cup butter, gently melted so it's mostly  liquid but not hot
1 cup white sugar
2 eggs
1/2 cup sour cream (NOT light or non -fat)
1 cup dark chocolate chips.

Preheat oven to 375 F.  Line a baking sheet with parchment paper (or grease it well, even if non stick).

In a large bowl, with a hand mixer, cream together the melted butter, sugar and vanilla until smooth. Beat in eggs and sour cream until well blended.

Sift together flour, baking soda, salt and cardamom, stir into the butter mixture. Mix in the orange zest and dark chocolate chips.

Drop dough by heaping tablespoons 3 inches apart on cookie sheets. Bake 13 to 15 minutes, until lightly golden brown.. These will be a soft, lightly colored cookie so do NOT over bake. Let cool on wire rack

Dad didn't get a fancy platter, but after his late afternoon snack of cookies, he did get a small martini and both remotes so he was a happy man.

Wednesday, February 24, 2016

Black and White Barkley

A Chapter From The Book of Barkley  (Outskirts Press, Available at Amazon and Barnes and Noble online)

CHAPTER 15 – Moving Days

The car was packed, and the moving truck was already on its way.  I’d been selected for a position in a Midwest city, one with the potential for promotion over time.  The house here was selling, at a huge loss given the market, but at least it had a buyer.

Things are changing; my Stepmom’s diagnosis of cancer, Dad's talk of moving in with me after she's gone, something he swore he'd never do.  I found a little ranch house in that Midwestern city I am moving to, bigger than I would have bought for myself, but a lot less fancy and still much smaller than this house. It will provide him his own rooms, and bath, with an entrance without steps for him.

The house stands empty. Only a few folks have been inside, a few neighbors, my parents, a couple of friends and a few dates, none of whom seemed to like dogs, which was becoming more important. We're better off moving on, even alone, I tell Barkley, there’s a big world out there with lots of things to do and people to meet.

He's only three years old.  I wonder if he will miss this place.

Barkley and I made one last trek around the neighborhood and the woods behind before we left for the first leg of our journey. The moving truck had another stop to make so we would have time to travel and catch up. So many trips we'd made around these blocks.  Barkley sniffed everything, pointing to the occasional piece of trash or blowing leaf, as I steered him toward the common area to do his business, rather than on someone's lawn.  He, of course, would only lift his leg, and then continue on, for Barkley was always looking for something, a bright picture window, a family seated in front of it at the dining room, enjoying dinner. He'd then dash over to their lawn and squat to do the rest of his business, all right in front of their dinner.  Kids squealed and giggled, adults shot me looks that were daggers, as I would wave an apology.  Then, I'd go clean up the pile, scolding him yet again, as we walked off, my cheeks blazing with embarrassment, his head held up proudly with a "that was the biggest one yet!"

We took one last walk out into the openly wooded area that runs for a half mile behind this new development, back to a little pond where he first learned to swim.  Tonight, I stood at the crest of the rise of sand and dirt that made up the lip of this water filled bowl.  Man made or nature made; it was hard to tell, for the perfect shape of the pond.  But given the location, it was probably man made. The moon cleaved the pale waste that was sky, the sun having left like low tide, leaving this place in the shadow, just the form of a red haired woman and the dark grieving of earth.

I looked down and saw it, the pale abandoned nest of a Canadian goose; the goslings long having been hatched if the eggs survived both rising waters and predators. I pictured the water moving, like slow waves, but it was as still as I.  We both seemingly waited for something, an act of fate, of destiny, the irrevocable sentence of time that's passed or perhaps, an invitation.

I wondered if I came back in ten years, if this place would still be here? Or would it be plowed into yet another row of Monopoly houses, another neighborhood of lives and love, fights and frustration and unborn children who can't wait to grow up so they can leave this place, then wish desperately that they could return.

They say you cannot go home again, and perhaps as far as a childhood home, that is true. But what of the memories of other places we hold firm in our mind's eye? Some of them we have a name for, our elementary school, the river where we dove as far out as we could into the dark water, a place where church bells rang. In the Book of Genesis, all was drawn out of the waters of chaos by its name, "God called the dry land Earth." Sometimes, the incredibly complex can be summed up in one word.  I read in a story that the Inuit Indians have one such word to bring to conceivable life the fear and the awe that possesses them when they see across the ice, the approach of a polar bear.  Some things have no words at all, their form remembered only in the etchings of tears.

But of those places, both named and unnamed, there are places you are drawn back to, years later, praying they are not changed, and knowing it will not be so.

I hope in ten years Barkley and I can come back here, if only to wave at the house in which I raised him to adulthood, as to an old friend.
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 Thanks to our hosts Nola and Sugar for the Blog Hop.

Thursday, February 18, 2016

Scotch Night

Of course the Scotch night where friends sampled this was the week I got suddenly sick with a horrible head cold/flu thing and didn't even hear about it til later.

But for future Scotch nights with friends and family - some quotes.

“It sloweth age, it strengtheneth youth, it helpeth digestion, it cutteth flegme, it relisheth the harte, it lighteneth the mynd, it quickeneth the spirits, it cureth the hydropsie, it repelleth gravel . . . and trulie it is a sovereigne liquor if it be orderlie taken”.
Raphael Hollinshed,  - Chronicles of England, Scotland, and Ireland, 1577

“There is no such thing as a bad whisky. Some whiskies just happen to be better than others.”
- William Faulkner
 
“Set up another case bartender! The best thing for a case of nerves is a case of Scotch.”
- W. C. Fields quotes
 
“No married man is genuinely happy if he has to drink worse whisky than he used to drink when he was single.”
- H. L. Mencken
“The light music of whiskey falling into a glass – an agreeable interlude.”
- James Joyce

“Too much of anything is bad, but too much of good whiskey is barely enough.”
 - Mark Twain
  
“For God’s sake bring me a large Scotch. What a bloody awful country. “
- Reginald Maudling

Tuesday, February 16, 2016

Dear Chick Fil a

Thank you for taking coleslaw off the menu.  For you see, I was eating at Chick Fil a EVERY single week, to get my fix of a chicken sandwich topped with the coleslaw as part of my sandwich. I'd add to that a small waffle fries with Ranch to dunk them in and a drink, figuring I probably spent $400 at Chick Fil a last year. Sure, for the rest of the week I skipped the fast food - this was my treat on a busy workday.

But apparently, people want a Kale salad, to go with the breaded and fried items instead of looking at the meal as a treat. I'm not sure when kale got its own marketing company  but it went from the vegetable that was hard to clean, tough and bitter to the world's greatest superfood almost overnight,

I admit I tried kale, trying a "Paleo" diet to lose the extra 4 holiday pounds. Lean meat, berries and lots of salad, right?  But the end game to that experiment was not the kale in salad which was as fun as a root canal, but the Kale Chips.  Yes, Kale salted and dried in the oven until they were bite-sized little flakes that tasted like dirt (but with natural sea salt!).  No wonder the mastadons died off.  The caveman fed them kale chips.
It's bad enough that when I buy yogurt there's about 55 different kinds including, soy, cow, goat, coconut, Greek, Icelandic, Australian, low fat, non fat, full fat, baby yogurt (seriously, you have to spend twice as much for a brand with a picture of a  baby on it?) Yogurt used to be a 3 second stop to make a selection, now it's harder that buying a dang bra.

But Chick fil a said we wanted kale in our lives. It's hip!  It's healthy! (you can burn extra calories with the gag reflex due to the taste of kale!)

So they gave us the recipe for the coleslaw that had been around since I was in grade school so I could make it at home.  It was then that I realized that in occasionally wanting the beloved foods of my youth, things that simply tasted delicious, instead of worrying about how many anti-oxidants I'm getting at the drive through as I suck down a drink with 87 grams of sugar - I am officially old and no longer the key demographic for hip products..

So Chick fil a -  have fun with the millennials sitting around crunching on their kale salad while they stare intently in their smartphones in case some pop star sent out a Twitter post.

I'll be with my old fart friends, sharing some stories, laughing, drinking a beer and eating THIS.
Because I didn't go to Chick Fil a for my health.

But I appreciate the recipe.

Love  - Brigid

Monday, February 15, 2016

For Michael - The Music of Motion - an Airman's Story


What is the first sound you can remember? Most might say their mother's voice. I struggle to remember her voice, she died when I was just entering adulthood.  But  I do remember her smell, a mixture of clean rain and Chanel No. 5. It's a smell, like that of sandalwood, that I can't catch a whiff of now without going soft and quiet, with this little echo in my chest.

Dad kept a few of her things around, her light blue sweater draped over the armchair where she read all her books, her robe, last  in my closet where I took it to wear in her last days in hospice so I could smell her scent.  It was as if their tiny presence somehow compelled this home to remain that, more than brick and mortar, but the place that held the sentience and character of the woman who graced it.  Instead, just looking at them in the silence was simply an affirmation of emptiness, and soon, they too were put away.

I still have them, the sweater, the robe, but I do wish I could remember her voice.

One of my earliest memories of hearing comes from the sound of the ocean during summer vacation, flirting up against the sand while I played with a little bucket and shovel while gulls cried around me like mewing kittens. So many sounds as I grew, the clatter of my Mom juggling pots and pans making us dinner every night, the spray of the garden hose as my father washed our station wagon every Saturday, the wind pouring through the masts of trees, and later . . . . the sound of an airplane.

When I travel, I hate sitting in the back of the plane, it's noisy, but the noise of strangers. Give me the cockpit any day. A cockpit is rarely quiet, but it's a symphony of familiar sounds. The voice of the air traffic controller, a reassuring sotto voice confirmation that two minds are in agreement, and all is well with the world. The clatter of a trim switch and the beep of an altitude alerter, sounds of warning that the earth is approaching, throttles coming back, there it is. The ground. It's solid underneath you, and hard, and if you flared too high you'll break your aircraft against its incontrovertible passivity. But sometimes the earth acquiesces and the wheels kiss the pavement like lips against a warm neck at dawn


Aloft and level though, airplane sounds stabilize into a gentle song with just the occasional background chorus of the controllers, and you would have time to think and perhaps chat a little. Pilots talk of many things aloft settled into a long cruise on autopilot, and the adage is true, when with the opposite sex, pilots talk about airplanes, and in an airplane, pilots talk about the opposite sex. We talk of the spiritual and we talk of the mundane. We talk about families and jobs, spouses, children, food, pranks played, food again and surprise - we talk more about airplanes.

There were nights were we got in a long enough layover to play tourist or simply catch up on relaxation and sleep, carrying the cockpit conversation over to a bar or a little restaurant.  Such were the nights where we'd have a spot of whiskey, telling  tales of adventure of some pilot, who could have been any of us, or none of us, a story that was not boasting but simply a telling, stories that had been lived or inherited, those stories that have been told over whiskey since time began. There was just something comforting in the voices, the words, the recognition of sound in the air, the clink of ice, and if you were in a really low end part of the world, the cluck of the basket of live chickens hanging from the ceiling.

Then, there are the days where sleep was hard to find, the day grinding into the night, when the only words spoken outside of flaps and slats and EPR's were, with a quick look at your "dinner",  "gee, I bet this would taste good warm".  On such days we simply continued on in silence, surrendering our misfortunes and our joys to God and Pratt and Whitney, which sang to us outside like a Mockingbird in the moonlight.

I think of a flight back before I hung up my wings, one last long flight over foreign lands.  Up at altitude, across that vast stretch of blue, we laughed and we shared. Much of it was happy, but occasionally a story would come back from a compatriot Gone West, and through the laughter, tears stung our eyes as a familiar awe-filled sadness enveloped our little space and we grew silent, remembering him, sounds of mourning and respect. Airmen and soldiers are a small community of thousands, and we never forget our dead.



It was still dark as we flew over the Prime Meridian after stopping for fuel in Greenland. The Prime Meridian is the common zero for longitude and time reckoning throughout the globe. The one place where we are all at one point, and the moment stands still, an absolute where for a second, time and motion are tethered to our aircraft like a careless rope.

As we cross over I'll synchronize my watch with my copilots and attempt to capture that time, to somehow gather it to us. Only then does it hit. all we have experienced from this cockpit, Different languages and sights, smells and sounds - the roar of an Allison engine, as it starts with that artistic endeavor of curse words and meditation, the underlying scent of jet fuel, oily and dark, that hangs in the mist on an early morning ramp.


The morning air burning with cold as we trace the soft scratches in the panel with gloved hands, trying to keep them warm while we wait for orders, the worn red ribbons of red laying like frozen icicles against the landing gear as the crew chiefs finish their tasks Yet such thoughts disappear as the sound of the engine brings us back to our tasks; we're still at the Prime Meridian where there is precision and accord, spoken with the deep anesthetic hush of sameness.

We sit in that quiet hush, veins flowing with JP4, the nourishment of salt that comes from flesh and our eyes, that old blood that has explored new lands and ancient skies, the hardships of separation and the circumstances that lurk, to hurl you into wonder, or to snatch you from that blue, into the dark.  We've seen glory, tears and abrogated peace from this windshield.  Though we miss being home, we'd not have missed it, given a choice for this duty, not deferred, is the ultimate protection of those we leave at home.


The sun began to awake as we neared our destination, the shadow of our craft skimming the clouds. The descent was at hand and the day surged towards sunrise or would if we could see it through the prevailing, thin mist of a foreign world. The sound of conversation ended there. We simply basked in the hum of the engines and the view out the window to our world. The clouds gathered up in a huddle of virgin thunderstorms. Up above, through a small portal of light, the trail of another aircraft 1000 feet above, vanishing upward like smoke as we started the ballet of preparing a jet aircraft to land, staring mutely through a spattered windshield across which the wipers swung like metronomes.

The morning sun hits the windscreen, an explosion of white light that leaves nothing, no bone, no ash, just a vast deep plane of blue, the alter onto which we lay ourselves down at .82 Mach.  For just a moment, I leaned my head wearily against the left side wall of the cockpit, as the sun, my ship and I were, for a moment joined, an eclipse of light and sound and motion.

Up ahead the outline of land, there in the thin clouds, dissolving away beneath unfettered rain as if eroded by the sea. For just that instant, I felt, rather than heard, the vibration rattle through my bones, breathing in and letting the surge of the engines push me on into the light.  It's at once, the sound of an ocean, the laughter of a young girl, all wrapped into the bright continuous hum of a jet engine. The music of motion that pushes us towards home.