Since I Was A Boy

Several years ago I lived in an apartment no more than a mile from a suburbia airport north of Dallas.  It is the home of a vintage flight museum I have visited countless times and volunteered two or three times just to touch and be near the famous warbirds.  Like a boy loves his dog or a little girl loves her favorite doll, I marveled at the history, pilots, and flying machines of World War II.  Some days I would utterly frighten my son and daughter by suddenly dropping whatever I was doing and run out the door as fast as I could.  Seconds later they would hear what I already heard.  Sometimes the windows and knickknacks on the mantel or shelves would vibrate.  Turn your volume up as loud as is appropriate to get the full effect and play this 20-second clip:

My kids would chase after me, sometimes out of breath because I would keep moving around in order to see as much sky as I could watching the spectacle arrive and depart.  “How can you always tell the difference between modern planes and the old ones!?” my daughter would ask.  That is amazing!” as she shook her head bewildered.  As I have gotten older, been to many airshows, and gotten more informed and educated on EVERYTHING World War II Aviation, a few of those traumatic surprises would start with pumped adrenaline, then goose-bumps, and then tears.  My son, always emotionally connected to me since his first breath, upon seeing my tears would ask “Why are you crying Dad?”  And this is how I would describe to him the honored, revered tears.

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I love almost all of the WWII planes whether they were combat or cargo, they all had a vital importance to the war effort.  Their pilots were some of the bravest heroes under the most extraordinary circumstances.  All of our veterans from any war or combat service are and will be heroes.  However, if I had to choose just one WWII plane to love most, I know exactly which one she would be.

p-51-mustang-credit-caf
The P-51 D Mustang

If you are not aware or cannot remember, at the onset of the Second World War the Allies were grossly unprepared to fight Nazi Germany or Imperial Japan.  Both Axis nations had a big head start in fine machinery and experienced well-trained pilots.  In the first 24 to 30 months of combat, most air battles were won by Germany and Japan with much better maneuverable faster planes and better pilots.  Losses due to combat or dogfights were often staggering for the Americans and British.  Plain and simple, the German Messerschmitts and Folke-Wulfs, and the Japanese Mitsubishi Zeroes were flat-out better machines.  Any high-ranking general will tell you every time, if you don’t control the skies, you either will not win or you might win but at astronomical losses in men and materials.  In 1942 and ’43 the war in both theaters was very uncertain for America and Britain.  The Germans controlled the skies over Europe and the Japanese controlled them in the Pacific.

The Allies desperately needed an edge in the skies!

The primary reason Great Britain thwarted Hitler’s Luftwaffe (air force) in the Battle of Britain was because of their Spitfire and Hurricane pilots.  Spitfires could handle the Messerschmitts while the Hurricanes could take out the bombers.  The problem was that Britain could not quickly replace losses; both in planes or pilots.  The Spitfire housed one of the most superb engines ever built:  the Rolls-Royce Merlin V-12.  The Americans had a few good fighter-designs but most of them at the time were under-powered and couldn’t match the high-altitude performance of the German engines.  Finally, with British ingenuity and American manufacturing, emerged a single fighter-plane that would change the course of the air war in Europe and the Pacific…

The North American P-51 Mustang.

You might ask how can just one fighter plane change the course of a war?  Simple, the P-51 D Mustang saved thousands of American bomber crews from their deaths.  From 1942 to early 1944, American bomber losses were intolerable because the bombing raids required deeper penetration into Nazi Germany.  In the Pacific air war, vast oceans with few islands also required long-range aircraft.  The Allies had no such fighter plane capable of escorting bombers all the way to their target and back until the P-51 Mustang.

Not only did the Mustang, with its high-performance high-altitude Rolls-Royce Merlin engine, match and exceed those of its enemy fighters, but it was also highly maneuverable and lethal in the hands of a good pilot.  To put it in perspective just how much the P-51 Mustang changed the air war, the survival rate of American bomber crews in Europe prior to its introduction was 1-out-of-3 crewmen killed from 1942 to late 1943.  After the winter of 1943-44 when Mustangs flew escort, the survival rate rose to 67% after 25 missions flown, then 81% by 1945 and the end of the war.  The P-51 Mustangs were quite literally their knights-in-shining-armor for bomber crews, or “Angels on our wings” as many bomber pilots and crewmen would describe.  The Mustang helped turn the tide of war and bring it to a quicker end.

That is the historical impact of the Mustang.  Now I want to describe from a boy’s perspective the emotional impact of this gorgeous mighty bird.

Leave it to Steven Spielberg to capture the moment perfectly how it feels for a boy.  His 1987 film Empire of the Sun starring a young Christian Bale, tells the story of a small British boy fascinated with flight and “the brave daring pilots” of the Japanese Zero fighter.  He gets separated from his parents in Shanghai, China at the outbreak of war with Japan.  Though his captors are brutal to him and his “new” British prison-family, Jim (Christian Bale) worships the Zero pilots and their magnificent planes throughout the first half of the war.

After they are moved late in the war to an airbase to build a runway for the Zero fighters, Jim hears rumors about a new fighter plane called the Mustang, the Cadillac of the Skies.  He eats breaths and reads everything he can get his hands and ears on.  I relate completely to Jim’s obsessions of flying and the machines these brave pilots fought in.

And then one morning while paying his respect and admiration to the Kamikaze pilots and planes, Jim’s whole world and those of the planes and pilots he worshiped so long are turned upside down.  Apologies that this heart-wrenching scene is broken up into two clips – blame YouTube!

It is hard to put into words how the flight, the speed, the beautiful lines of a P-51 looks and feels to a young heart.  There is no other sight or sound in this world like the air being sucked into the intake whistling at a high pitch as it dives toward you, and a second later the reverberation of that V-12 roaring by as it climbs away at over 4,160 feet per minute!  “Go P-51…Cadillac of the Skies!”  As Jim screams, “HORSEPOWER!

Since I was a boy I have always dreamt of flying in this mighty magnificent warbird.  To feel the immense rumble of that Rolls-Royce Merlin engine supercharged and forcing me back into my seat.  That would absolutely be one of the best days of my life!

For a few very lucky months the software company I use to work for had their offices at the end of the runway.  Every two or three weeks the owner of the flight museum and the P-51 D Mustang would take it out for some fly byes.  On one particular occasion he throttled it out on take off.  Just over halfway down the runway he had enough airspeed to lift-off and put this beautiful bird into a 35-40 degree climb with ease, banked it, and then leveled off about 600-700 feet at cruising speed.  It seemed effortless.  I thought to myself, so that’s how it must have looked and sounded back in 1940’s Europe and China.  Imagine if you were Japanese or German what it meant watching the Mustangs fly by and listening to that whistling horsepower.  Imagine how it felt if you were British or American back then:  finally, the beginning of the end.  Wow!  I still get chills up and down my spine every time I hear that distinct engine and watch it zip from one horizon to the other.

Some of man’s creations are works of beauty and timeless.  Today my son no longer has to ask why I have goose-bumps and tears watching famous warbirds; he gets it…just like I did when I was his age.

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Snip-Snip and Done!

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Inspired by Renee at rasjacobson.com and her clever idea for embarrassing moments from friends, found on her page So Wrong, I wrote this particular story.  Check out the 13 funny ones over on her site; you’ll be glad you did!  Thank you Renee!

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Waiting in the plush lounge of my doctor’s office and having completed the necessary forms for the outpatient procedure, thumbing through those typical magazines they scatter about, I reflect…asking myself again “Why on Earth am I doing this?”  And I remember vividly my history with this sort of thing in this sort of place.  This is a short story about a boy, now a man, constantly forced – perhaps charmingly coerced – to face his fears no matter how many times he’d rather not.

Shear-size may or may not be realistic

Shear-size may or may not be realistic

I travel back in time to my adolescence.  I am in one of our family pediatrician’s patient-rooms atop the medical table, Mom is also there, and we are waiting on the doctor’s remedy for my illness.  I am nervous, probably because my Mom seems to know something I do not, which makes me more uneasy.  The doctor enters the room, talks in a soft calming manner explaining to us but more likely just to me, what he is about to do…to me…in order for me to feel better.  Before my eyes he reveals this syringe with a needle I KNOW is three to four inches in length!  The remaining words this evil doctor is uttering become oblivious to my ears.  There is only one thing I want to know:  where are you sticking that and how far?  Yes, I know…that is actually two things, but I was desperate and my breathing was becoming more labored.

Well apparently my feeble defense went unwarranted and I don’t know why.  Then as if my rising fear meant nothing to the angels of compassion, I had to drop my pants and underwear!  Now my palms are very clammy and I’m beginning to perspire.  Suddenly and completely unexpectedly I reared up from the table; that evil agent of Satan’s pain-army stuck me in my ass-cheek with that needle.  It frickin HURT!  Tears are forcing themselves out of my enlarged eyes when I start to feel dizzy and cold.  Next, I am in this bizarre dimension of half-reality, half-trippy world with people (if you can call them people) I don’t recognize.

Fast forward 60-100 seconds later.  When I woke with the doctor, a nurse, and my Mom looking over me on the floor, I was completely disoriented and worse, I had wet my pants.  And if that wasn’t humiliating enough, I had to walk through the patient hall, past the business office and through the lounge in front of everybody to exit the building.  A little scared, Mom explained to me that I had fainted but after careful monitoring I was apparently fine.

Soon after this experience, I learned a trick I could do with my butt-cheeks when my father was disciplining me (for direct disrespectful disobedience I’m sure) with THE BELT.  If I tightened up my cheeks, the whippings would hurt proportionately less!  I thought hey, I can do the same thing when I’m getting a shot!  Yeah, stupid move.  After the next time, I couldn’t sit down for days.  Everything that touched my buttocks made me whelp!

The next thirty-something years were filled with a few similar episodes involving medical equipment, staff, and their facilities.  Significant episodes followed like this briefly.

In high school while getting tested for what turned out to be mononucleosis, a lab-technician drawing vials of blood, having me hold the first full vial, pushed the needle too far and through my vein causing me to pass-out onto the floor, bursting the first vial everywhere.  When I was awakened I had blood, my blood all over me.  Walking out of that clinic I’m sure it looked as if I had come straight from a Stephen King horror movie or was a complete doofus with a ketchup bottle.

Many years later I was helping my teammates erect a large tournament pop-up tent.  Using zip-ties to secure down the tarp over the framing-poles, I was using a box-cutter to trim the ties.  Being a little too hasty, my motion accidentally slipped off a tie and I sliced into my left wrist.  For you newly self-appointed psycho-analyst reading this, no it wasn’t a Freudian-slip trying to escape my inadequacies!  While waiting at a nearby medical clinic for stitching, once again I fainted.  The nurses there wisely decided to use a butterfly suture instead of stitching me up.  Bravely, I concurred.

Lacking representation of a plasma needle

Lacking representation of a plasma needle

Just a few years ago I went to give plasma.  Like I did then, you are now perhaps asking the same question:  Are you utterly out of your mind?  But I was trying to carry out two things:  one, do a good and useful thing, like giving blood, and meanwhile conquer a long-time nagging fear.  Second, its easy decent money, right?  Um, not so much.  I’ve learned in those situations to share all pertinent information and background as possible – ironically that applies in marriages too, as I’ve also painfully learned.  Because I volunteered my long history of fainting, the clinic Director pulled me into his office for a quick discussion.  He asked a couple of questions and then to make his point pristinely clear, he opened up his desk drawer, pulled out a clear package, and laid it out in front of me.

If any of you know what a blood-plasma needle looks like, then you can appreciate its size…or better, its GIRTH!  Holy SHIZZO that thing was as thick as my middle-finger!  The doctor explained that the needle I gasped at would be inside my arm for some 45-minutes.  “Stop” I said.  “I think I’ve had delusions of courage coming here, haven’t I?”  As gently as he knew how, he went on to explain to me the cumbersome paperwork he’d have to fill-out for the EMT’s, ambulance service, and plasma center if I fainted there in his clinic; something he must do by law in potential cases like me.

I decided humanity had more than enough plasma.

But my most significant episode with that nagging Dream-Reaper was when my former girlfriend convinced me that a vasectomy would promise all kinds of mutually euphoric pleasure.  She portrayed the resulting steamy spontaneous ecstasy better than any quality porn I could imagine, but I think she forgot to mention at whose expense!  I had been blindly enamored by her narrations of condom-less tantric-release as much as my lack of upward blood-flow.  A common occurrence in men I have learned.

So I am at my urologist’s office for what he and his nurses have explained insistently is a simple outpatient procedure.  They urge me this way because apparently thousands upon tens of thousands of men successfully have the procedure, and most return to their daily routines within a half-day or so.  One of my close guy-friends has had the procedure done and affirms this while every time laughing at me!  “Snip, snip” he said “and your done.

What is it that these titans of visceral vasectomy aren’t getting about me?  Do they even realize that this “simple procedure” is in an area of about the only testosterone-filled manly-ness I might have remaining given my history?  Hello?  I am going to be awake the entire time he has his….(swallow Adam’s apple) tools down there!

My urologist and his nurses and I come up with a plan:  his pleasantly calming assistant will constantly talk with me during the procedure – I don’t care what about – in an attempt to distract me from the REMOVAL.  “Alright, you will feel two slight bee-stings” the doctor explains “and shortly after, the anesthesia will kick-in and you will hardly feel a thing.”  He was such a blatant liar!

While the nurse continued talking and asking me a few questions, only a few moments later I felt ever-so-vaguely him pulling things down there.  A sharp pain rode up from my groin, through my kidney areas, and into my chest.  I let out a large groan!  “Are we good so far?” the doctor asked pausing.  I gritted my teeth and in my head I replied, are you seriously asking that right now?  But I fronted a reply of yes.  Seconds later I feel the same discomfort but more dull…and as I’m trying to pay attention to what the nurse was saying the walls began closing in on my ears and eyes.  I hazily remember trying to fight it but it was futile; it just happened too quickly.

Once the Dream-Reaper had his cerebral fun in my head and departed, the doctor and nurse were hovering over my face repeating my name, placing every so often the swab of ammonium carbonate under my nose.  They tell me I was out for about 45-60 seconds.  The nurse covers me with 2-3 blankets because I’ve gone into minor shock.  Wonderful.  She remains with me for five, ten minutes until I am fully coherent to talk with the doctor.  It is when he returns to the room that I am informed of the stunning details of what had happened.

Well [ProfessorTaboo], are we feeling back to normal?” the doctor asked.  I answered yes and apologized for what I knew might have happened.  He assured me it was okay and began explaining our new options.  “We have three choices.  We can schedule the procedure for a later date at a hospital and put you completely under, or we can reschedule the procedure for here on another date, or we can try it again.”  After carefully considering his three options, I realized that I could not make an informed decision without knowing more…like what my status was down there!  In my brilliant moment of clarity I asked, “How far did we get?”  He took pause to carefully (and in hindsight tactfully) consider his answer.  With a slight smirk he said

Umm, I barely even nicked you.  Basically, all you’ve had done is the injected anesthesia.

I cannot describe how utterly deflating his answer was.  I thought I had inflicted some major blows to my historical blood-n-needle-issues and staggered that damn Dream-Reaper.  I just took no less than TWO injections into my privates!  God, is my macho-ness ever going to peer over reality….just a bit, even if only for a few seconds?

The procedure was later completed much to the prodding laughter excitement of the culprit, my girlfriend.  But again, at whose expense…and more so WHAT expense?  Am I forever scarred?

Perhaps I should find a moral to my story?  Alright, here it is.

Life has strange and many ways of humbling the cocky, and just as effectively (and indiscriminately) to those men who aspire to be despite their neurological and psycho-somatic flaws to the contrary:  point and case, me!

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P.S.  Stay tuned for a sequel to this most humbling experience: You Must Do What with What!?   The humility just keeps coming.

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This work by Professor Taboo is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.
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