James was a little boy. Nine years old. We say “old”, as in “nine years old”, but nine years on earth is not a long time and does not make you old. Certainly not old enough to die.

One of my former co-workers had a son. His name was James. I think you can tell what happened.

Doing some research the best I can tell is that James had acute lymphoblastic leukemia, but the exact diagnosis is irrelevant at this point. Suffice to say, it was cancer. The Big Casino, as Uncle Junior called it on “The Sopranos”. Indeed. One never knows how Lady Luck is gonna deal the cards, and James got a shitty hand — years ago. And that’s the thing; all the time I worked with James’ mother, James was in remission. But somewhere in the last year while I was at my new job, the little idiotic cells were back at work and somehow gained a foothold once again in little James’ body. And a few days ago, they won. Stupid fucking cancer, the damned cells kill their own host. It makes no sense.

It makes no sense to read an obituary with the starting date in the year 2000, when it’s friggin’ 2010.

I attended James’ memorial service today, and it’s burned into my brain forever. There were speeches, many excellent speeches. James’ parents, grandparents, one of his teachers and four of his best friends all poured their hearts out in front of a huge assembly of sniffling, weeping, messes.

There was a slideshow, images of James. We watched and wept. Many images cycled through, images of an infant, a little boy. The locations changed, the clothing, the features, the scenarios. But after all the images were done, as the show faded to black, I was struck by how I had watched all these photos and never saw a photo of James as anything other than a kid, a boy. When my Grandmother passed away months ago, I watched a similar slideshow and I recall enjoying photos of an infant, a kid, a woman, a bride, a mother, a grandmother, a retiree. Where was James the teenager? For that matter, where was James the Prom King, James the husband, James the father, James the old guy? James mowing the lawn? James drinking a beer?

Alas, these photos cannot be taken.

It makes no sense.

To merely call my old college buddy a photographer is to understate things a bit. Jeff Bosie, the aforementioned buddy, is a real photographic artist. I had just been bragging about Jeff’s ability to a co-worker just last week, and oddly enough yesterday Jeff sent out a mass email yesterday announcing some updates to his website. So I took the opportunity to click on over and check out the newest additions as well as some of my old faves — three of which are hanging on the walls of my home.

It’s great stuff. I was glad to be able to attend a show of his in Perth Amboy, NJ back when Brenda & I still lived in Jersey. Brenda was so impressed with Jeff’s work that she put Jeff in touch with her bosses at the George Street Playhouse, who hosted a showing for Jeff during one of the performance runs at the Playhouse.

I really can’t say enough about Jeff’s work. To me, it’s inspiring; it’s the kind of photography I imagine myself striving to do, even if my own photos do not back that assertion up. If anything, my latest trip to Jeff’s website just fueled that passion to capture our world and tell a story, without saying a single word. Bravo, Jeff!

Please, go have a look for yourself:

• Jeff Bosie Photography
• Jeff Bosie Photography - News Page

And be sure and check out his latest photo essay “Through the Cracks”, which, unfortunately, will break your heart.

Brenda, Hooper & I all piled into the car today for a drive to Denver, to attend a birthday party for some friends of ours. Partners Greg & Ted share birthdays a day apart. Greg aged a year today, and Ted did the same yesterday. And so a joint birthday picnic/barbecue in the park near the Denver Zoo was in order, with dogs.

Greg & Ted have a pair of winning canines; Guinness the Pug, and Lucy the Mutt (I used to threaten to kidnap Lucy and take her home with us from their parties ever since we moved to Boulder; she is adorable and built just like Hooper). Many of their other friends have dogs as well, and so dogs were invited to the birthday soirée.

And so it was that we loaded a backpack with Nalgenes of water and a Tupperware container to act as a bowl, poop bags, dog treats and a couple of tennis balls, and rolled out towards Denver. We also had a secret weapon. We brought the basketball.

You see, Hooper is quite the ‘baller. He has an uncanny ability to dribble a ball around a field using his muzzle and his front paws, and this is a skill that he demonstrated the very first time I produced a bright yellow utility ball on one of our walks back in November of 2007. Hooper took to that ball like Pele, coaxing it around the field under the moonlight for over an hour, managing to steer the ball back to my feet every once in a while so I could try to kick the ball past him (which rarely happened). But suddenly, a pop and a hiss was heard, and the fun ended.

A regulation basketball is 30 inches in circumference, and comprised of a tough leather cover that can resist a dog’s attempts to bite through it, and we have one of these objects. And today, we felt that if Hooper was to be allowed to roam free on the grass of the Denver Zoo Park—with heavily trafficked roads bordering us—we wanted a reliable distraction to keep him close, hence the basketball.

When we arrived, we rolled the ball out onto the grass and Hooper immediately began working the field with the ball. People immediately inquired about how we “taught” him to do this. Shrugged shoulders and allusions to that cold November night followed. Hooper spent the next several hours rolling that basketball around, beckoning me and anyone else who was interested to kick the ball around, and to engage him in some goalie practice.

Brenda had mentioned to me that a couple of the small children present at the party were terrified of dogs, and that we needed to make sure Hooper steered clear of them, and I was paying strict attention to his movements around the guests. But at one point, a couple of kids showed up with Hooper’s basketball, and they were fighting amongst themselves over who should be the one who kicks the ball toward Hooper. I watched with great interest and joy, as Hooper adapted to the kids’ erratic movements and gestures.

This one kid was literally pushing his friend out of the way, directing the action. He was moving the ball around and gleefully watching Hooper’s attentiveness and reactions to his direction. I had a great time watching Hooper play with the kids, but when I heard on the ride home that the one kid was one of those “afraid of dogs” kids, I just beamed.

Hooper is turning into quite a gentleman, and an ambassador. A saint.

This is crazy. An old college friend found me on Facebook and added me as a friend. When I got the notice, I of course checked out his Facebook page, which lists all of our mutual friends. The usual suspects were there, roommates and friends from college, but so was this guy Roland who I know because he uses Radiance, the lighting software I use every day. Worlds colliding!

I thought it must be some mistake, but it turns out those two went to high school together in Cyprus. Of course! I recalled when I first met Roland and he told me he went to school in Cyprus, I thought to myself “hmmm, I know someone else who went to school there too…”. What are the odds?

Cool.

Listen up; I wanna tell ya about my friend from work. His name’s Galen, and he just finished second in the Pike’s Peak Marathon, and I’m really kinda flyin’ high on his accomplishment. Yeah that’s right, Pike’s Peak Marathon. A full marathon, all 26.2 miles of it, only you run to the top of a fourteener and back down to the bottom. Roll that one around in your head a while and I’ll wait.

I ran competitively in high school and never ran more than ten miles in a stretch, but I’ve thought a lot about the marathon as my uncle used to be rather fast at them in the 70’s, and I have always been impressed when friends and family suck it up and run that far. But this, this “trail running” business, takes the marathon and turns it up to eleven. Think about it: you start in Manitou Springs, CO, and run to the top of a friggin’ 14,110’ high peak, turn around and run your ass back down to the Springs. Roughly 8,000’ of elevation gain, plenty of time spent in the thin air above treeline, and of course the 26.2 miles of running. That’s one hell of an effort, and a hell of a race.

Galen & I shared an office for several months last winter, as he was beginning his training for this race, and I’ve been asking a hell of a lot of questions about his progress all along; I’ve become fascinated with the race. It was to be a tough event this year, as it was designated the World Championship event for trail running, which attracted a larger-than-usual international field. On top of that, Matt Carpenter — the course recordholder and owner of the second-highest ever recorded VO2max in history — was running the race again, after skipping it the last couple years to run in some ultradistance races (in which he eliminated all competition and set course records for those races too). Galen won the Pike’s Peak Marathon two years ago, and finished second by a nose last year. I could sense he wanted number one again. So, I got up at 5AM this morning and drove to the summit of Pike’s Peak so I could see him in action. It was the least I could do.

I arrived at the summit around 9AM, put on two extra layers, grabbed my camera and headed for the course. I ran into Galen’s dad, Buzz, who is quite the character. Race officials were getting word from down the mountain, Matt this, Matt that. Sounded like Matt was having another great day on the Peak. I asked the guy with the radio what number came through the last checkpoint after Matt, and “two” was his reply. Galen’s number. Yeah!!

Settling in on a spot just below the summit, I watched Matt Carpenter emerge and methodically trot up the trail, turn around, and head on down. I waited for my friend. Buzz started pointing and shouting, and there he was, shuffling up the switchbacks.

“Galen!!, WHOOOOOOOOOO!!” Galen had said I’d have to be loud if I expected him to spot me up there, since he’d be out of it and wouldn’t see me unless he knew where to look. He saw me. Flashed me a thumbs up and motored on by, steady as you please. I was so excited for him. After he disappeared back down the mountain, I enjoyed the view from the top of my second fourteener (doesn’t really count since I drove up there, but the views were still just as good) for a few minutes and then ran to the car for the trip down to the finish.

Down in Manitou Springs, I met up with my buddy Zack from work and we grabbed a chunk of curb at the final turn just in time to see Matt Carpenter win yet another Pike’s Peak Marathon. Galen appeared about nine minutes later, for a solid second place showing, which is basically first place among humans, since I’m convinced Matt Carpenter is a mountain cyborg. Galen destroyed his personal best time by like fifteen minutes, and destroyed the rest of the field as well; the third place finisher was about ten minutes behind Galen. I’m so proud of Galen; his race went exactly as planned and his nine months of hard work really paid off.

Way to go, Galen!

The pic below actually shows Galen on the descent. Can you see him? Thirteen miles to go, while his dad (green jacket) looks on. Amazing.

Say hello to the latest family member at Andover Flight Academy. It’s a Boeing Stearman, a 1940’s-era biplane, the military trainer of the day. And soon this one will be available for joy rides, aerobatics and taildragger instruction, and generally spreading its sweet radial engine song across the valley around Andover Aeroflex Airport (12N).

The thing is, it’s got no wings at the moment. But that didn’t stop my friend John and the gang over at Andover from pulling the plane out of the hangar and attempting to fire up the engine for the first time since the school took ownership of this project last fall.

And airplane nuts will congregate — with cameras, no less — at the thought of seeing an old fussy engine cough, pop and crackle to life, even if it’s attached to a fuselage with no wings. And I had to drop off my plane for its annual inspection today, so I had a good excuse to fly over there and join this congregation:

That’s my friend John catching the loads of oil that leached out of the old radial as Vic turned the prop; this engine has not run in a while and it was filled with oil. Purge as they might, there was still sure to be more left in there, and so Bill had an idea to affix some hose to the exhaust stack to try and catch some of the oil that would otherwise spray all over the side of the plane. The hose didn’t last long, as the photo shows, but it did manage to catch about a quart of oil. That’s Damian, the plane’s owner, with the fire extinguisher; you never know, you know. (Click any of the photos for larger versions.)

With the great weather we had this weekend, the airport was buzzing with activity, and I had a ball spending the afternoon on the ramp with friends and airplanes. It was a preview of what lies in store for me this July when we all go back to Oshkosh for the biggest general aviation event in the universe. Here’s hoping that the annual inspection goes well on 93F.

Well, I’m back. The pilgrimage has been completed. I have gone to Oshkosh. I’ve been to aviation’s Mecca, and the simplest way to summarize the experience is this: Holy Shit.

If you’ve never been to a local airshow you have absolutely no friggin’ idea what Oshhosh is like. Even if you HAVE been to a local airshow, you have no friggin’ idea what OSH is all about. Airventure, as the EAA prefers to call this spectacle, is an annual event held at Wittman Regional Airport in Oshkosh, Wisconsin. It started over fifty years ago, when the EAA decided to host a “fly-in”, at their headquarters’ home airport, just a gathering of pilots flying in with their home built aviation creations. But it has steadily grown—as has the homebuilding, or experimental aircraft movement—into a huge, huge, deal.

My friend’s friend was generous enough to offer me a seat in his plane, a rather nice Piper Aztec twin-engine plane. I jumped at the chance.

Now that it’s over, I’m still trying to figure out what I feel. I remember the first day, Friday, when I walked onto the field and saw all the old military planes from wars in the history books. Warbirds, they’re called. And there was a quarter of the field littered with them (click images for larger versions).

Usually, you go to an airshow, and you see three or four warbirds and it’s enough to get you excited. Part of the thrill is that you are close to a piece of history. You look at that Mustang, or Corsair, or Flying Fortress, and you go back in time. You remember the sacrifices, the bravery, the skill of the pilots. You try to put yourself in their shoes, and you get goose bumps. But your tunnel to the past is limited to a plane or two. you are forced to adopt a little tunnelvision, as you focus on that Mustang and block out all else. But at OSH, you find yourself surrounded by warbirds. Suddenly you are on a friggin’ flightline of warrbirds, and you are there. I was told that this year’s warbird turnout was disappointing; not for me. If this is a weak year, I can’t wait for a good one.

Now, lots of people will tell you that OSH is cool, lots of planes, etc. What I never knew is that almost all of those magnificent warbirds fire up their big radial engines and join up in the sky overhead for lots and lots of flybys. Even better, similar aircraft types fly formations over the field. Imagination goes out the window, as large formations of T-6 Texans fly overhead; I’m a WWII cadet!

Warbirds, while a highlight for me, are but one part of the fun at Oshkosh. Vintage aircraft and homebuilts flesh out the other main portion of the flightline, and you’d be amazed at the skill level of the restorers and builders on this planet. Someday, I will build my own plane, and this RV-8 is a fine example of what I’d like to build. (Thanks Phil, for snapping the photo.)

The antique aircraft area was full of pretty birds, but the Spartan Executive was always a fave of mine. There were a couple at OSH:

Ernest K. Gann flew these:










Sadly, every year one or more people wreck airplanes flying to or from OSH. The desire to get there in time for the festivities, or home in time for work, sometimes forces people to press on into questionable weather or inhospitable terrain. Sometimes lady luck just deals you a bad hand. Sadly, this year’s first victim was one of the builders of what I thought was the most beautiful airplane at the show, the Hughes H-1B replica. Folks, I am really saddened by this news. Here is a photo of the plane:










And here is the preliminary report. So sad. It was a beautiful plane.

We flew home playing games with old man weather, and had to land at Reading, PA, just 20 minutes short of our destination because the NYC area was ringed with thunderstorms like a medieval castle. We waited a couple hours, then flew IFR into the area, shooting the ILS 24 approach at MMU, which unfolded just like it had all those times on Flight Simulator. What a trip, what a show, what a vacation.

What a country.