Chris Bohjalian's Blog, page 47
May 16, 2010
The girls of summer are back
David Arndt is very proud of his 8-year-old daughter, Jnana. "The other day she had the shortest recorded hit in baseball history: One inch," he tells me, as we stand behind the backstop at the Little League field here in Lincoln.
Jnana (Sanskrit for wisdom) is one of the 13 players on this year's Lincoln minor league girls' softball team. The ballplayers are all between the ages of 8 and 10. Five have never played baseball or T-ball be fore.
But their coach, David Wood, remains optimistic...
May 9, 2010
Genes win out when there's a shoe sale
Last month, I had one of those moments when I saw my mother in my daughter. It wasn't the shape of Grace's face or the color of her eyes. There is little resemblance: My mother was blond and blue-eyed and my daughter has dark, penetrating eyes and hair almost the color of creosote. At least this week it's black. Some weeks it's auburn. In any case, I glimpsed my mother in my daughter in a conversation over the phone.
Grace is 16, a junior in high school, and last month she was looking at colleges in Washington, D.C. That night, I spoke with her from Vermont and asked her what she thought of Georgetown. Her response? "I loved it, I had an amazing day! There was a shoe store near the campus with a pair of Steve Madden heels on sale for $29!"
It is an indication of how many epi sodes of "Sex and the City" I have watched with my daughter that I knew this was indeed a very good price. And, instantly, I recalled how my mother never met a shoe sale that didn't interest her. She worked for years at Lord & Taylor, a department store, and despite her employee discount, many weeks she must have lost money. The store's stock tumbled the day she died.
She would have been 80 this Mother's Day. Now, there is no need to send condolences or worry that I am in mourning this morning: She passed away from cancer a long time ago. But Annalee Carolyn Nelson Bohjalian would have been an octogenarian this Mother's Day weekend. Lately, I have found it interesting that even though she died well before her granddaughter turned 2, there are hints that Grace has more of Annalee in her than my wife and I supposed a few years ago.
To wit: She has started wearing more of her grandmother's jewelry, some of which looks like it came in a cereal box.
Among the pieces? A copper medallion not much larger than a penny with my mother's zodiac sign on it, the Aries ram.
Grace is not an Aries, but when she lost this pendant a few months ago, she was saddened. Her mother found the necklace in what some teen girls must view as a jewelry box: A computer printer. How the necklace wound up inside the printer is a mystery, but it's back and that's all that matters. That ridiculous pendant was one of the dozens of bracelets and bangles my mother had to wear before she would board an airplane. Thank heavens security was more lax when my mother was flying: I can't imagine how TSA officials would have coped with a mad woman wearing jewelry that might have come from Toys 'R' Us.
Now, Grace has no recollection of her grandmother: She knows her only through old photos and videos and the stories my wife and I have shared. My wife adored my mother and has lots of stories about her -- many of which are indeed about shopping. To wit, when my mother was sick as a dog from a particularly toxic round of chemotherapy, my wife flew to Florida to visit her. What did my mother want to do? Buy clothes. She and my wife went shopping, once again proving the old adage that when the going gets tough, the tough go shopping.
I wish my mother had made it at least another half-decade and her granddaughter had gotten to know her. Sure, my mother was a lunatic who often drove me crazy. Once she peed on a mop in a bathroom in a trashy bar because she was afraid if she used the bowl, people on the other side of the door would hear her.
(Yes, she overflowed the mop and it dribbled under the door.) But she was generous and funny and smart. That could describe my wife and my daughter, too. I suspect these three generations of women would have liked shopping together. And based on who my daughter has become, she might even have taught her grandmother a thing or two.
Happy Mother's Day.
(This column originally appeared in the Burlington Free Press on May 9, 2010.)
Grace is 16, a junior in high school, and last month she was looking at colleges in Washington, D.C. That night, I spoke with her from Vermont and asked her what she thought of Georgetown. Her response? "I loved it, I had an amazing day! There was a shoe store near the campus with a pair of Steve Madden heels on sale for $29!"
It is an indication of how many epi sodes of "Sex and the City" I have watched with my daughter that I knew this was indeed a very good price. And, instantly, I recalled how my mother never met a shoe sale that didn't interest her. She worked for years at Lord & Taylor, a department store, and despite her employee discount, many weeks she must have lost money. The store's stock tumbled the day she died.
She would have been 80 this Mother's Day. Now, there is no need to send condolences or worry that I am in mourning this morning: She passed away from cancer a long time ago. But Annalee Carolyn Nelson Bohjalian would have been an octogenarian this Mother's Day weekend. Lately, I have found it interesting that even though she died well before her granddaughter turned 2, there are hints that Grace has more of Annalee in her than my wife and I supposed a few years ago.
To wit: She has started wearing more of her grandmother's jewelry, some of which looks like it came in a cereal box.
Among the pieces? A copper medallion not much larger than a penny with my mother's zodiac sign on it, the Aries ram.
Grace is not an Aries, but when she lost this pendant a few months ago, she was saddened. Her mother found the necklace in what some teen girls must view as a jewelry box: A computer printer. How the necklace wound up inside the printer is a mystery, but it's back and that's all that matters. That ridiculous pendant was one of the dozens of bracelets and bangles my mother had to wear before she would board an airplane. Thank heavens security was more lax when my mother was flying: I can't imagine how TSA officials would have coped with a mad woman wearing jewelry that might have come from Toys 'R' Us.
Now, Grace has no recollection of her grandmother: She knows her only through old photos and videos and the stories my wife and I have shared. My wife adored my mother and has lots of stories about her -- many of which are indeed about shopping. To wit, when my mother was sick as a dog from a particularly toxic round of chemotherapy, my wife flew to Florida to visit her. What did my mother want to do? Buy clothes. She and my wife went shopping, once again proving the old adage that when the going gets tough, the tough go shopping.
I wish my mother had made it at least another half-decade and her granddaughter had gotten to know her. Sure, my mother was a lunatic who often drove me crazy. Once she peed on a mop in a bathroom in a trashy bar because she was afraid if she used the bowl, people on the other side of the door would hear her.
(Yes, she overflowed the mop and it dribbled under the door.) But she was generous and funny and smart. That could describe my wife and my daughter, too. I suspect these three generations of women would have liked shopping together. And based on who my daughter has become, she might even have taught her grandmother a thing or two.
Happy Mother's Day.
(This column originally appeared in the Burlington Free Press on May 9, 2010.)
Genes win out when there's a shoe sale
Last month, I had one of those moments when I saw my mother in my daughter. It wasn't the shape of Grace's face or the color of her eyes. There is little resemblance: My mother was blond and blue-eyed and my daughter has dark, penetrating eyes and hair almost the color of creosote. At least this week it's black. Some weeks it's auburn. In any case, I glimpsed my mother in my daughter in a conversation over the phone.
Grace is 16, a junior in high school, and last month she was looking at...
May 2, 2010
Lincoln gets its just desserts
When I was in Florida in February, I took my 82-year-old father to dinner. We went to the Ruth's Chris Steakhouse in Coral Gables, and my dad ordered one of those Mini Cooper-sized slabs of dead steer. We joked that this probably wasn't good for him, but once in a while you had to indulge. A week later he had a heart attack.
I am not kidding. A heart attack. Now, he's fine. He's not back on the golf course yet, but he has resumed his workouts at the gym. And I don't honestly think that one steak -- even one as thick as a snow tire -- was what caused his heart attack. I only mention it this morning because sometimes my judgment when it comes to food is a little suspect. And I am about to tell you about some of the most amazing desserts you can find in Vermont, and some of them are made with enough butter to clog the Holland Tunnel, not to mention an artery or two. But, well, sometimes you have to indulge.
The desserts can be found at the Lincoln General Store -- the same store that is known also for crawlers, Slim Jims and bologna. But over the last few years, there has been a metamorphosis at the store, and the caterpillar is becoming a butterfly.
The big change? The arrival of Krista Patterson Jones, store owner Vaneasa Stearns' younger cousin. Krista is not merely an immensely gifted dessert chef; she is (and I mean this in only the best sense) a culinary lunatic. Her arrival has also brought out the inner madwoman in Vaneasa, and that madwoman has never met a dessert that couldn't be improved with a theme.
The surest indication that desserts at the Lincoln General Store were moving in a direction that was both strange and sublime occurred last month on April Fool's Day. There for sale at the front register were roasting pans filled with burgers and fries -- except that the burgers were chocolate brownies, the buns were slices of homemade cupcakes, and the lettuce was made of Corn Flakes and dried, melted frosting. The French fries? Large homemade sugar cookies, cut and dusted with fine brown sugar. The confections could have passed for burgers and fries at McDonald's. Meanwhile, beside the roasting pan were bowls of spaghetti and meatballs, except the spaghetti was meticulously piped frosting atop a cupcake and the meatballs were chocolate truffles.
But even days before I had spied those burgers and fries, I'd noticed a tree stump that was covered in mushrooms for sale. The stump was actually a triple chocolate cake, and the mushrooms were toadstool-shaped meringues coated in white chocolate and then scored with a toothpick. In addition, I have seen cupcakes there that resembled cabbages, and sugar cookies that looked exactly like flower seed packets or vintage Valentine's Day cards (The secret was edible wafer paper imprinted with the artwork).
Sometimes the pair get their ideas from magazines, newspapers and the Internet, but sometimes the ideas are all their own -- which shouldn't have surprised me, because Krista and Vaneasa are both members of the Goodyear family here in Lincoln. And everyone in town knows that Goodyears have something in their DNA that makes them part Little Debbie, part Dolly Madison and part Martha Stewart.
The older generation of Goodyear daughters - Linda, Lorraine, Lenore and Lisa -- are renowned locally for their cakes and truffles, all of which belong on the Food Network. Vaneasa is Linda's daughter and Krista is Lorraine's. What they accomplish with butter, cocoa and sugar is downright alchemic, and it's a talent that comes in the blood.
But it's not merely that their confections are delicious. That's a given. They are worth every calorie and every gram of fat. It's that they are small, perishable works of art that look almost too good to ruin by eating.
So, the next time you are in Lincoln, drop by the store. Just, please, don't follow my father's lead and have a heart attack.
(This column originally appeared in the Burlington Free Press on May 2, 2010.)
I am not kidding. A heart attack. Now, he's fine. He's not back on the golf course yet, but he has resumed his workouts at the gym. And I don't honestly think that one steak -- even one as thick as a snow tire -- was what caused his heart attack. I only mention it this morning because sometimes my judgment when it comes to food is a little suspect. And I am about to tell you about some of the most amazing desserts you can find in Vermont, and some of them are made with enough butter to clog the Holland Tunnel, not to mention an artery or two. But, well, sometimes you have to indulge.
The desserts can be found at the Lincoln General Store -- the same store that is known also for crawlers, Slim Jims and bologna. But over the last few years, there has been a metamorphosis at the store, and the caterpillar is becoming a butterfly.
The big change? The arrival of Krista Patterson Jones, store owner Vaneasa Stearns' younger cousin. Krista is not merely an immensely gifted dessert chef; she is (and I mean this in only the best sense) a culinary lunatic. Her arrival has also brought out the inner madwoman in Vaneasa, and that madwoman has never met a dessert that couldn't be improved with a theme.
The surest indication that desserts at the Lincoln General Store were moving in a direction that was both strange and sublime occurred last month on April Fool's Day. There for sale at the front register were roasting pans filled with burgers and fries -- except that the burgers were chocolate brownies, the buns were slices of homemade cupcakes, and the lettuce was made of Corn Flakes and dried, melted frosting. The French fries? Large homemade sugar cookies, cut and dusted with fine brown sugar. The confections could have passed for burgers and fries at McDonald's. Meanwhile, beside the roasting pan were bowls of spaghetti and meatballs, except the spaghetti was meticulously piped frosting atop a cupcake and the meatballs were chocolate truffles.
But even days before I had spied those burgers and fries, I'd noticed a tree stump that was covered in mushrooms for sale. The stump was actually a triple chocolate cake, and the mushrooms were toadstool-shaped meringues coated in white chocolate and then scored with a toothpick. In addition, I have seen cupcakes there that resembled cabbages, and sugar cookies that looked exactly like flower seed packets or vintage Valentine's Day cards (The secret was edible wafer paper imprinted with the artwork).
Sometimes the pair get their ideas from magazines, newspapers and the Internet, but sometimes the ideas are all their own -- which shouldn't have surprised me, because Krista and Vaneasa are both members of the Goodyear family here in Lincoln. And everyone in town knows that Goodyears have something in their DNA that makes them part Little Debbie, part Dolly Madison and part Martha Stewart.
The older generation of Goodyear daughters - Linda, Lorraine, Lenore and Lisa -- are renowned locally for their cakes and truffles, all of which belong on the Food Network. Vaneasa is Linda's daughter and Krista is Lorraine's. What they accomplish with butter, cocoa and sugar is downright alchemic, and it's a talent that comes in the blood.
But it's not merely that their confections are delicious. That's a given. They are worth every calorie and every gram of fat. It's that they are small, perishable works of art that look almost too good to ruin by eating.
So, the next time you are in Lincoln, drop by the store. Just, please, don't follow my father's lead and have a heart attack.
(This column originally appeared in the Burlington Free Press on May 2, 2010.)
Lincoln gets its just desserts
When I was in Florida in February, I took my 82-year-old father to dinner. We went to the Ruth's Chris Steakhouse in Coral Gables, and my dad ordered one of those Mini Cooper-sized slabs of dead steer. We joked that this probably wasn't good for him, but once in a while you had to indulge. A week later he had a heart attack.
I am not kidding. A heart attack. Now, he's fine. He's not back on the golf course yet, but he has resumed his workouts at the gym. And I don't honestly think that one...
April 25, 2010
High schoolers vs. the volcano
Recently my Icelandic publisher canceled its planned publication of one of my novels. This had nothing to do with the volcano, "Eyjafjallajokull." For those of you who see an intimidating array of letters and syllables in that word, it is pronounced just the way it looks: vol-kay-no). The novel was canceled because of the collapse of the Icelandic economy, and I only mention this because it must be a real drag to live in Iceland these days. Your economy is in tatters and everyone blames you for the chaos that closed the skies above Europe and, among other things, postponed a trip to Greece by 32 students from Champlain Valley Union High School.
Instead of flying to Greece last Tuesday as planned, they spent six hours at the Montreal airport before being sent back to the U.S and told (politely) to try again later in the week. At this point, they are scheduled to leave May 4, with the understanding that if the airline needs to bump them again, they will simply watch that rollicking movie musical "Mama Mia," because we all know ABBA was inspired by Sophocles.
In any case, the students from CVU showed enormous character. The teacher who is leading the trip, Joe Greenwald, told me, "There has been a great deal of disappointment among the kids, but they're handling it terrifically."
Amelia Munson, a junior at CVU and one of the students on the expedition, said, "It certainly has been quite the bonding experience. Because of this obstacle, our group has really tightened. It's a great example of how struggle can bring people together. We all want to go to Greece so much, and we'll appreciate it that much more when we finally get there."
Greenwald has taught at CVU for 26 years and led six groups of students to Greece. He saw an international irony in the students' predicament: "We're a Vermont group bumped off a French airline by a Canadian airport because an Icelandic volcano was interpreted as dangerous by a British scientist and, therefore, we couldn't meet a Greek ship to make our appointment in Crete."
This volcano is clearly the worst thing to happen to Iceland's reputation since Bjork wore a gown that looked like a dead swan to the Academy Awards in 2001. Incidentally, Bjork is pronounced "Eyjafjallajokull." I like Bjork because she has a name almost as unpronounceable as mine.
Still, it is only a matter of time before someone suggests dropping the self-proclaimed celibate Lady Gaga into the volcano to quiet the flames, because volcanologists have known for years that the best way smother a massive, erupting volcano is with 110 pounds of human flesh wearing 210 pounds of latex, feathers and fright wigs. I'm kidding, of course. I enjoy Lady Gaga's music -- and even if I didn't, I would not suggest she's a candidate for volcano-quashing human sacrifice. I reserve that role for Rush Lambaugh, who might actually be large enough to cork a volcano.
But Eyjafjallajokull is not the end of the world. I mean that. This week I have heard people wonder aloud if the earthquakes and volcanoes we have experienced this year are an indication that the globe is literally coming apart at the seams. I have tried to reassure them that our neighbors in California annually endure earthquakes, wildfires, mudslides, drought, and fashion even more disturbing than Bjork's ever since Paris Hilton launched her own clothing line.
That doesn't mean that the volcano isn't a nightmare. It is. As a parent, my heart goes out to the CVU kids who still don't know if they will get to Greece. Likewise, I felt bad for the travelers stranded for days at airports and distant cities, either trying to get home or to work or to vacation destinations. I even felt bad for the airlines that were, once more, losing their shirts.
But I take comfort in my belief that this isn't Armageddon. I can already see the bumper sticker: Volcanoes happen.
(This column originally appeared in the Burlington Free Press on April 25, 2010.)
Instead of flying to Greece last Tuesday as planned, they spent six hours at the Montreal airport before being sent back to the U.S and told (politely) to try again later in the week. At this point, they are scheduled to leave May 4, with the understanding that if the airline needs to bump them again, they will simply watch that rollicking movie musical "Mama Mia," because we all know ABBA was inspired by Sophocles.
In any case, the students from CVU showed enormous character. The teacher who is leading the trip, Joe Greenwald, told me, "There has been a great deal of disappointment among the kids, but they're handling it terrifically."
Amelia Munson, a junior at CVU and one of the students on the expedition, said, "It certainly has been quite the bonding experience. Because of this obstacle, our group has really tightened. It's a great example of how struggle can bring people together. We all want to go to Greece so much, and we'll appreciate it that much more when we finally get there."
Greenwald has taught at CVU for 26 years and led six groups of students to Greece. He saw an international irony in the students' predicament: "We're a Vermont group bumped off a French airline by a Canadian airport because an Icelandic volcano was interpreted as dangerous by a British scientist and, therefore, we couldn't meet a Greek ship to make our appointment in Crete."
This volcano is clearly the worst thing to happen to Iceland's reputation since Bjork wore a gown that looked like a dead swan to the Academy Awards in 2001. Incidentally, Bjork is pronounced "Eyjafjallajokull." I like Bjork because she has a name almost as unpronounceable as mine.
Still, it is only a matter of time before someone suggests dropping the self-proclaimed celibate Lady Gaga into the volcano to quiet the flames, because volcanologists have known for years that the best way smother a massive, erupting volcano is with 110 pounds of human flesh wearing 210 pounds of latex, feathers and fright wigs. I'm kidding, of course. I enjoy Lady Gaga's music -- and even if I didn't, I would not suggest she's a candidate for volcano-quashing human sacrifice. I reserve that role for Rush Lambaugh, who might actually be large enough to cork a volcano.
But Eyjafjallajokull is not the end of the world. I mean that. This week I have heard people wonder aloud if the earthquakes and volcanoes we have experienced this year are an indication that the globe is literally coming apart at the seams. I have tried to reassure them that our neighbors in California annually endure earthquakes, wildfires, mudslides, drought, and fashion even more disturbing than Bjork's ever since Paris Hilton launched her own clothing line.
That doesn't mean that the volcano isn't a nightmare. It is. As a parent, my heart goes out to the CVU kids who still don't know if they will get to Greece. Likewise, I felt bad for the travelers stranded for days at airports and distant cities, either trying to get home or to work or to vacation destinations. I even felt bad for the airlines that were, once more, losing their shirts.
But I take comfort in my belief that this isn't Armageddon. I can already see the bumper sticker: Volcanoes happen.
(This column originally appeared in the Burlington Free Press on April 25, 2010.)
High schoolers vs. the volcano
Recently my Icelandic publisher canceled its planned publication of one of my novels. This had nothing to do with the volcano, "Eyjafjallajokull." For those of you who see an intimidating array of letters and syllables in that word, it is pronounced just the way it looks: vol-kay-no). The novel was canceled because of the collapse of the Icelandic economy, and I only mention this because it must be a real drag to live in Iceland these days. Your economy is in tatters and everyone blames you f...
April 18, 2010
Sky really can be blue over the rainbow
A couple of weeks ago, I was flying between Fort Lauderdale, Fla., and Jacksonville, Fla., sitting in the third row from the back on a 737 with about 130 people aboard. I had an aisle seat. In the middle seat was a pilot from another airline who was deadheading his way home.
"Deadheading" is the term for when an airline employee -- usually a pilot, first officer or flight attendant -- catches a ride as a passenger on a plane either to the next flight in the rotation or home. Most industries would come up with a far less disturbing expression than "deadheading," but this is the airline industry, the group with the motto, "Sardines of the sky." Their other choices, in addition to "deadheading," were "fireballing" and "What doesn't kill you makes you stronger."
In any case, this captain had been flying passengers for three days and now he was finally going home for the weekend. And he was a pretty big guy, and that middle seat in the back of a 737 is not exactly a Barcalounger. We chatted during the short flight up the Florida peninsula, and the main thing I took away from our conversation was this: He loves to fly. He loves to fly so much that he endures surprisingly low pay, days at a time away from his two young children and the indignities that come with deadheading home in the middle seat at the back of a 737.
I fly often, and so I chat with lots of pilots and flight attendants, and this fellow was not unique. Most love their jobs. These days, an era when airlines are doing all they can to remain profitable and soon will be stowing small children in the overhead bins to make a little extra money, flight crews put up with a lot so they can have the privilege of flying. The days when pilots and flight attendants led glamorous lives with spectacular perks are history.
A few days after I met this pilot, I ran into Carol, a good friend and Lincoln neighbor, at Gate F-14 at Philadelphia International Airport. It was about 5:30 in the afternoon. Just for the record, Philadelphia has some of the best and worst concourses in the country. I love their A concourse; I loathe their F. Clearly these concourses were named for school grades. F is dark and depressing and has rows of turboprops parked outside that look like they belong in the Smithsonian.
Unusually attentive readers will recall that Carol flies 50-seat jets for a regional airline, and years before that, when she was a teenager, she was my family's cat sitter. Although there are more and more female pilots, she says that some passengers still are surprised when they see her at the controls.
"The other day when a woman was boarding the plane, she saw that the two of us in the cockpit were female and said, 'I hope you two know what you're doing,'" Carol told me that afternoon when I ran into her at F-14. She was in her pilot's uniform and trench coat, looking every bit the pilot. She was not going to be flying me back to Burlington that evening, as she has in the past, but was instead going to be deadheading back to the Green Mountains.
Except that day we didn't get to fly back together. There wasn't room for her because passengers come before crew. (Believe it or not, most airlines really do care desperately about customer service.) She would catch a flight three hours later. Instead of returning to Lincoln around 9 p.m., it would be midnight by the time she got home.
Her response? "Don't worry about me. There's a kiosk down by F-7 with excellent sandwiches that even a pilot can afford." She was smiling and was completely sincere. For her -- for many pilots -- the skies really are blue when she's over the rainbow.
The next time you're on a flight and you think you have it tough in the amenities department as a passenger, just remember: Chances are your captain, first officer and flight attendants have it even worse.
(This column originally appeared in the Burlington Free Press on April 18, 2010.)
"Deadheading" is the term for when an airline employee -- usually a pilot, first officer or flight attendant -- catches a ride as a passenger on a plane either to the next flight in the rotation or home. Most industries would come up with a far less disturbing expression than "deadheading," but this is the airline industry, the group with the motto, "Sardines of the sky." Their other choices, in addition to "deadheading," were "fireballing" and "What doesn't kill you makes you stronger."
In any case, this captain had been flying passengers for three days and now he was finally going home for the weekend. And he was a pretty big guy, and that middle seat in the back of a 737 is not exactly a Barcalounger. We chatted during the short flight up the Florida peninsula, and the main thing I took away from our conversation was this: He loves to fly. He loves to fly so much that he endures surprisingly low pay, days at a time away from his two young children and the indignities that come with deadheading home in the middle seat at the back of a 737.
I fly often, and so I chat with lots of pilots and flight attendants, and this fellow was not unique. Most love their jobs. These days, an era when airlines are doing all they can to remain profitable and soon will be stowing small children in the overhead bins to make a little extra money, flight crews put up with a lot so they can have the privilege of flying. The days when pilots and flight attendants led glamorous lives with spectacular perks are history.
A few days after I met this pilot, I ran into Carol, a good friend and Lincoln neighbor, at Gate F-14 at Philadelphia International Airport. It was about 5:30 in the afternoon. Just for the record, Philadelphia has some of the best and worst concourses in the country. I love their A concourse; I loathe their F. Clearly these concourses were named for school grades. F is dark and depressing and has rows of turboprops parked outside that look like they belong in the Smithsonian.
Unusually attentive readers will recall that Carol flies 50-seat jets for a regional airline, and years before that, when she was a teenager, she was my family's cat sitter. Although there are more and more female pilots, she says that some passengers still are surprised when they see her at the controls.
"The other day when a woman was boarding the plane, she saw that the two of us in the cockpit were female and said, 'I hope you two know what you're doing,'" Carol told me that afternoon when I ran into her at F-14. She was in her pilot's uniform and trench coat, looking every bit the pilot. She was not going to be flying me back to Burlington that evening, as she has in the past, but was instead going to be deadheading back to the Green Mountains.
Except that day we didn't get to fly back together. There wasn't room for her because passengers come before crew. (Believe it or not, most airlines really do care desperately about customer service.) She would catch a flight three hours later. Instead of returning to Lincoln around 9 p.m., it would be midnight by the time she got home.
Her response? "Don't worry about me. There's a kiosk down by F-7 with excellent sandwiches that even a pilot can afford." She was smiling and was completely sincere. For her -- for many pilots -- the skies really are blue when she's over the rainbow.
The next time you're on a flight and you think you have it tough in the amenities department as a passenger, just remember: Chances are your captain, first officer and flight attendants have it even worse.
(This column originally appeared in the Burlington Free Press on April 18, 2010.)
Sky really can be blue over the rainbow
A couple of weeks ago, I was flying between Fort Lauderdale, Fla., and Jacksonville, Fla., sitting in the third row from the back on a 737 with about 130 people aboard. I had an aisle seat. In the middle seat was a pilot from another airline who was deadheading his way home.
"Deadheading" is the term for when an airline employee -- usually a pilot, first officer or flight attendant -- catches a ride as a passenger on a plane either to the next flight in the rotation or home. Most industries...
April 12, 2010
Big congrats to Paul Harding on the Pulitzer
Very big congrats to Paul Harding on winning the Pultizer Prize in Fiction for his novel, "Tinkers." I had the great pleasure of reviewing the novel for the Boston Globe when it was published in January 2009.
Here is a link to the full review:
http://www.boston.com/ae/books/articl...
Here is a link to the full review:
http://www.boston.com/ae/books/articl...
