Cop Car's Beat

In memory of Dot Miller

Over the past several years, I'd lost track of an old friend from Panama City FL. I met Dot when I moved to Florida to work on the Rapid Runway Repair Program at Tyndall AFB (now more well-known for having been devastated by Hurricane Michael in 2018) in April, 1981. She, with a BA in Math from Ohio State University, was a Civil Service employee who specialized in AICUZ (Air Installation Compatible Use Zone) determinations. Thirteen years my senior and the mother of seven children, Dot was a sister redhead and we fell into an immediate easy friendship. In fact, she mothered the whole workforce in my office - they being, other than me, young men. The photo, below, shows her and another friend, Corinne, at a picnic we had during my last spring in Florida (1983).

I transferred to Albuquerque NM in June 1983. In January, 1984, Dot was sent to the Kirtland Air Force Base to do some work, so she stopped in to see me (photo of Dot, below). She later was sent to McConnell AFB, just up the road a few miles from our house; but, I've no photos from that trip - in about 2000.

The last time I saw Dot was after we had retired from our respective companies. I had been in Kansas since 1990 and she had moved to Ohio just a few months before Hunky Husband and I saw her on our way to Bogie's home. (Born in 1925, Dot continued to work for USAF as a consultant until 2008.)

I found Dot's obituary, online, just minutes ago. She had died in 2015.

I'll remember Dot with a story that she sent me by email just a few weeks before I saw her - at which time we and HH toured the National Museum of the United States Air Force (again!) in October, 2004 - photo of Dot & me at that time, below.

I apologize for the yelling in the following; but, that's how Dot sent the story to me!

9/1/2004

Subject: A Funny Story  

GUARANTEED TO MAKE YOU SMILE.....   ESPECIALLY SINCE IT'S A TRUE STORY.

ON JULY 20, 1969, AS COMMANDER OF THE APOLLO 11 LUNAR MODULE, NEIL ARMSTRONG WAS THE FIRST PERSON TO SET FOOT ON THE MOON. HIS FIRST WORDS AFTER STEPPING ON THE MOON, "THAT'S ONE SMALL STEP FOR MAN, ONE GIANT LEAP FOR MANKIND," WERE TELEVISED TO EARTH AND HEARD BY MILLIONS. BUT JUST BEFORE HE RE-ENTERED THE LANDER, HE MADE THE ENIGMATIC REMARK "GOOD LUCK, MR. GORSKY."

MANY PEOPLE AT NASA THOUGH IT WAS A CASUAL REMARK CONCERNING SOME RIVAL SOVIET COSMONAUT. HOWEVER, UPON CHECKING, THERE WAS NO GORSKY IN EITHER THE RUSSIAN OR AMERICAN SPACE PROGRAMS.

OVER THE YEARS MANY PEOPLE QUESTIONED ARMSTRONG AS TO WHAT THE "GOOD LUCK, MR. GORSKY... STATEMENT MEANT, BUT ARMSTRONG ALWAYS JUST SMILED.

ON JULY 5, 1995, IN TAMPA BAY, FLORIDA, WHILE ANSWERING QUESTIONS FOLLOWING A SPEECH, A REPORTER BROUGHT UP THE 26-YEAR-OLD QUESTION TO ARMSTRONG. THIS TIME HE FINALLY RESPONDED. MR. GORSKY HAD DIED, SO NEIL ARMSTRONG FELT HE COULD ANSWER THE QUESTION.

IN 1938 WHEN HE WAS A KID IN A SMALL MIDWEST TOWN, HE WAS PLAYING BASEBALL WITH A FRIEND IN THE BACKYARD. HIS FRIEND HIT THE BALL, WHICH LANDED IN HIS NEIGHBOUR'S YARD BY THE BEDROOM WINDOWS. HIS NEIGHBOURS WERE MR. AND MRS. GORSKY.

AS HE LEANED DOWN TO PICK UP THE BALL, YOUNG ARMSTRONG HEARD MRS. GORSKY SHOUTING AT MR. GORSKY.

"SEX! YOU WANT SEX?! YOU'LL GET SEX WHEN THE KID NEXT DOOR WALKS ON THE MOON!"

RIP, Dot Miller, you were a good friend!

Ode to Bill Bloedel

Our generation (as all do) dwindles. Today's newspaper carries the obituaries of two more friends - one was a friend from the 1960s and on, the other a co-worker in the 1990s and early 2000s. They join three other friends whose deaths have occurred in the past three weeks.

The person who will be missed the most, whose funeral I attended Tuesday, was my supervisor in 1980 and 1981. Bill Bloedel was supervisor of loads and stress for the Cessna Single-Engine Division, and I was a group engineer whose group was responsible, structurally, for all taildragger, a few of the current-production models, and out-of-production single-engine aircraft.

Bill was a good and decent person who was kind enough to always let me know what he really thought. From the time he took over the loads and stress organization, without flinching, he let me know that he was not comfortable having a woman in a position of responsibility over a fleet of aircraft - and - that he would be watching me. I went a little bit out of my way to keep Bill informed as to what I had been doing, how I had been handling things (for instance, suggesting that he might like to go through the file of customer inquiries that I had handled during the preceding year), and how I was handling things (for instance, inviting him to accompany me once when I had to fly to a production line that was about 50 miles distant from the main production facilities). At the end of his first six months as my supervisor, Bill invited me into his office and announced, "I told you that I would be watching you - and I have been. I think that you do an excellent job."

When I opted to leave the company, Bill asked if he had caused me to choose to leave. Absolutely not! It was strictly a matter of having been sought by another company that wished to give me a lot more money. Then, drawing a raise slip out of his desk drawer, Bill told me (with a twinkle in his eyes), "Aren't you going to feel silly when I give you a $100 per week raise?" It was annual raise time, but the actual raise fell far short of that number, of course. We both laughed.

Bill lived in rural Derby. We frequently heard Bill speak of the work he did on his small farm. When he had triple by-pass surgery, it was a matter of days before he was back to chopping fire wood. Physically small (I'm guessing 5' 6" tall and, not more than 145#), Bill loved physical work and flying, in equal measure.

Bill was huge in heart. Bill and his wife, Sue, raised (in addition to their own three children) three children who had been produced by one of their daughters. The daughter was emotionally unable to raise the children. Oh! How Bill doted on all of his children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren!

The last time I saw Bill, at a bi-monthly retirees breakfast three weeks before his death, Bill was lamenting that his non-existent white cell count kept him from seeing his great-grandchildren as he would wish to do. As little germ factories, small kids can be deadly to a person who, as Bill was, is dealing with leukemia.

I'll miss that quiet, little-big man with the twinkly blue eyes. Rest in peace, Bill.

___________________________________

When Hunky Husband offered his condolences upon the loss of my friend Bill, I told him, "We've come to an age where it is either our friends who will be dying - or us."

Remembering Expert Seamstress

Expert Seamstress (ES) came into my life shortly after she pursuaded Elder Brother (EB) to walk her the block from a school function to her house and entreated him to kiss her goodbye. He was a nerdy, brainiac senior; she, a pretty, popular junior. From that night  he was "hooked". (As he told the family at the after-funeral luncheon, she reeled him "in like a mackerel". That was, after all, his first kiss and first "date".) Their first "real" date was a few weeks later when ES agreed to be EB's prom date.

ES plied me, the crafty little minx. During the summer, ES invited me to her house for an over-night stay (photo taken by her father is below - ES on the right). I really enjoyed her company and was flattered that she would wish to spend time with her boyfriend's nerdy younger sister.

ES continued the pursuit via letters after EB left for college that fall. At the end of his sophomore year, EB left school to earn the money that would allow them to marry, and marry they did in May 1956. In the summer of 1957, EB left ES to continue working in Kansas City MO while he resumed his studies. Thus it was that in the fall of 1957, EB, my Hunky Husband (then, fiance, who had transferred to our school a year earlier), and I were all classified as juniors at the same school. Below is a photo that I snapped of ES at a family gathering at our great-grandparents' home.

During the spring semester of 1958, ES was able to find employment in the vicinity of the school. HH and I married at the beginning of the semester and the four of us lived together. We never again lived together; but, I was able to see them on a regular basis for the seven years during which they lived in Santa Fe and I lived in Albuquerque. I was often pleasantly surprised to return from professional travels to find them (and their cat) staying at my house while EB attended meetings in Albuquerque.

Over the years, ES & EB and I saw more or less of one another; but, the abiding love that we felt for one another endured. ES was the "big sister" that I would otherwise not have had.

EB is lost without ES. They were two halves of a whole. Below is a photo taken of them at Wonderful GrandDaughter's wedding in May of 2005.

I was surprised that ES did not sit up in her coffin over the praying that took place at her funeral. EB and I had a chuckle over the situation. He had given the minister specific instructions that no implication was to be made that ES believed in any religion and that the service was to be held to no more than 10 or 15 minutes - without religious music! EB had arranged the funeral to comfort a branch of their family that is deeply religious.

 

A look back

Rain (of Rainy Day Thoughts) posted a nice article (Going back in time) about her high school class's 50th reunion that was held recently. In it she wrote as follows:

Overall, I felt the attendees were nice people with whom to spend an evening which was not a surprise as basically they were pretty nice people back in 1961 at least in my experience. I think high school can be a difficult time, but mine pretty well yielded typical experiences of dances, sporting events, clubs, and classes. (Three of our teachers attended the dinner). I have good memories from my high school years. The things that weren't so terrific were part of experiences where we don't just learn from the easy things but also the hard. Even though I was taking classes aimed at entering college, I think I was a bit shallow back then; but let's face it, teen years are bound to be a bit that way and maybe that's not bad as a part of growth.

My comment to her posting included the following:

You made me think about my own attitude toward the people with whom I shared studies so many years ago (I was graduated 5 years earlier than you.) Even the boys who made my life somewhat unpleasant in grade school and high school, have been given a "pass" by me. I now understand that they were "just" being young/adolescent/teen-aged boys. I hope that everyone has, by now, given me a "pass" for having been a young/adolescent/teen-aged girl!

Although I was graduated with the class of 1955, I had attended school for the previous 10 years with the class of 1956. Thus, several months ago, I was delighted to (for the first time) learn of a reunion being held by the class of 1956. I asked if I might attend (sending a check for two reservations with the request) and the class committee were kind enough to say yes. However, because of my Aunt V's death, I did not make it to the class of 1956's 55th reunion.

Non-attendance was my loss. I have reason to doubt that anyone who attended would have remembered me, anyway.

I am completely forgettable

Story 1: Other than seeing my closest friends from high school a couple of times during my freshman year at college, I have only run into one person from the class of 1956 in later years. (I had even attended a holiday ball while home from college during the end-of-year break in 1955; but, my date was from the class of 1957, so he would not have been at the reunion!) The one person into whom I had run was an eye-opener. We shall call him Mr B.

Mr B, as a kid (we shall call him Kid B), had been a really, really, really ornery kid all through grades 3 - 10. I have a remembrance (perhaps not a real memory, I'm hoping) of our 5th grade teacher becoming totally exasperated with him and clunking him on the head with a small rock paperweight that she kept on her desk. I also have vivid memory of walking home from school (about 20 blocks) one warm day with a handful of boys walking behind me and Kid B's having sneaked up behind me to goose me. Oh, the humiliation I felt!

Fast forward to the late 1970s. My mother is undergoing open-heart surgery, I have flown into Kansas City to lend support, and I am sitting in the waiting room while Mom is in surgery. I overhear three elderly women (probably not as old as I am now!) who have fallen into conversation. One is telling the other two women about the wonderful preacher from her church. She goes on at great length about how caring and devoted he is. She calls him Reverend B. Sitting there, I recall that Kid B's father was a Reverend B. However, when Reverend B shows up in the waiting room, it is obviously not Kid B's father - Reverend B is of my own generation!

When it is obvious that Reverend B has completed his conversation with his parishioner, I introduce myself to him. I tell him the name to which I was born. I ask if we did not attend school together at B elementary school and S high school. He did attend the schools during the specified years, but he has no memory of a girl by my name. I tell him that he has given me new hope for humanity - that if Kid B can become the man that Reverend B has become, there is still hope - that I would not have given a plugged nickel for his chances of becoming the man he has obviously become. He grins and says, "I was pretty ornery, wasn't I?"

Story 2: A few years before the encounter in Story 1, I was subjected to an oral exam to defend my thesis that was in partial fulfillment of requirements for an MS degree.

Again, fast forward - this time to the early 1990s. I am at a retail establishment in Wichita that specializes in science education items. I am browsing binoculars, hoping to find a replacement for a recently-stolen pair, when I run into one of the professors (younger than me) who had served on my orals committee. I introduce myself and remind him how we know one another. He doesn't have a clue who I am.

Story 3: Just recently, in reading a birding report posted by a person who, obviously, lives nearby and from whose name, I infer her to be married to another of the professors who served on my orals committee. I email her with a bit on local birding and ask that she extend my greetings to the professor (if she is, indeed, married to him) and to thank him for his courtesy during the oral exam. Although I had taken at least one class from the professor, his wife tells me that he has no remembrance of me.

Conclusions:

1) I am neither so smart nor so stupid as to be memorable.

2) I am neither so saintly nor so vile as to be memorable.

3) I am neither so beautiful nor so ugly as to be memorable.

4) Coupled with the fact that, during multiple attempts in the period 1959-2010, no one has ever been able to produce a "good" set of fingerprints off of my fingers, I conclude that I missed a perfect opportunity to have lived a life of high crime! Witnesses would not recall me and there would be no fingerprints left at the scenes.

How would your own life of crime have gone?

This posting wandered far from the path that was in my mind when I started writing it; but, what the heck? Maybe the original path will come to mind, again, later! *laughing*

Cousins: And Then There Were Eleven

My birth nuclear family:  Back in 1935, my parents were bereft at the loss of their first child--a boy, unnamed, who survived birth for but a short time.  They were overjoyed, however, one year later at the birth of Elder Brother and, I assume, as joyous a couple of years after that, when I came on the scene.  Our parents were then blessed by the arrival of my Younger Sister.  She was a sunbeam of joy in all or our lives--so sunny and bright.  Elder Brother and I were too ornery to do anything but thrive; however, she died of a series of illnesses a couple of weeks shy of her first birthday.  (She had German measles, Scarlet Fever, and pneumonia, in succession.  There was no antibiotic, in those days, to stop the pneumonia and she died within 24 hours of contracting it.) I was too young to really understand death at that point and I still cannot imagine the grief that must have been our parents'.  As their idea of the perfect family was to have two children of either sex, they wished for another boy and another girl.  One year after Younger Sister's death, Younger Brother was born.  He was to be the last child for my parents.  Mother's health had been severely compromised by having five rather large babies (none under 8 pounds 10 ounces).  She was a rather diminutive woman.

My cousins:  Five months before Mother bore Younger Brother, the elder of her two younger sisters gave birth to my first cousin, a boy.  It would be eight years before my aunt's next baby, a girl was born--within days following the birth to Mother's brother's wife (the brother was the youngest of Mother's siblings) of a boy.  Over the, succeeding years, Mother's sister produced four more children--three girls and a boy--while her brother (divorced and remarried) produced three more children.  The younger sister produced no children and Father's only sibling, a brother, was too handicapped (mentally and physically) to marry or reproduce.  Thus, our cousins numbered nine and the cousins in our family, including my two surviving siblings and me, numbered 12--6 boys and 6 girls.

Over this last week-end, the eldest of our cousins (the boy who was born five months prior to Younger Brother) died, becoming the third of our generation, in our family, to die.  It took nearly 68 years for our generation to proceed from losing Number 2 to losing Number 3; but, I'll guarantee it won't be that long before the next.  We are getting older!!

Joan Kaufman Revealed

Clouded by the swirling mists of time that comprise my memories, there is a story that (for a couple of years) I have wanted to get into my blog:  The story of John Kaufman.  While living in Albuquerque NM (but commuting to a job in Sunnyvale CA, where I kept an apartment), I took an opportunity to return to Kansas--working for Cessna as an aircraft structures engineer.  I began as a stress and fatigue engineer, working on the largest business jet that they then manufactured, the Citation III, and a follow-on under development as the Citation VII.  Structural test engineers began to figure prominently in my working day, and I was privileged to meet one by the name of John Kaufman.

When I looked at John, I saw a typical Kansas gentleman farmer--one who worked as an engineer while farming the land.  He, a tall, somewhat rotund, man, frequently wore dungarees (I even have faint rememberances of overalls, but this could be a quirk of my memory!) and steel-toed work boots. His hair was clipped closely at the sides, but was long and straight and dark and un-ruly on top.  To all appearances he was a Kansas "hick".  Ah, but, the mind and spirit of John Kaufman were anything but.

We had known one another but a short time when our friendship was cemented.  One of John's four, beloved adult sons had written a bird book...and...I, as a birder since age 14, had purchased that book before knowing of the connection between John Kaufman, the engineer, and Kenn Kaufman, the naturalist/ornithologist.  Obviously, John's opinion of me had to be good--I'd had the good sense to purchase Kenn's Birds of North America!  On the other hand, I knew that there must be a lot to John for having produced a Kenn! As it turned out, John was not a farmer in any sense of the word.  He his wife, Joan, and their children had moved to Wichita from Indiana, as I recall.  If I recall, correctly, both of John's parents were university academics.  Having been raised in an intellectual environment, John could certainly hold his own!  How his exterior had belied his interior!

For some years, John and I remained workplace friends.  On occasion, we would share a table in the lunch room, and I never tired of listening to his update on his family.  The high points were that he had a wonderful wife who had been responsible for raising his four wonderful sons.  One son, as I recall, won a coveted prize for his cinematography/animation work; but, all four sons were quite accomplished.  In addition, at least one of the sons' wives was accomplished.  Kenn's wife, Lynn, was a naturalist/botanist, who was publishing--do I remember correctly coloring/children's books of butterflies?--and, later collaborated with Kenn in producing CDs of bird calls/songs, etc.  All-in-all, John made it clear how proud he was of his whole family.  He felt awed that he belonged to such a clan.

During 10-12 years of workplace friendship, I learned that John Kaufman had varied interests outside the workplace.  He was a Boy Scout leader, a glider pilot, and an amateur radio operator.  As he knew that I was a pilot and an amateur radio operator, John constantly encouraged me to take up sail planing and to get back on the air.  He went so far as to tell me about a 2-meter band transceiver that a fellow Wichita Amateur Radio Club member had for sale, and acting as the go-between in my purchase of the transceiver!  When he delivered the transceiver--to our house--John let me know that our neighbor who lived across the street was also active in Boy Scouts--something that we had not known (John lived in Wichita while we lived in Derby, a suburb.)

Time went by, and John reach age 65, opting to retire.  He and his wife planned to do some traveling as soon as she could have replacement surgery on ankle and knee joints, to provide her with independent mobility.  The surgeries were started, and progressed over the next couple of years, and John came out to the Cessna plant to visit his old pals every-so-often.  On occasion, he would call to see if I wished to meet him for lunch in the cafeteria, and we would resume our conversation over meat loaf.  John had long ago confided his love of meat loaf, and how it was wonderful to have meat loaf that he hadn't had to make, himself.  His visits to Cessna always coincided with "meat loaf day" at the cafeteria.

For many years Cessna had had their managers distribute frozen turkeys to all of the workers as they left the plant for the year-end holidays.  (Eat your hearts out:  aerospace workers, in general, are on holiday from Christmas Eve until January 2nd.)  The distribution was not limited to current workers, but included retirees (they now send us gift cards--still a nice touch).  An added fillip was that, in order to control distribution, each worker or retiree received "an IBM card", distributed by their supervisors (distributed via mail for retirees) that was to be exchanged for their turkey.  IF a person chose to, they might sign their card and turn it in to security, prior to the holiday, and the person's turkey plus a matching turkey would be given to the local food bank to be distributed to those who could use a boost.

Came a day when John called me at work to cancel our scheduled lunch meeting for that week, and to ask a favor.  He and his wife were ill with the flu, but he wished to follow his normal custom of turning his turkey card in to benefit the food bank.  If he mailed me the card, would I turn it in for him?  Absolutely!  We agreed to meet sometime in January.

Alas! It was not to be.  In early January, John Kaufman's obituary appeared in the local newspaper.  With heavy heart, I attended his services--services that were overflowing of the (my estimate: 300-seat) facility.  I recognized groups of people from Cessna, in attendance, as well as many amateur radio operators and pilots.  John was widely known and well loved.  Although I got to shake hands with three of their four sons (Kenn was off on assignment outside North America, I don't recall where), I had not the chance to speak with them other than to say how much I had enjoyed hearing John extoll their virtues and accomplishments.  Too, I, for the first time, saw John's wife.  Her surgeries had not progressed to the point where she could leave her wheelchair; but, she was elegantly dressed and wore an elegant (Marlene Dietrich-ish) hat.  Typically for John, he had told me "everything" about his wife except her physical description.  He had told me of the beauty of her soul.  He had told me how much he admired and appreciated her.  He had told me how lucky he was to have such a wonderful wife.  He had never once mentioned the fact of her physical beauty.  John Kaufman's wife was gorgeous!