We landed in New Orleans almost exactly six hours after my first flight took off from Sioux Falls on April 27th. It wasn’t until after we boarded the plane that I figured out the rules on bringing food and drink on board. Apparently once you pass through security you can buy whatever you want and bring it with you.
Not that I would have had time to stop and purchase anything in Chicago anyway, mind you…
As it was, I was subsisting on the approximate 3.8 oz. of Diet Coke they poured in my ice-filled plastic cup sometime before we left Illinois airspace. In retrospect, that was probably a good thing. It most likely kept me from adding “got stuck in the bathroom” to my list of issues during the flight.
Although I can truthfully say I’ve now been to New Orleans, they actually didn’t let us leave the plane. I felt worst for the poor mother with her two young children a couple of rows in front of me. Six hours confined to their seats and we still weren’t at our destination.
Much to my surprise, our captain actually came back and stopped at each seat to answer any questions from the passengers. We were there for about 15 minutes when the fuel truck came and parked outside my window, lifting my spirits with the realization that they remembered to refuel. My self-appointed duty was to watch to make sure he screwed the cap back on.
Our pilot informed us that several planes had been diverted to other cities and we would have to wait our turn once the storm moved on from Houston before we would be cleared to take off.
Finally, my ears perked up when one of the flight attendants came on the P.A. system to tell us they would be coming around with snacks and refreshments. The euphoria wore off quickly when I received my bag of “Premiere Snacks” and another 3.8 oz. of Diet Coke. I pulled open my foil bag to find nine pretzel sticks, three sesame seeds and an almond. I think pretty much everybody knows it takes more than 3.8 oz. of Diet Coke to choke down nine pretzel sticks. I ate four and saved the rest for later…in case I decided to party a bit once I got to my hotel.
At 8:15 p.m., I called Kathy to tell her we were finally about to take off for Houston. Naïve flyer that I am, I assumed that since it took 28 minutes to get from the airspace over Houston to New Orleans, it would take around 28 minutes to get back.
Wrong.
As we were ascending once again to some ridiculous altitude, my old buddy the captain came over the P.A.
“We expect to land in Houston in about an hour and a half,” he announced. “We are taking the long way around, in order to miss the bank of storms headed toward us. We will fly up over northern Texas and come in behind the storms.”
Fair enough, I thought. Better safe than sorry.
I just was starting to become de-sensitized to all the little movements and sounds that come with air travel when the Lord sent us another delicious twist.
The captain came on again.
“This is your captain speaking,” he started. “We think we have found a shortcut through the storms and should be able to cut some time off our flight. We’ll keep you updated.”
It was about five minutes later when I got the impression that the “shortcut” closed up on us.
What ensued was a very long period of pitching, rumbling, bouncing, shuddering and non-stop lightning…BELOW ME! Our normally chatty captain may have suddenly become oddly silent…but I feel like I know what he was thinking…and if he had any sense it would somehow have involved what was going on in his boxers.
And me…I was going to be the proud owner of the most finely toned sphincter in the 48 contiguous states. (OK, I had just enough people complain about me referring to my sphincter last week that I just couldn’t resist…)
The scenes that played out before me in real time were precisely what I had witnessed in every single airplane disaster movie I’d ever seen. Most of which did NOT have a happy ending.
It seemed like it was about three hours, but it was probably closer to 20 minutes of picturing me as shark chum, and the turbulence disappeared. For the rest of the flight, it was smooth sailing. Nothing could be heard but the gentle purr of the engines. The electrified skies beneath us cleared and soon I was looking down at the vast expanse of street lights radiating from Houston, Texas…pride of the Lone Star state.
By the time I found my luggage, picked up my rental car and pulled out of the parking lot, it was 10:48 p.m. on April 27th. It would be well into April 28th before I would slip a key card into my hotel room door.
Next week, Part 4: So this is how Noah felt….
For over 11 years, I wrote a column named "Off the Mark" for several newspapers in Lincoln County, Minnesota. I am now out of the newspaper business, but still seem to need the "therapy" that comes with a regular column.
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
Part 2: Houston, we have a problem..
My flight to Chicago could be called unnerving, at best. I had never realized how bumpy “floating on air” could be. Sudden shifts to the left and right and up and down kept me in an ultra-high sense of awareness. Each noise, soft and loud, had me inexplicably wondering which electronic and/or mechanical device had failed. I talked myself down by observing the passengers around me. They calmly chatted…they laughed and joked…they DOZED!!! It was all I could do NOT to scream at the top of my lungs, “HOW CAN YOU PEOPLE BE SO CALM WHEN I’M ABOUT TO DIE???!!!” OK, so I didn’t really do that good of a job of “talking myself down.” I did, however, accept the fact that certainly somebody would be panicking if there was a problem. I just found it hard to believe that all that noisy jostling on a flight was normal.
As we were closing in on Chicago, the flight attendant stopped at each seat to give those of us who had connecting flights some advice on how to get to the next plane. Unfortunately, the terminal to which I needed to waddle was a long walk AND a bus shuttle from where I would land.
As we made our descent, the loudest of all the unusual noises sat me up in my seat. It took me a few startled moments to figure out that what sounded like a fuel tank exploding was actually the landing gear (a few short feet directly below my butt) locking into place. I remember thinking that this sound should have actually been a pleasant experience for me. Landing gear locking into place is a GOOD thing.
When I finally felt the tires reconnect me with good old terra firma, the first thing I noticed were my muscles relaxing. I realized that those muscles had apparently been in a constant state of tenseness for the previous two hours.
I could only imagine how sore my sphincter would actually be the next day.
A few minutes after landing I found my mass of sweaty plumpness scurrying rapidly across the airport in an attempt to make my connecting flight. I arrived at the gate about eight minutes before takeoff, and I heard my name being badly mispronounced over the PA system. Hoping I was maybe getting a reprieve from the rest of my flight by former Illinois Governor Rod Blagojevich, I approached the desk. A snippy young man said, “I would guess that they are waiting for you to board the plane.” He didn’t actually utter the word, “duh,” but it was most definitely implied.
Once again, as I boarded, I dutifully asked for my seat belt extender and once again a skinny person was saved by the flight attendant as I was re-located. I was just settling into my seat-and-a-half when a voice came over the loudspeakers.
“Unfortunately, before we can take off, we are going to have to do some redistribution of weight on the plane. We will need a few volunteers to move to another seat.” I fully expected to have the flight attendant point at me and say, “I need everyone to move to the front of the plane except you, sir. It seems we’re having trouble getting the nose of the plane back on the ground.”
I was relieved when in actuality a few of those uppity folks in the front of the plane had to move back with us commoners.
We took off from O’Hare at 3:24 p.m. and were due to land in Houston at 6:11. The plane and the flight were both about to head south, literally and figuratively.
Throughout the flight over the Great Plains the captain made periodic announcements that we were re-routing. We zigzagged east and west and back east again, dodging a string of storms that were assaulting the Heartland. We were well past our target time of 6:11 for landing in Texas when the captain informed us that severe weather continued to hover over the Houston airport. “We are told we will be in a holding pattern for at least an hour,” he said. His next statement brought me to the brink of projectile sweating: “By that time we will have some fuel issues.” He uttered this remarkable phrase as if he had just commented on a cute puppy.
This could only happen in a state that names their airport after George H.W. Bush. I just knew I was getting re-paid for all the times I took a shot at his son in my newspaper column.
He went on—“I fully expect that we will receive word in the next five or ten minutes that we are being re-routed to San Antonio.” Great—we were heading for the land of Red McCombs.
Fifteen minutes later, or as I call it—“T minus 45 minutes until we have fuel issues,” I was still waiting for an update on where and how we were going to crash, and was checking to see if I could tell from whence the oxygen masks would be dropping.
Finally, after another five minutes of agonizing, we got that update.
“Yeah, it seems that San Antonio could be out of our reach now.” At this point I may or may not have allowed an audible “gulp” to escape, depending on which witness you speak with.
“Instead, we are heading to New Orleans, which will not require as much of a fuel burn.”
Suddenly, we were headed for the Bayou State under the pretense that we might be able to get there before we ran out of fuel.
It took exactly 28 minutes (landing twelve minutes before we were to have “fuel issues”) to make the trip to New Orleans. According to the log on my company cell phone, I made the call from the runway in New Orleans to Kathy at 7:14 p.m. on Monday, April 27. About fifteen seconds after that call completed. I called Lyrae, my boss, just to thank her for sending me to Cajun country. As I heard her phone ringing through the speaker on my cell, I was reminded of those delivery room moments in the movies when the wife points to her tummy and screams at her husband, “LOOK WHAT YOU’VE DONE TO ME!!!”
Next week: Part III: Who would have guessed that the relaxing part of my flight was over?
As we were closing in on Chicago, the flight attendant stopped at each seat to give those of us who had connecting flights some advice on how to get to the next plane. Unfortunately, the terminal to which I needed to waddle was a long walk AND a bus shuttle from where I would land.
As we made our descent, the loudest of all the unusual noises sat me up in my seat. It took me a few startled moments to figure out that what sounded like a fuel tank exploding was actually the landing gear (a few short feet directly below my butt) locking into place. I remember thinking that this sound should have actually been a pleasant experience for me. Landing gear locking into place is a GOOD thing.
When I finally felt the tires reconnect me with good old terra firma, the first thing I noticed were my muscles relaxing. I realized that those muscles had apparently been in a constant state of tenseness for the previous two hours.
I could only imagine how sore my sphincter would actually be the next day.
A few minutes after landing I found my mass of sweaty plumpness scurrying rapidly across the airport in an attempt to make my connecting flight. I arrived at the gate about eight minutes before takeoff, and I heard my name being badly mispronounced over the PA system. Hoping I was maybe getting a reprieve from the rest of my flight by former Illinois Governor Rod Blagojevich, I approached the desk. A snippy young man said, “I would guess that they are waiting for you to board the plane.” He didn’t actually utter the word, “duh,” but it was most definitely implied.
Once again, as I boarded, I dutifully asked for my seat belt extender and once again a skinny person was saved by the flight attendant as I was re-located. I was just settling into my seat-and-a-half when a voice came over the loudspeakers.
“Unfortunately, before we can take off, we are going to have to do some redistribution of weight on the plane. We will need a few volunteers to move to another seat.” I fully expected to have the flight attendant point at me and say, “I need everyone to move to the front of the plane except you, sir. It seems we’re having trouble getting the nose of the plane back on the ground.”
I was relieved when in actuality a few of those uppity folks in the front of the plane had to move back with us commoners.
We took off from O’Hare at 3:24 p.m. and were due to land in Houston at 6:11. The plane and the flight were both about to head south, literally and figuratively.
Throughout the flight over the Great Plains the captain made periodic announcements that we were re-routing. We zigzagged east and west and back east again, dodging a string of storms that were assaulting the Heartland. We were well past our target time of 6:11 for landing in Texas when the captain informed us that severe weather continued to hover over the Houston airport. “We are told we will be in a holding pattern for at least an hour,” he said. His next statement brought me to the brink of projectile sweating: “By that time we will have some fuel issues.” He uttered this remarkable phrase as if he had just commented on a cute puppy.
This could only happen in a state that names their airport after George H.W. Bush. I just knew I was getting re-paid for all the times I took a shot at his son in my newspaper column.
He went on—“I fully expect that we will receive word in the next five or ten minutes that we are being re-routed to San Antonio.” Great—we were heading for the land of Red McCombs.
Fifteen minutes later, or as I call it—“T minus 45 minutes until we have fuel issues,” I was still waiting for an update on where and how we were going to crash, and was checking to see if I could tell from whence the oxygen masks would be dropping.
Finally, after another five minutes of agonizing, we got that update.
“Yeah, it seems that San Antonio could be out of our reach now.” At this point I may or may not have allowed an audible “gulp” to escape, depending on which witness you speak with.
“Instead, we are heading to New Orleans, which will not require as much of a fuel burn.”
Suddenly, we were headed for the Bayou State under the pretense that we might be able to get there before we ran out of fuel.
It took exactly 28 minutes (landing twelve minutes before we were to have “fuel issues”) to make the trip to New Orleans. According to the log on my company cell phone, I made the call from the runway in New Orleans to Kathy at 7:14 p.m. on Monday, April 27. About fifteen seconds after that call completed. I called Lyrae, my boss, just to thank her for sending me to Cajun country. As I heard her phone ringing through the speaker on my cell, I was reminded of those delivery room moments in the movies when the wife points to her tummy and screams at her husband, “LOOK WHAT YOU’VE DONE TO ME!!!”
Next week: Part III: Who would have guessed that the relaxing part of my flight was over?
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
And now, a short commercial break…
I had several complaints last week that I “left the ‘Off the Mark’ readers stranded on the tarmac in Chicago,” or words to that effect. So I would imagine I might get a modicum of grumbling when I tell you I’ve postponed “The Rest Of The Story” to next week because…well…because I can.
And so I bring you this commercial break…
Seven weeks of rehearsals come to a close this week as we open the Lake Benton Opera House production of “Damn Yankees” on Thursday, July 16. With the economy still trying to crawl out of its funk, what a great time to scale back one extended trip this year and instead—come and see our show.
I have had the privilege of serving on the Opera House board for over a decade. We have a diligent board of 12 who have carefully built a stable fiscal base for the non-profit organization. Through careful planning, forward thinking, acceptance of new technology and ever-changing marketing, our organization has weathered many challenges, and remains a popular attraction to our rural area. Another financial hurdle presented itself this week as two of our three busses canceled on opening night. A tough depressed economic state strikes again as the bus tour companies were unable to sell enough spots to make the trip profitable.
In this particular case, that is about a $1,000 hit that the Opera House has to take. On the bright side, that opens up another hundred seats for some of you lucky locals!
If you have seen an Opera House production before, we hope you return this summer…and coax a friend to come along.
There are many great performances in this show by local actors…some who have been returning to our stage year after year. You won’t be disappointed.
“Damn Yankees,” of course, is the story of the perennial doormats—the Washington Senators of the 1950s—and their futile attempt to beat that hated band of Bronx Bombers from New York…the Yankees.
As many of you may know, in 1960, those very Senators picked up and moved to Metropolitan Stadium in Bloomington, and have since been known as the Minnesota Twins. Calvin and Thelma Griffith brought with them the likes of Harmon Killebrew and Bob Allison and the players on that team became the idols of a certain eight-year-old who grew up in Russell collecting baseball cards. They still are bringing me joy 43 years later.
And they still can’t seem to beat those damn Yankees.
Come see some great individual performances. Two of my favorites come from a couple of “older” gentlemen, Mike Hulziser of Marshall, Dr. Steven Snow of Tyler. What a pleasure to watch their dedication and talent. Behind the scenes these two gentlemen, along with R.J. Fleet, Tim Wall and Lynn Carpenter, were indispensible to me. My sincere thanks to all.
The show opens July 16 and will close on July 26, and will include 10 performances.
For tickets, call 507-368-4620 or email lakebentonoperahouse@gmail.com.Next week—I promise—hang on, it is going to be a bumpy ride…
And so I bring you this commercial break…
Seven weeks of rehearsals come to a close this week as we open the Lake Benton Opera House production of “Damn Yankees” on Thursday, July 16. With the economy still trying to crawl out of its funk, what a great time to scale back one extended trip this year and instead—come and see our show.
I have had the privilege of serving on the Opera House board for over a decade. We have a diligent board of 12 who have carefully built a stable fiscal base for the non-profit organization. Through careful planning, forward thinking, acceptance of new technology and ever-changing marketing, our organization has weathered many challenges, and remains a popular attraction to our rural area. Another financial hurdle presented itself this week as two of our three busses canceled on opening night. A tough depressed economic state strikes again as the bus tour companies were unable to sell enough spots to make the trip profitable.
In this particular case, that is about a $1,000 hit that the Opera House has to take. On the bright side, that opens up another hundred seats for some of you lucky locals!
If you have seen an Opera House production before, we hope you return this summer…and coax a friend to come along.
There are many great performances in this show by local actors…some who have been returning to our stage year after year. You won’t be disappointed.
“Damn Yankees,” of course, is the story of the perennial doormats—the Washington Senators of the 1950s—and their futile attempt to beat that hated band of Bronx Bombers from New York…the Yankees.
As many of you may know, in 1960, those very Senators picked up and moved to Metropolitan Stadium in Bloomington, and have since been known as the Minnesota Twins. Calvin and Thelma Griffith brought with them the likes of Harmon Killebrew and Bob Allison and the players on that team became the idols of a certain eight-year-old who grew up in Russell collecting baseball cards. They still are bringing me joy 43 years later.
And they still can’t seem to beat those damn Yankees.
Come see some great individual performances. Two of my favorites come from a couple of “older” gentlemen, Mike Hulziser of Marshall, Dr. Steven Snow of Tyler. What a pleasure to watch their dedication and talent. Behind the scenes these two gentlemen, along with R.J. Fleet, Tim Wall and Lynn Carpenter, were indispensible to me. My sincere thanks to all.
The show opens July 16 and will close on July 26, and will include 10 performances.
For tickets, call 507-368-4620 or email lakebentonoperahouse@gmail.com.Next week—I promise—hang on, it is going to be a bumpy ride…
Wednesday, July 8, 2009
Part 1: What were Orville and Wilbur thinking?
Armed with the knowledge that…well…I had no choice in the matter, I booked my round-trip flight to Houston in early April. I would be on Flight 6547 from Sioux Falls to Chicago, and Flight 6201 from Chicago to Houston, and Flight 367 from Houston to Denver, and Flight 718 from Denver to Sioux Falls. Four takeoffs, four landings (my first four of each)…that is, of course, if they didn’t end up scooping me out of the Gulf of Mexico when we overshot Houston.
The same week that I booked my flight to Houston for some intensive job training, I saw an article in the Star Tribune that told of United Airlines’ new policy on hauling around XXXX-chubby passengers. It seems that as of April, they were about to get tougher with those of us who aren’t able to squeeze into their dainty 19-inch seats. Any passengers not able to suck “it” in far enough to lower the armrest separating him or her from the person in the next seat would be bumped to a different flight—if all other seats were filled. A quick check of the online seating chart showed that the seats were filling up quickly. I contemplated just how that would be carried out. Would I be allowed to enlist the aid of a couple of burly passengers in an attempt to force my armrest into position? Maybe slather on some Vaseline? If still unsuccessful, would the pilot make an announcement? “Hello, this is your captain speaking. There will be a slight delay in our flight as the passenger in seat 23C has exceeded our width restrictions. I ask that everyone please lean away from the aisle as he attempts to de-plane. I would like to personally thank the passenger in 23B for remaining calm throughout this process.”
My wife, Kathy (the frequent flyer in the family) seemed a bit too amused by my upcoming ascension. As a matter of fact, nearly everybody I know (except Mom) seemed a bit too amused. My nephew, Brent, the air-traffic controller, assured me that the Sioux Falls airport had done everything in their power to keep the geese away from the runways, and informed me that Captain Sully probably wouldn’t be available to pilot my flight.
Three weeks of underlying nausea was coming to a crescendo as Kathy and I pulled into the Sioux Falls airport. I said my final farewell and went through the baggage check. I detected a nearly imperceptible shudder as the security person entertained, and then rejected, the thought of a body cavity search.
Unable to concentrate on any reading, I waited in the terminal for my flight to board. It seemed like it took forever. When the boarding finally began, the “special” people were called first. People who apparently paid more for their ride than I had. After the Gold and Silver and First Class people were seated, they called for poodles, gerbils, geckoes and finally, “economy class” (read: no class) passengers were called.
That included me.
I stepped into the plane and immediately asked the young, blonde beanpole for my seatbelt extender, and then turned toward the aisle to what turned out to be a pleasant surprise. My fear of flying completely disappeared. Unfortunately, it was because my claustrophobia reached out and seized my larynx…and squeezed.
I’ve always been blessed with the ability to appear calm when my insides are swimming frantically. This much cannot be said for the unfortunate young lady who ended up the seat next to mine. As I was stuffing my laptop under the seat ahead of me and my carry-on into the compartment above, she appeared to be looking me up and down as she was rapidly calculating how a five-pound bag was going to hold 10 pounds of…well, you get the picture.
Apparently the comely young flight attendant suspected trouble after the seat belt request and followed me to my seat.
“If you would be more comfortable here, feel free to move,” she said, pointing to the dual empty seats in the back row, just outside the “bathroom” entrance. This was much better than, “yeah right, lard butt…you might want to haul it back here.”
I swear I heard a whimper of relief from the young lady who had just received the pardon.
I settled my plumpness into the back row and proceeded to attempt to de-constrict my airway. I was astonished how small the inside of a CanadAir jet looked, compared to the inside of those jets in the movies. Again, however, I was about to catch a break. My phobia concerning small places was soon forgotten. After a short taxi to the point of takeoff, the thrusters were engaged, and sudden g-forces were strong enough to pull everything back against my seat, oddly reducing my three chins to two.
My torso was suddenly moving faster than it had at any previous time in my half century here on this planet…the same planet from which I was about to disengage.
It was the most surreal one hour and thirty-two minutes I had ever experienced.
And I grabbed armrests on each side of my double-wide seat as I hurtled through the air on my first-ever trip to Chicago…that toddlin’ town.
I hung on real tight for the next 468 miles, as if somehow the next-day headlines might read, “Tyler man only survivor in CanadAir jet crash. Investigators suspect it was because he hung on really tight.”
Next week, the saga continues.
For those of you reading in the Tyler area, the Tyler Area Community Foundation has asked me to pass on some information to you. If you would like to keep up with what is going on with the group, click on their link on the upper left side of this page. You may sign up for regular blog updates by sending your email address to Tim O’Leary at oleary@mnns.com.
The same week that I booked my flight to Houston for some intensive job training, I saw an article in the Star Tribune that told of United Airlines’ new policy on hauling around XXXX-chubby passengers. It seems that as of April, they were about to get tougher with those of us who aren’t able to squeeze into their dainty 19-inch seats. Any passengers not able to suck “it” in far enough to lower the armrest separating him or her from the person in the next seat would be bumped to a different flight—if all other seats were filled. A quick check of the online seating chart showed that the seats were filling up quickly. I contemplated just how that would be carried out. Would I be allowed to enlist the aid of a couple of burly passengers in an attempt to force my armrest into position? Maybe slather on some Vaseline? If still unsuccessful, would the pilot make an announcement? “Hello, this is your captain speaking. There will be a slight delay in our flight as the passenger in seat 23C has exceeded our width restrictions. I ask that everyone please lean away from the aisle as he attempts to de-plane. I would like to personally thank the passenger in 23B for remaining calm throughout this process.”
My wife, Kathy (the frequent flyer in the family) seemed a bit too amused by my upcoming ascension. As a matter of fact, nearly everybody I know (except Mom) seemed a bit too amused. My nephew, Brent, the air-traffic controller, assured me that the Sioux Falls airport had done everything in their power to keep the geese away from the runways, and informed me that Captain Sully probably wouldn’t be available to pilot my flight.
Three weeks of underlying nausea was coming to a crescendo as Kathy and I pulled into the Sioux Falls airport. I said my final farewell and went through the baggage check. I detected a nearly imperceptible shudder as the security person entertained, and then rejected, the thought of a body cavity search.
Unable to concentrate on any reading, I waited in the terminal for my flight to board. It seemed like it took forever. When the boarding finally began, the “special” people were called first. People who apparently paid more for their ride than I had. After the Gold and Silver and First Class people were seated, they called for poodles, gerbils, geckoes and finally, “economy class” (read: no class) passengers were called.
That included me.
I stepped into the plane and immediately asked the young, blonde beanpole for my seatbelt extender, and then turned toward the aisle to what turned out to be a pleasant surprise. My fear of flying completely disappeared. Unfortunately, it was because my claustrophobia reached out and seized my larynx…and squeezed.
I’ve always been blessed with the ability to appear calm when my insides are swimming frantically. This much cannot be said for the unfortunate young lady who ended up the seat next to mine. As I was stuffing my laptop under the seat ahead of me and my carry-on into the compartment above, she appeared to be looking me up and down as she was rapidly calculating how a five-pound bag was going to hold 10 pounds of…well, you get the picture.
Apparently the comely young flight attendant suspected trouble after the seat belt request and followed me to my seat.
“If you would be more comfortable here, feel free to move,” she said, pointing to the dual empty seats in the back row, just outside the “bathroom” entrance. This was much better than, “yeah right, lard butt…you might want to haul it back here.”
I swear I heard a whimper of relief from the young lady who had just received the pardon.
I settled my plumpness into the back row and proceeded to attempt to de-constrict my airway. I was astonished how small the inside of a CanadAir jet looked, compared to the inside of those jets in the movies. Again, however, I was about to catch a break. My phobia concerning small places was soon forgotten. After a short taxi to the point of takeoff, the thrusters were engaged, and sudden g-forces were strong enough to pull everything back against my seat, oddly reducing my three chins to two.
My torso was suddenly moving faster than it had at any previous time in my half century here on this planet…the same planet from which I was about to disengage.
It was the most surreal one hour and thirty-two minutes I had ever experienced.
And I grabbed armrests on each side of my double-wide seat as I hurtled through the air on my first-ever trip to Chicago…that toddlin’ town.
I hung on real tight for the next 468 miles, as if somehow the next-day headlines might read, “Tyler man only survivor in CanadAir jet crash. Investigators suspect it was because he hung on really tight.”
Next week, the saga continues.
For those of you reading in the Tyler area, the Tyler Area Community Foundation has asked me to pass on some information to you. If you would like to keep up with what is going on with the group, click on their link on the upper left side of this page. You may sign up for regular blog updates by sending your email address to Tim O’Leary at oleary@mnns.com.
Thursday, July 2, 2009
You want me to what?
My new career has been filled with lots of opportunities to learn new things. I knew, generally, what I would be doing when I started with enXco back on March 19th, but I had no clue as to the nuts and bolts behind the operation. There are those who would argue that I’ve been clueless as long as you’ve known me, but now I was taking that reality to a whole new level.
Anyone who has started a new job will tell you that it is very uncomfortable and you feel pretty much like an idiot for a minimum of three to six months. I’ve asked for an extension on that this time around.
My first week here I was getting instruction that, as far as I could tell, was being delivered in Greek. The first person at the office who was saddled with the task of “teaching this old dog some new tricks” was actually a young man from France. Anthony was a busy young Frenchman, and didn’t have a lot of time to spend on instruction. This time the degree of difficulty for this unfortunate young man was set pretty high. A middle-aged former editor (who had ruined his hearing by playing in rock and roll bands for 24 years) was attempting to learn a new profession that was seemingly being spoken in Greek with a French accent. Anyone who has watched a movie with me knows that my level of comprehension dips mightily when someone speaks to me in any dialect but Upper Midwestern.
Despite my mental and aural handicaps, young Anthony did leave me with enough information to help me muddle through the two-inch thick textbook and learn a lot on my own in the ensuing weeks, long after he was back in the relative safety of his homeland.
I would guess that the haunting image of my glazed-over eyes and dumbfounded expression still sneaks in and out of his nightmares.
Many times over the past few weeks when I would explain to friends, family or acquaintances where I was working, there would be a brief, uncomfortable silence when he or she would be mulling over the idea of asking something like, “they don’t have you climbing towers, do they?” Usually I could detect a slightly bemused look spread across the face, as if he or she were picturing just such a scenario. At that point I would proceed to reveal that I am doing a variety of computer-based tasks for the company, which would generally elicit a relieved nod of the head. Most would stop short of a wiping of the brow and uttering, “whew.”
Bear with me as I attempt to explain what I do…
I work at enXco’s Operations Control Center, a 24/7 facility where we watch wind turbine sites across the country, not only for enXco, but also for several other companies. Our operators watch for problems with the individual turbines, and can shut down, restart or report problems with turbines as far away as Hawaii…all from little old Chandler, Minnesota. My main duties in the coming months will be to design the computer screen interfaces with which these sites are monitored.
I have also been entrusted with a host of other jobs, including installing software, generating an occasional report and, well, counting the money out of the pop machines.
No, they don’t let me climb towers.
The software I will be using to create the screen pages is complicated, and requires some extensive training. I wasn’t even a week into my new job when my boss, Lyrae, called me into her office and informed me that I would need to attend three days of classes.
No problem, I thought, I could spend a couple nights in the Cities, or Mankato or even Rochester in the name of getting smarter.
“As a matter of fact,” she revealed, “there is a session in San Francisco next week. Would you be available?”
I think I might have actually managed to suppress the sound that a 51-year-old-never-flown-and-never-wants-to-fly person makes in the back of his throat when his airway attempts to restrict the free flow of oxygen into the body.
At the time, I was in the middle of directing the spring play at the Opera House and wouldn’t be able to get away…to Mankato OR San Francisco.
I explained that I had a previous commitment, which, as it turned out, wasn’t a problem to Lyrae.
“And besides,” I said, “I don’t fly.”
She replied that this was no problem, and we would work out something else.
To me, “something else” was probably taking an online course, or finding someplace within driving distance.
I was wrong.
A week later Lyrae walks past my desk and says, “I need you to go online and decide which training session you want to attend.” Figuring I could also possibly choose between maybe Sioux Falls or Des Moines, I went to the software company’s website to choose a location for my intensive training. My choices? Houston, Texas in April, or Philadelphia, Pennsylvania in May.
“Yeah,” I extolled, “the only choices right now are Houston and Philadelphia and…um…as I mentioned before, I don’t fly.”
“Pick one,” Lyrae replied, “and book your flight as soon as possible.”
Not wanting to be a difficult employee, I fought down the urge to once more convey the fact that I had no desire to be hurtled through the air in a giant death machine. I swallowed hard and booked a flight for April 27th out of Sioux Falls.
Destination: Houston.
I had just turned over my oh-so-short life to the hands of the people at United Airlines, knowing all along that neither Michael Jackson nor I was old enough to die.
As it would turn out, one of us would not live to see July.Next week’s blog will attempt to answer the question, “how did I end up in New Orleans?”
Anyone who has started a new job will tell you that it is very uncomfortable and you feel pretty much like an idiot for a minimum of three to six months. I’ve asked for an extension on that this time around.
My first week here I was getting instruction that, as far as I could tell, was being delivered in Greek. The first person at the office who was saddled with the task of “teaching this old dog some new tricks” was actually a young man from France. Anthony was a busy young Frenchman, and didn’t have a lot of time to spend on instruction. This time the degree of difficulty for this unfortunate young man was set pretty high. A middle-aged former editor (who had ruined his hearing by playing in rock and roll bands for 24 years) was attempting to learn a new profession that was seemingly being spoken in Greek with a French accent. Anyone who has watched a movie with me knows that my level of comprehension dips mightily when someone speaks to me in any dialect but Upper Midwestern.
Despite my mental and aural handicaps, young Anthony did leave me with enough information to help me muddle through the two-inch thick textbook and learn a lot on my own in the ensuing weeks, long after he was back in the relative safety of his homeland.
I would guess that the haunting image of my glazed-over eyes and dumbfounded expression still sneaks in and out of his nightmares.
Many times over the past few weeks when I would explain to friends, family or acquaintances where I was working, there would be a brief, uncomfortable silence when he or she would be mulling over the idea of asking something like, “they don’t have you climbing towers, do they?” Usually I could detect a slightly bemused look spread across the face, as if he or she were picturing just such a scenario. At that point I would proceed to reveal that I am doing a variety of computer-based tasks for the company, which would generally elicit a relieved nod of the head. Most would stop short of a wiping of the brow and uttering, “whew.”
Bear with me as I attempt to explain what I do…
I work at enXco’s Operations Control Center, a 24/7 facility where we watch wind turbine sites across the country, not only for enXco, but also for several other companies. Our operators watch for problems with the individual turbines, and can shut down, restart or report problems with turbines as far away as Hawaii…all from little old Chandler, Minnesota. My main duties in the coming months will be to design the computer screen interfaces with which these sites are monitored.
I have also been entrusted with a host of other jobs, including installing software, generating an occasional report and, well, counting the money out of the pop machines.
No, they don’t let me climb towers.
The software I will be using to create the screen pages is complicated, and requires some extensive training. I wasn’t even a week into my new job when my boss, Lyrae, called me into her office and informed me that I would need to attend three days of classes.
No problem, I thought, I could spend a couple nights in the Cities, or Mankato or even Rochester in the name of getting smarter.
“As a matter of fact,” she revealed, “there is a session in San Francisco next week. Would you be available?”
I think I might have actually managed to suppress the sound that a 51-year-old-never-flown-and-never-wants-to-fly person makes in the back of his throat when his airway attempts to restrict the free flow of oxygen into the body.
At the time, I was in the middle of directing the spring play at the Opera House and wouldn’t be able to get away…to Mankato OR San Francisco.
I explained that I had a previous commitment, which, as it turned out, wasn’t a problem to Lyrae.
“And besides,” I said, “I don’t fly.”
She replied that this was no problem, and we would work out something else.
To me, “something else” was probably taking an online course, or finding someplace within driving distance.
I was wrong.
A week later Lyrae walks past my desk and says, “I need you to go online and decide which training session you want to attend.” Figuring I could also possibly choose between maybe Sioux Falls or Des Moines, I went to the software company’s website to choose a location for my intensive training. My choices? Houston, Texas in April, or Philadelphia, Pennsylvania in May.
“Yeah,” I extolled, “the only choices right now are Houston and Philadelphia and…um…as I mentioned before, I don’t fly.”
“Pick one,” Lyrae replied, “and book your flight as soon as possible.”
Not wanting to be a difficult employee, I fought down the urge to once more convey the fact that I had no desire to be hurtled through the air in a giant death machine. I swallowed hard and booked a flight for April 27th out of Sioux Falls.
Destination: Houston.
I had just turned over my oh-so-short life to the hands of the people at United Airlines, knowing all along that neither Michael Jackson nor I was old enough to die.
As it would turn out, one of us would not live to see July.Next week’s blog will attempt to answer the question, “how did I end up in New Orleans?”