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| Cliffhangar | Aug '07 |
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| By Cliff Robertson |
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This column is a gamble. I'm writing it some two months before its due date. That in itself is a wonderment: that this writer/actor is not only writing something on its due date, but also well before the words go to press. It's a conjecture really, this column, for as I take pen to paper, it is a glorious spring day, one day before June, here in the "boonies" of eastern Long Island.
To what do I owe this pre-immergence—for lack of a better term? It is nothing more than some kind of mysterious instinct that tells me, "Do it now Cliff. Do it now, for tomorrow may be too late." "Too late" is a sad, sad term. Too late to say goodbye to one's friend, who passed on far too soon. Too late to thank those one should have thanked long, long ago but never did. Too late to write that letter so carelessly postponed to that old friend, who suddenly left this mortal coil. Too late to tell that fellow actor how much you appreciated his or her work in their latest, and alas, last film. Too late to read that book that had some answers to gnawing questions. Too late to take that picture of that grandchild on her graduation day. Too late to grasp the hand of your old friend as he showed signs of early tremors. Too late to send a note of encouragement to those who have suffered a tough blow.
Alas, these are regrets that come too late in this procrastinating writer's life, but nevertheless are felt so very deeply. I am inclined to blame my procrastination on an overly optimistic sense that time will slow for my convenience. That obdurate clock will skip a tick or two. Belay its nagging "tock." That Father Time will pause and take a respite. A respite from this age of acceleration. To take a break from the overwrought cadence to which we all fall victim. Even a sense of security, that by putting things off, we will delay and possibly even stop their emergence. Aldous Huxley, in his book of some five decades ago, said, "Time must have a stop." Just what did Aldous know or think he knew? Or was he too stoked on California marijuana? He was far too brilliant a philosopher and purveyor of the scene to have recklessly stumbled on a seminal question. Aldous has left us now, and we were perhaps just too late to have sought an answer to the question.
OK, OK. Enough of my fanciful pondering. My faux philosophy. If we have not gone into or out of Iraq by the time this column appears—so be it. So be it. If one of the rogue dictatorships around this weary world has not initiated a new nuclear threat—so be it. So be it. And if there has not emerged another tsunami—thank God. Thank God. And if another heartless earthquake, tornado or hurricane has not descended upon us—so be it. And thank you, God.
If in the last 90 days, none of these unnatural disasters has descended—thank you, Lord. Thank you, Lord. And if a debt-ridden, hungry nation has not devoured its old and young alike—so be it. So be it. And if somehow, some way—some mysterious way—these last 90 days have allowed this nation to stumble on—God bless it. God bless it. And so, thank you, Lord—so be it.
Academy Award and Emmy Award winning screen star Cliff Robertson has owned and flown a wide array of aircraft, including a Spitfire MK IX, a Messerschmitt ME-108, a French aerobatic Stampe SV4 biplane, a Grob Astir glider (in which he still holds a distance record) and a Beech Baron 58. A holder of single, multi, instrument and commercial licenses, as well as balloon, the pilot of many thousands of hours has accumulated many aviation awards, including EAA's highest Eagle award and the AOPA Sharples award. He was recently inducted into the National Aviation Hall of Fame, and the American Veteran Association has honored him as Veteran of the Year. His columns will appear in his soon-to-be-published book. For more information, visit www.cliffrobertson.info.
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