 |
|
|
|
|
| LOOK AROUND | May '09 |
|
|
| |
As I stumbled out of bed this morning, I immediately shifted into a gear of depression. The trigger, of course, was the news: Wall Street blues. Washington blues. The usual dose of reality dampened my dark spirits even more. What are we coming to? Was this the dark depression of the thirties all over again? Or was it an even more draconian forecast for the future? Surfing the channels didn't help. Volcanoes meet my eyes on the TV screen. Riots and homicides and murders (by a mother for God sake). Are we ready for the big one? Is this it? Is this really it? A big bang and then nothing. Surely not! Surely not!
The ruling question seemed to blur my vision, reminding me that it sure as hell wasn't a happy, cheery sign for the future. As I glanced up from the tooth paste on my brush, I saw a rather sad sight: My unshaven face and reddened eyes threatening to pop. Was I really this old? Had I really crossed that line? That 38th parallel of life? Strangely the tooth paste tube brought me to a sudden stop. It broke my self-absorption for a second? What is that taste – cinnamon? Rather nice really. Certainly different. And, yes, come to think about it – rather pleasant. Hmmmmm. Back to the dark reality. Where was I?
Oh yes, the world's condition. Our wrinkled blue marble's current condition. Hmmmm. Oh yes – I think it was volcanoes. Yes. I have never been in or near a volcano I reminded myself. Seen them from a far distance. But no skin off my nose. Buttoning my shirt I couldn't help but notice it was not only clean, but rather dapper. Not tailor sewn, but made of some remarkable material that refused to shrink or wrinkle. How do they do that? Modern science? Amazing! And clean. No scrubbing. I struggled to get back to the volcanoes and other catastrophes, but I was hindered by a concern. My trousers. I had left a note in my addled brain last night to make sure the trousers were clean and pressed. They were. Who did it? Oh, I forgot, my old do-it-yourself Colby English presser. They even managed to keep my blue jeans acceptable. Hmmmmm. And what a wonderful gift from one's daughter.
Looking outside a sudden break in the clouds revealed that yes, Virginia, there is a light up there somewhere. I turned the radio on and immediately the hymns of angels met my ears. Was I delusional? Or was that Debussy? Poetic and such magic to the ears. Hmmmm. That little radio seemed to morph into an eighty-piece symphony. To hell with the television. I am not late for work. I've just awoke. Awakened from a dirge of depression. Suddenly I had begun to see that the truly beautiful things in life are oft not seen or heard, but obscured by the shattering news of the economy or the international crisis. Not exactly a revelation in itself, but a reminder that all in all, economy or not, international crisis or not, inconvenience or not, all in all life ain't that bad really compared to so many others in so many other countries. Not bad at all. Really.
That when you consider in three short centuries we have stubbornly clung to the American dream. Nighmarish as it may be at times, it is still a viable aspiration. Workable if we work at it. Doable if we do it. And durable if we believe in it. And I believe. I do believe.
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 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.
Back to Page 1
|
|
|
|
|
