Chapter 32

Mimi’s turn:

This place DOES weddings. Seriously. Allow me to expound. (See?!? Going back to school – college, actually, -- has caused me to start using a vocabulary)

Previous peer groups I’ve known had all manner of pairings. And unpairings. Couples formed and broke up like waves on a pond. Babies showed up frequently, stuck with a single mom in some cases, in other cases being raised by grandparents.

This place? I’m the community baby-herder – JW, Elise, Kathy, Stoneykins, and now, two-plus years later, Bobby, the son of Nikki and Dan Granger.

Every one of ‘em’s the product of ‘We should have a baby because we love each other’, bi-directional, husband and wife.

But this last wedding. There’d better NOT be a baby any time soon because the bride, my little sister Terri, turned fourteen on her wedding day.

At the end of my Monday-Wednesday-Friday pseudo-mommy days I don’t just drop the kids with their parents and head home. The mommies of my babies are just as important to me as my babies, so we talk, especially when one or more of the mommies gets off early, flexible schedules being what they are.

This Monday it’s Susan and Nikki off early.

“Things’re a bit quiet at the robotics lab without Terri creating turmoil,” Nikki said.

“Yeah, I gotcher turmoil,” Susan laughed. “What’s that General Dynamics deal gonna do? Three million?”

Nikki nodded. “Three point one, actually.”

“So what do you think’s going on with Terri ‘n’ Jerry now?”

“Four in the afternoon? Honeymoon?” Susan said. “Probably something strenuous and sticky.”

I giggled. “Yeah ... I remember mine...”

Susan laughed. “Yours wasn’t a year ago. And I haven’t forgotten, either.”

“Yeah,” I said. “Uh, a thought ... D’ya imagine that this new dimension in the life of the pTerridactyl might dull her edge? Maybe lessen her intensity?”

Susan shook that blonde hair of hers. “Oh, you know that’s a thought. I know that after me ‘n’ Jason got married, MY intensity dropped enormously...”

“Sex’ll do that for you,” Nikki laughed.

“Yeah,” I said. “Really GOOD sex ... Now, tell me ... You ‘n’ Tommy? How’s the conception coming along?”

I giggled. “Funny you should say ‘coming’...”

“Mimi!” Susan squealed.

“Oh, yeah, Susan. Go ahead and act all shocked. You’re the one that told me that you ‘n Jason stepped up your game...”

“Game, nothin’!” she laughed. “We were dead serious.”

“We are. Funfunfun, but it’s kinda like ‘this is what it’s for’, too.”

“But Terri...”

“Look,” Nikki said, “if she applies the same enthusiasm and capability to lovin’ that guy that she does to everything else, he’s gonna be comatose...”

“Dunno about that,” Susan tittered. “Ever’body thought I was gonna kill Jason, but I was the one that passed out ... I think they’ll do just fine...”

Cindy’s turn:

Perhaps I shouldn’t, but I roughly partition “work” into four categories: work-work (engineering), lab-work, teacher-crap, and research (e.g., Los Alamos). Thankfully, a lot of that can be done from anywhere, so long as there’s a working Wifi.

And there’s flying, but that’s not work, unless it’s transporting a field crew, which is the case today. The downside is that it’s a “tweener” job -- hot enough that “we need that crew right now”, but too short to justify an extra flight back home and a return to pick up the crew.

Gotta stay onsite for a couple of days, which means a hotel. I LIKE hotels when Dan is with me, but as usual, he’s off in the other direction, in Florida. This job is at scenic Williston -- can you say “flat”? I’m a little bummed out, but maybe me and Dana can find something interesting to look at, when we’re not working on our iPads.

Anyway, load the equipment, load the crew, file the flight plan, and we’re off, with an intermediate potty-break at Des Moines. Luckily, there are Signature FBOs at both places, which means nice bathrooms.

The job is a natural gas pumping station which had a lightning hit. Replacement components are onsite, with a crane to move them, but a good bit of wiring has to be replaced, along with some more modern protection equipment and controls. Temporary pumping equipment is in place, but flow is reduced by 2/3, which could mess up the supply wells if it isn’t fixed quickly.

“Dan, you’re gone. I’m gone...”

“Am I about to lose my wife to another aeronautical boondoggle?”

I giggled. “I love you too, buddy. And yeah ... Two-nighter...”

“Who’s your co-pilot?”

“Dontrell James. Henry’s new yard guy...” Dontrell was one of the ‘differently abled’ that we try to hire from time to time. Chiseled body that would grace a museum if they wanted to display a perfect specimen of an African. Really. But his mom didn’t do him any favors – alcohol and other drugs. He was at the ‘I can write my name’ level, living in a group home. Likable guy, though. Just, as the term used to be, ‘simple’.

“Don’t mess with me, Cindy Lou Who.”

“Oh, if you’re gonna kick, then I’m callin’ Dana.”

“Good move. Ed’s out with Mizz Barker and a couple of programmers at a bank in South Carolina for the next couple of days.”

“I knew that. Dana worries less than when he and Laci are on the road together.”

“Well, I’ll work late and I’ll cry myself to sleep, punkin,” he said. “But go ahead...”

“Thanks, baby ... and we need us a deep desert vacation...”

“I’d settle for that condo that Terri and Jerry are terrorizing right now...”

I giggled. “What keeps us from doing both?”

“Not a damned thing, sweetie. I like how you think.”

Next call was to Dana.

“You should’ve called Mandy,” Dana said.

“You don’t wanna go?”

“Oh, I do, but Mandy’s...”

“Mandy’s in intensive training with the Munchkins getting up to college level.”

“Oh, that’s right.”

“Next one, I’ll rescue her for a day trip, but right now she really likes being home with Bill and Mom and Elise and Willie.”

“Making up for lost time with the family thing,” Dana said. “I get a little pang of jealousy.”

“She’s doing good. Gotta be happy. You got Ed, you got your gramma...”

“I gotta be happy too...”

“Well, we have to be off the ground here at 0500,” I said. “Still up for it?”

She snickered. “I can sleep all the way there...”

“Yeah, I’m sure you will...”

At the airfield at 0400. Dana’s there. We had just opened up the hangar door when the first of three of our service trucks rolled up – our technicians.

They know the drill. One of them hooks up the little tow-motor and eases Lenya out, clear of the door while another tends the ground power umbilical cable.

We get the baggage and the test equipment stowed in the cargo area. I’m punching figures into the weight and balance app on my iPad as Dana starts the external pre-flight. The guys park their trucks inside the now empty (mostly – there are two ultralights in here too) hangar.

I ordered a quick bathroom run, and then we were off, climbing, angling north northwest at flight level 260, IFR direct. After four and a half hours we were letting down hard for Williston. We saved a good hour by NOT dropping out of the skies in Des Moines for a potty break. I praised our crew for the capacity of their bladders. Two of ‘em, however, DID make rather hurried paths to the loo at the FBO.

I cringed at the price of Jet A fuel at Signature, but sometimes you have to bite the bullet. From Signature’s office, we contacted the rental car people, had the all too familiar “you’re too young” moments in which I pointed out letters from their corporate headquarters, the multiple millions of dollars of sleek airplane I’d just flown in, and I smiled a lot.

Got the car.

The guys got two vans, loaded their equipment, and headed out to meet the client. Dana and I didn’t follow. The guys are going to hit the ground running, probably will work until ten PM.

Me and Dana? Late burger for lunch. Drove around town a bit. Small-town America meets the petroleum industry. Not much to see here. Off on the open road, alternating between Apple Maps on my iPhone and Dana’s aviation sectional chart for navigation.

“Sydney,” she said. “Thirty-odd miles. Another airfield.”

“Why not? It’s an aviating day, isn’t it?”

If you’ve seen one of these, you’ve seen most of them. A few Cessnas and Pipers and Beechcraft, either on the apron or in a hangar. We walked into the office, though, introduced ourselves.

“Just out exploring.”

Walked in, and the guy behind the desk introduced himself as “Jack Baxter”. We introduced ourselves, were asked, “Where’re you from?”

“Alabama,” Dana chirped. ““We just flew in to Williston on a big shiny Pilatus PC-12. Her name is Lenya. Got a rental car and time to kill.”

He looked at me. “You look a bit young.”

“Thank you,” I replied. “Just turned twenty-one.” Since it’s an aircraft venue, I added, “Single and multi-engine rated. Instrument, instructor, high altitude, tail-dragger...”

“And she makes great cookies,” Dana added helpfully. “Mind if we walk around and look?”

He didn’t mind. We walked the sparsely populated apron and went into the hangar and looked. Occasionally these forays into strange airports are subject to turn up the odd and unusual aircraft. Today wasn’t one of those days. We walked back out into the sun.

“There’re a pair of twins,” Dana said, pointing to a pair of Cessna taildraggers. “They look pregnant.”

“External cargo pods. Those are popular with bush flyers, Dan says. Ours has the mount points.”

“Tires’re bigger, too.”

“Yeah,” I said. “Let’s take a walk.”

“Beautiful cool day for it,” Dana said. “Can’t wait for it to get cool back home.”

“Me neither,” I said.

We got to the planes. They were in need of a good washing. I peered into the cockpits – full panels, a couple of radios, transponder – all perfectly normal. Interiors looked to be in good shape.

The fact that the tires still held air is a plus.

“Curious,” I said. “These are a couple of good ol’ airplanes.”

“We can always use a couple of good ol’ airplanes,” Dana said.

“I’m getting a good ol’ airplane Friday,” I said. “My Stearman’s gonna be ready for pickup.”

As we walked away Dana looked back over her shoulder. “Wonder what the deal is?”

“You can ask the guy at the office,” I said.

The two planes were parked in the grass, tied down, and the grass was tall around them. Looked forlorn, abandoned. Nothing sadder than an old airplane that nobody loves...

Walked back into the office, I said, “Jack, we kinda wanted to go look at those old 185s out there. What do you know about them?”

Jack said, “Cindy, it’s kind of a sad story. They’re part of the estate of a nice old guy named Earney Lawrence. I think he bought ‘em from another estate over in Bozeman, where they had been used by a hunter/outfitter -- he flew hunting parties out into various back-country areas during hunting seasons. Anyway, Earney had the notion of refurbishing them and re-selling them, but he died before he had a chance to do it.”