Chapter 26

Dan Granger’s turn:

There was a pop song a few years back, some bimbo with more production than music abilities, that said, “Oops! I did it again!” And me, being an engineer, I have a little plaque on the wall of my office that says insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results.

So naturally, after Nikki miscarried on our first pregnancy, we did it again. She’s pregnant and I’m going nuts trying to take care of her and that’s driving her nuts because she does NOT want to be coddled.

Nikki usually wins these arguments. Nasty little thing. Backs her side of the argument with facts. Dragged me (not really – I go happily) to the doctor and asked him while I was sitting there.

“Doctor Paranam, is it safe for me to fly?”

“Yes, it is safe. Women fly while pregnant all the time.”

I thought he might need to have some data in clarification. “Uh, Doctor, she’s not talking about commercial airliners. Nikki’s a licensed pilot. She flies light aircraft.”

“Oh, I am aware of Nikki’s status,” he said in his accented voice. “Nikki, do not do aerobatics in your last trimester.”

“You’re a big help, Doc,” I said.

“Mister Granger, my friend, your wife is a very healthy young woman. We risk nothing. Those tiny little qualities that lie at the far end of probabilities. Much like winning lottery tickets.”

Nikki mouthed ‘told you so’ to me. That round of discussions came as a result of her wanting to keep up with Cindy in aviation skills. Actually, it makes a certain amount of sense. Either she or Cindy can usually break loose from 3Sigma Robotics to pull pilot duties. Four of us are now qualified for the Cessna twin – me, the other Dan, Cindy and Nikki. We’re looking to get a couple more. Alan is one of them. Tina says ‘no’. Susan says ‘no’. Jason’s a ‘maybe’ but he has fewer flight hours, just ahead of Susan.

And don’t make the mistake of talking about HIRING a pilot. You get a ballistic redhead flying off in close formation with an irate Cajun girl.

“You mean to PAY somebody to fly OUR planes?” Cindy said, uncharacteristically NOT smiling. Nikki was equally disturbed.

Try reason. “We gotta think that we’re putting one of our key minds in the role of chauffeur,” I said, trying ... Failing.

“Look...” Cindy started. She turned to Nikki. “Sis, pop his leash to get his attention.”

My sweet wife giggled. She knows I’m losing, but she also knows that I’ll keep going, for appearances.

Cindy continued. “Flying is MY compensation, at least part of it. Besides, we have several pilots on line if we need one. We can dip into the charter pilot pool.”

“If we get in a bind,” Nikki inserted. “They’re already qualified on both the jets. Need to get ‘em checked out on the 402. If they’ll stoop that low...”

“I’ll talk with them,” Dan 1.0 said. “Sort of my arena. Might wanna gen up to get one of ‘em qualified on the Pilatus, when we get it.”

Cindy squeals over the new plane. Good reason. Roomful of pilots, nobody’s EVER picked up a brand new plane. We’ve decided that going to Colorado to retrieve it is reason enough to exercise the 402 for the trip. Cindy will ‘right-seat’ for each of us Dans, splitting the trip in half, part of our ongoing efforts to keep ourselves current on the twin. She and my Nikki get enough hours. Cindy, of course, has real-time experience on engine-out procedures and she’s good about running each of the rest of us through an exercise when conditions allow.

Same thing with instrument work. Cindy’s the taskmaster. She keeps us current, although she resorts to the much less expensive single-engine planes for that work.

I talked to the other Dan about her immersion. “Did you EVER imagine she’d be like this?”

He shook his head. “No. I remember worrying about her first ride, if she’d get airsick. Didn’t. And I do love seeing her smile when she’s flying.”

“And now we have to let ‘er fly. Major Kettler offered her a commission.”

“Not as a pilot, though,” Dan 1.0 said. “I think if he’d promised her an F-35, we’d’ve lost a redhead...”

“Only if she could bring you along as a pet,” I laughed.

“That’s what I always dreamed of – being a service wife.”

Actually, Cindy and Nikki drafted a commercial design major for help on the new plane’s paint job, right up to a ‘3σ‘ logo on the tail. You just KNOW that everybody’s seen the paint scheme, thanks to some mad computer graphics work, and one thing that nobody will ever say is that the new plane is hard to recognize. It’s not gaudy, and there aren’t that many big-nosed, five-bladed turboprops like it, but I can say that she (the airplane, not one of the two wifey pilots) will knock your socks off.

And we’re a week away from delivery, where ‘delivery’ is them tossing us a set of keys for the airplane sitting on an apron in Denver.

Tina’s turn:

I may hang up a certificate as an official matchmaker. After all, I have a string of successes – Jason and Susan, Kara and Bert. And I’m praying hard for the newest one. Our newest inclusion to the Community, Tara, promised to be difficult. After all, Alabama isn’t noted for a particularly large Jewish population and she values her heritage.

So me and Cindy, we’re sitting at the corner table at the Desai restaurant, sipping some divine chai and some sweets thrust upon us by Grandma Desai. We’re actually talking about engineering things – the paths that MY daughter, the pTerridactyl, is pushing one multiple robotics platforms.

We’re also talking about people.

“Tara’s really starting to get into things,” I said.

“Well, yeah,” Cindy countered. “She’s smart. Just that she was shaken. Lot of tragedy, stepping back from academics and into support and now, parenting. Once we let her see she was STILL smart, she picked back up. If there hadn’t been that accident, she’d be graduated and working somewhere.”

“And she’ll graduate, and she’s working with US,” I said. “And trying to leash in on Derek.”

Grandma Desai came by to check on us. Family. She’s family. “My American family,” she says. “Would you like more chai?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Cindy said. “And please, make an offering to Shiva for our friend Tara.”

“Oh, yes ... Pretty girl. She is Jewish, yes?”

“Yes, ma’am. Hard for her to find a Jewish husband...” Tina said. “But don’t mention Terri’s name within fifteen feet of your altar. Terri doesn’t need any help finding her mate.”

Grandma Desai smiled. “My blonde genius child. She has her man. In my old home country, we would be preparing for her wedding right now...”

“I can only wish,” I said. “Maybe you could talk to Shiva and tell him to cool those two down.”

“I will pray to Shiva for wisdom for them.”

“Add Tommy and Mimi to the list. Wedding Saturday.”

Grandma Desai’s lined face smiled. “I have special things for their wedding. For ALL my American family – special things.”

So let me tell you about Tara and her lightning bolt.

She’s bumping around in the robotics lab, working with Rachel on the effects of some changes to driver software for a robotic gripper when Major Kettler walks in with Terri and Jerry.

Terri’s pointing out the changes. Tara backed up out of the way. In a side conversation, she says to Rachel, “Derek and I will be at your house Friday to join y’all for Shabbat.”

That’s Terri’s take on the conversation.

“You should’ve seen Major Kettler’s expression when he overheard that,” Terri told us. “He straightened up and turned to Tara.”

“You’re Jewish?” he asked her.

“Yes, I am. Fortunately, so’s my little brother ... Is that a problem?”

“Surprise, perhaps,” he said. “Problem? No. Rachel, I knew you were...”

“And Dad and Mom want us to be observant. It’s kinda difficult sometimes here in Alabama. Our local synagogue is ‘reform’. We’re more traditional.”

“They are,” Tara asserted. “And we can join the Weismanns and I feel like I’m following my family’s footsteps.”

“You’re Jewish,” he said again, sounding a bit doubtful.

“Yes.”

“I never saw that one coming. Name like ‘Helton’...”

“Three generations ago. Our family name sounded too German in World War I. Sort of ironic,” Tara said. “Why?”

“I’m Jewish.”

Terri said that she could almost see the lightbulbs going off.

Tara and Major Kettler AND Derek went to dinner that evening. And Tara made sure that his entrance to the Weismanns’ on Friday evening wouldn’t be TOO big a surprise.

Okay, you KNOW we cornered Tara the next chance we got – Saturday morning at the pavilion, preparatory to the marriage of Tommy and Mimi.

“Okay, sister,” Cindy said. “What’s the deal with you and Major Kettler?”

I watched her face for signs. Saw a few.

“He’s single. He’s thirty-one. Master’s in mechanical engineering. Never been married.”

Cindy giggled. “Does he ring your chimes?”

“Perhaps he does,” Tara replied.

“Do we need to circle a date for a wedding at the pavilion?” I asked.

“Tina! I’m SURE! We went to dinner, me, him, Derek. We’ve met at the Weismanns’ for Shabbat dinner. I don’t know much about him at all.”

“So that’s a ‘maybe’,” Cindy tittered.

So, yes ... Matchmaker. Even by accident.

Cindy’s turn:

There have been some momentous events in my life – the day I met Dan for the first time at the pool at Mizz Helen’s RV park. Our first night together. Our marriage. High school graduation at the age of fourteen. College graduation at sixteen, with my masters in electrical engineering. College graduation at seventeen with a physics PhD.

And Tuesday.

Dan and I and Nikki and her Dan left our home airfield at 0600 in Songbird. She purred like a kitten, hauling the four of us towards Denver, Colorado at two hundred miles an hour. We made a mid-point stop at Oklahoma City for refuel and calls of nature. The trip itself was an aerial picnic – an ice chest holding beverages and sandwiches for sustenance, autopilot taking care of much of the flying duties.

I flew right seat. Logged a few hours of it as instructor time because I rotated both Dans and Nikki through the left seat, giving each of them a not entirely unexpected heart attack as I exercised their memory of engine-out techniques.

No, I didn’t do that at cruising altitude.

Yes, I was accused of being mean.

And yes, when you fly in to pick up five million dollars’ worth of new airplane, people treat you to a FINE dinner. Two of the company people – sales VP and chief pilot – met with us in what we were told was the premier steakhouse in the area.

Yes, there was a conversation beforehand. Pete Griffin, the sales VP, asked to speak to ME.

“What kind of dinner do you wish?” he asked.

“Pretty much anything...”

“No vegan? No gluten intolerance?”

I laughed. “Aren’t WE being sensitive? No sir. Three Cajuns and an Alabama girl. We’ll eat just about anything. I do draw the line at Rocky Mountain Oysters, though. Just YUCK!!!”

He laughed back. “So when you eat steak, you don’t think of a steer with big, brown, sad eyes...”

“I bow my head and say a blessing that the Lord gave us the beasts of the field for our sustenance,” I retorted.

“That explains the Cynthia Richards, PhD, then. The rest...”

“Cajuns,” I said. “You go to the zoo in Cajun country, each of the exhibits has complimentary recipe cards. And we ALL appreciate a good steak.”

“Steak it is, then. I’ll email you the details.”

The FAA’s ‘Twenty-four hours from bottle to throttle’ kept the consumption of alcoholic beverages off the menu. The two Dans are flying Songbird back. Nikki and I are still too young to drink legally.

So we’re at dinner, really enjoying a pleasant meal. Both those guys – Pete Griffin and Dennis Wyatt – are smart and personable.

“You just KNOW we have to have pictures,” Dennis said.

“We were told that we MUST send pictures back to Solheim Limited. Part of the deal,” my Dan said.

“Ah, yes,” the sales guy returned. “The people who placed the order. How’s that happen? I mean, nobody’s ever called me and said ‘Hey, go to Denver and pick up five million dollars worth of airplane.”

Nikki’s Dan answered. “Pete, we live in a fantasy world. It just so happens that Cindy and Nikki’s adopted sister is the grand-niece of Jan-Lars Solheim, the owner of the company, and HE says that his heir doesn’t need to be flying around in a forty year old Cessna.”

“So we’re the chauffeurs,” Nikki giggled.

“Oh, yeah,” Dennis said. “Everybody’s got a PhD chauffeur to fly the kids around.”

“Stoney,” I said, “That’s the guy married to Mister Solheim’s great-niece, is an engineer who works when he wants to, with us, and that’s our connection.”