Chapter 5 Section 1 Through The Winter Of a Soul

After the emotional blow up my life got incredibly dull. The first week I mastered tailwheel flying without emotion. I freaked the poor flight instructor out. I was mechanical joyless emotionless in the cockpit. I functioned learned the skills with zero emotional response. I registered to classes and got to my dorm the following week. The peaceful non-argumentative dorm life the fact I had apologetics down to a non thinking activity and I could defend my faith respectfully and honestly without thinking was a pain living without non believers as parents every day suddenly there was an absence of stress in my life. The pressure that had held the stainless of me in solid form was now taken off. In the absence of the pressure the stainless steel was free to melt and melt it did.

I had turned on my TV in my dorm room and found myself watching some old war flick. A turning point in the film occurred when an ace was sent from Korea to go 1st take a long vacation and second to become a test pilot. He wanted to stay and fight but was told quite frankly that there were better things for him to do. His commander told him in no uncertain terms he was worn out and in dire need of rest, a big long rest. It hit me here, I was stranded in the hillcountry and; I knew darn well it was for a reason, a good one. I just did not like being stranded. I missed the excitement of Fry St being a Christian there was like wearing a big bull's eye. I walked to loop at Schreiner college in the slightly chilly yet moist air of that late September eve and I knew the winds of change were getting ready to gust into my life I just did not feel comfortable with it. The old wildman was soon to get a more advanced course in normal procedures. My quiet times had been at all time dullness levels and I knew I was getting nothing from them. Each time I was tempted to party hearty I remembered what had happened to my cousin who flunked out his 1st year of college and what I saw on Fry. My not so sain up bringing had hammered home one truth sin has high consequences. Christianity was the only way. The last 3 years of my life had been a sprint from sin and from its destruction not a run towards right. I was beginning to learn that there was a distinct difference between the two. I was slogging through Trinity Baptist and their services. Small town Southern Baptist just felt so starchy stuffed shirt slow and even boring. For the most part even with the customers at the café and Clint I was isolated. I was still numb. As I was watching that I finally felt something. I realized at that moment how much had been done to me. I realized I was shell-shocked and was put in a rear area for repair. I was as the Rolling Stones single said "Out of Tears" and many times I found myself singing Jackson Brown's line "Doctor my eyes can not see the sky is this prize for having learned how not cry." I felt strangely distant with other Christians. I had seen much more then all of them I had seen countless bad ideas and I was taken a back by their naiveté it was not harmful like what I had seen in high school but it was still there. I looked at many as total idiots I was too dark. There was to be nothing easy about the over haul I was slowly be stripped down emotionally and rebuilt. It was not going to be some 3 week LLYC miracle it was going to a time consuming process like an airliner coming into D-check or an engine going for a complete overhaul and winding up zero timed. I had to shut up and chill and have faith. There were no other alternatives. My journey was just beginning.

September faded and October began. Life had taken on a steady rhythm an obligatory friendly debate in the dorm about once a week. A week's worth of classes punctuated by two nights at the café and weekends north of Leakey. One night I will always remember.

There was a slight chill in the air out side yet the café was still warm I reckon it was about an hour till closing time and café was empty and Clint had put on the new Johnny Cash CD. A customer came in. A potbelly had began to grow on him and once jet black hair was being overrun by gray and his face had many a line deeply etched into it. This graying hair was closely cropped with a part in it tapered at the back way above the neck line and the sides of the head of hair were tight almost white walled. There was a mustache that I remembered from Civil Air Patrol days well within military regulations. He made more then a passing notice at the wall where I had put the tale of the final flight of the Desert Slug up. The desert slug was a symbol.  I had been introduced to her my sophomore year.  She had done her time in Vietnam as a D-model Huey and got sent back to the states and made to H-model she was assigned to a Army National Guard Unit that flew out of Navy Dallas.  She was sent to Desert Shield/Desert Storm where she became the Desert Slug.  It was made clear to me she was a special Huey.  In the end she became a symbol of the men whose career's she embodied.  She deserved to be recognized and so I recognized her at the cafe.  He walked right up to it and read the article in its entirety. He made notice of my offer to Vietnam Vets. He walked to the counter and placed his order. I prepared it with care. I was offering a salute to man who deserved it. It was on the house as I saw in passing Vietnam Helicopter Pilots Association card. Johnny Cash's baritone voice was filling the café belting out, "Drive on it don't mean nothing...." The man ate his meal in silence offering no conversation. He finished his meal and I went to bus what little mess he made. He asked me "You own this place?" I replied, "Yes sir I do." He looked at me and asked me another question, "Who gave you that article?" I responded, "My father sir he is with that unit." He asked one final question, "Your dad fly in Vietnam?" I replied, "He was there 67-68 flew Scouts and slicks." He looked me dead in the eye with warmth and left me with the comment, "Your father should be proud of you and thanks your gratitude is appreciated." He walked out of the café and I stood there dumbstruck full of questions wanting to know wanting to know my dad. I had hated my dad's actions that isolated me I wondered why he was the way was and I had a gut feeling the answer lied somewhere across the Pacific where many an American male of my father's generation lost what was left of their innocence.

The customers of the café consisted of local lawmen and an occasional rancher and trucker. Lionel and Michael came on occasion. As I got to know Lionel I grew in respect for him. He was old sod an old stick and rudder man a threatened if not endangered species in the aviation world. Flying is a blend of the analytical and emotional the eye receiving input the brain crunching number and the old hunches developed from respect for weather and the sea of air that pilots operate in. He did not fly an airplane he wore one like a suit of clothes. He was a firm believer in checklists and procedures but he also believed in common sense and plane handling. He talked about looping a Cessna 150 before I shook my head. Lionel told me was a regular Cessna 150 not a 150 aerobat. He took me up a couple of times literally wearing whatever he was flying keeping altitude within feet riding thermals to climb faster like a surfer catching a wave and riding it in all the way to the beach. He told me tales of pilots who flew 707s as they sped across the Atlantic on low bypass ratio turbo fans wearing the names Pan Am and other 707s zipping up and down the continent with Braniff International proudly painted on their bodies.