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REMEMBERING 9/11 PATRIOT DAY

by slake, posted in Miscellany
Transco/Williams Tower in the Galleria with Greenway Plaza in the background.

We’re approaching the 21st anniversary of 9/11, that horrible day that no American will ever forget.

We suffered one terrible blow after another in quick succession. Massive airliners loaded with jet fuel and overwhelmed flyers deliberately crashed into gigantic buildings occupied by thousands more unsuspecting victims. Huge, seemingly indestructible buildings collapsed one by one until we all lost count. Giant explosions and hellish fires engulfed unsuspecting victims.

Brave first responders rushed headlong into danger to help others and were gone in an instant, transformed into colossal clouds of dust. More brave innocents deliberately sacrificed themselves to save their fellow Americans.

Thousands of loved ones suddenly found themselves widows, widowers, orphans and childless parents with little or no chance to say goodbye to precious loved ones. Even more thousands survived unspeakable events. It was unimaginable… an unbelievably traumatic day for so many.

One of the worst things I remember about that day and the days that followed was fear of the unknown… the uncertainty… what might be coming next. Dozens of rumors flew over the internet and TV. We didn’t know if or when the terror might visit the rest of us. Like many others, I recognized it could get much worse for me and mine very quickly.

I was home that week. I got up early and walked the Green Belt on a beautiful autumn morning, enjoying the cool, crisp air, planning to spend all day in my office working on client reports. When I headed home, my new neighbor across the street waved me over. I had not yet met her as I had been travelling full time. She rushed the introductions and told me that a jet airliner had crashed into the World Trade Center in New York and that many deaths were expected. The news was sobering. She had seen the video and was shaken. In my eagerness to see the video, I cut short conversation and hurried inside. I still feel badly about abandoning her like that.

I watched that godawful video of the first plane a couple of times and called my husband, Chocoholic. He was at work on one of the upper floors of the Transco Tower. I told him what little I knew and urged him to come home. I had flown over the Tower a number of times on approach to Houston Hobby. It was an easy target if terrorists had plans for Houston, 64 stories high, a lonely high-rise in the Galleria, one of the most visible buildings in Houston outside of the downtown business district. It even sported a searchlight beacon visible for forty miles after dark!

Chocoholic’s employer had no announced plans to let people go. I urged my husband to get out of that freaking building. I watched more video, anguished over more terroristic acts of mass murder and conflagration and surfed TV channels and the internet, collecting information on Houston businesses already sending employees home. When I had a list of heavy hitters, I called Chocoholic, urging him to relay the list to his immediate superior. It took another hour, but he finally called to say he was on his way home. Thank God!

Things finally quieted down at our house around twilight. They stayed pretty quiet the next day, but either that or the next evening, we had a scare. Around 9 p.m. we were watching TV, finally relaxing just a little from the stress. Suddenly, two jet fighters from the Texas Air National Guard at Ellington Field came screaming overhead. We were rattled as were the house and windows. I searched the internet for what might be going on but couldn’t find anything. Having read somewhere that it could take fighter jets as long as an hour to complete pre-flight checklists and inspections, I figured that even if it wasn’t authorized, a couple of hotshot pilots had decided they needed to practice speedy take-offs on their own. I couldn’t fault them for the noise and the adrenaline rush. It was comforting to know those brave young pilots were nearby to protect us.

Much later, I learned that on the morning of 9/11, 2 F-16’s were dispatched from Ellington to the Gulf of Mexico, some 50 miles offshore Louisiana, where they assumed escort duty for Air Force One and the President on their way to refuel at Barksdale Air Force Base outside Bossier City. I never found any explanation for the startling night-time emergency takeoff.

NOTE: Garrett M. Graff’s non-fiction book The Only Plane in the Sky, An Oral History of September 11, 2001, published in 2020, presents a vivid chronology of what happened to whom that day. It is well-researched including a great many heart-stopping interviews with 9/11 survivors. It’s not for the faint of heart nor for the tender-hearted or those suffering from depression. It is raw and brutal at times, but still a wonderful book. It is a very big book, in the 1,000 page range, and every page is fascinating.

SPECIAL MESSAGE

by slake, posted in Miscellany

As a new member of the Authors Guild, I have been asked to publish the following statement:

I stand against Open Library’s unauthorized copying and distribution of unauthorized works. 

If Open Library’s practices are deemed legal, any library, or even any website that calls itself a library, could scan old print books and distribute the scans as “ebooks.” Internet Archive has already offered its Open Library scans to libraries, so they won’t even need to create scans themselves. Readers will also be deterred from buying licensed ebooks if they can find free copies with a simple Google search online.

There’s no question that Open Library’s unauthorized scanning harms authors. It creates a substitute for licensed library ebooks and consumer ebooks from which authors earn royalties.

Open Library’s practices are not fair use under established law – and they’re not fair to authors because they rob authors of much-needed income.

Open Library does not “lend” ebooks. It is scanning (copying) and distributing ebooks of print books and infringing on the rights of authors. 

ANESTHESIA… PHILLY STYLE

by slake, posted in Miscellany

Even road warriors occasionally need medical help. One year I spent an entire autumn working in Philadelphia. I traveled to the city on Sunday afternoons and returned home on Thursday evenings. While I enjoyed the work, travel was a real grind.

A few years earlier, I had dragged a door over one of my big toenails (another story,) and ever since have had to keep it in close trim or suffer painful consequences. With so much long-distance travel and work, I neglected it, and by one Monday morning in Philly, I could no longer deny that I needed medical help. I asked my client to recommend a physician with whom I could make an appointment, but she insisted on sending a podiatry resident to see me.

He arrived in “my office” later that day, introduced himself and pulled a huge pair of toenail clippers out of his pocket. He asked me to extend my foot into his hand. I did so, but my toe was too tender, and I couldn’t stay still. He pocketed the clippers, stood up and said he’d be back in a bit. I expected him to return with a syringe full of local anesthetic… blessed pain relief.

Instead, he brought another podiatry resident, another really cute young man. The second fellow shook my hand, grinned mischievously and said, “Hi. I’m Anesthesia.” The two of them took care of my problem in short order. I was, and still am, extremely grateful and offered to pay them or contribute to the residents’ pizza fund, but they refused compensation and went back to work… two very charming young men, no doubt wildly successful in their practices these days.

COVID-19 AND TALES FROM THE KITCHEN

by slake, posted in Covid-19

Two weeks before the 2020 lockdown, I bought a stack of bake at home pizzas from Papa Murphy’s, halved and quartered them to satisfy different tastes, re-wrapped them and stored them in the freezer.

That night, we masked up and made a flying trip to Sam’s Club, jam-packing two carts with food, drink and supplies. Back home, we unloaded our goods, rolled up the sidewalk and locked the doors. With few exceptions, we stayed there until March 1, 2022, two years later.

I spent a lot of time shopping online for food and preparing meals. We did not eat out, order in or pick up curbside. We did not purchase convenience items as packaging wasted precious freezer space. Breakfast and lunch were on your own, but I cooked dinner virtually every night. Chocoholic cleaned up. My cook once – eat twice mantra, quickly expanded to eat thrice or more. It saved on handwashing.

Food is a big deal in our household. Before the lockdown, I joked with friends that if we ever had to shelter in place, we would shortly run out of food, and one of us would probably eat the others.

We stocked up on flour, yeast, baking powder, baking soda and sugar. I guess I thought I would be baking a batch of cookies and a loaf of bread every week, but that didn’t happen. I made one batch of cookies… healthy ones, not chocolate chip. They went largely uneaten.

I made whole wheat bread once a month, but that took too much time, even with a bread maker, and I packed on 10 pandemic pounds. I routinely made pizza. We parceled out the Papa Murphy’s pizza for when we were desperate for a real treat and quick cleanup.

I began making healthy blueberry muffins using 100% whole wheat pastry flour, olive oil and little sugar for Chocoholic. They sound terrible but are really quite good.

Everyone was baking, even Flash’s husband (Flash is my good friend, workout buddy and literary mentor.) Lynn, my sister, gave me telephone tutorials on the care and storage of baking supplies. She began canning in earnest. I dragged out long dormant canning supplies and left them sitting on a table. Fifteen months later, I put everything back in the cupboard, unused, after disposing of my long unused pressure canner. Lynn wisely warned me it was unsafe to use after being dormant for so long.

I tried to anticipate what might turn into big problems and how to avoid or resolve them. I feared appliance breakdown, in particular the dishwasher, clogged drains and dental emergency such as a chipped tooth. We did not want a repairman or plumber in the house, nor did I want to go to the dentist’s office and sit there for an hour unmasked with my mouth propped wide open.

We treated drains to prevent clogs.

I ate popcorn very slowly, one kernel at a time.

I babied the failing dishwasher along, using descaling aides to keep it running, but in spite of tender loving care, it gave up the ghost. After weeks of internet search and consideration, we installed a new one.

Unfortunately, I failed to take such good care of the automatic bread maker and the electric mixer. Lockdown proved too much for them. Unknown to the rest of us, they signed a secret suicide pact and hurled themselves off the kitchen counter, crashing to the tile floor. The bread maker was a total loss. The mixer recovered after minor repairs. I bought a new bread maker from Amazon. It worked okay but suffered separation anxiety upon leaving the mother ship, screaming constantly when used. Lynn explained that flours are inconsistent. Cook has to figure out if the recipe needs more or less liquid, oil and yeast to make it work properly. Who knew?

I finally shut the little beastie up with recipes that bear little resemblance to those that came with the machine and watching it carefully, since what works when humidity is 40% doesn’t necessarily work when it’s raining.

Meanwhile, my stores of TLC are sadly depleted. I keep looking, but Amazon is sold out.

UPDATE 7/3/22: My community is once again located in a HIGH Covid-19 Transmission Zone. And experts estimate that there are significant numbers of positive cases that go unreported due to home testing and the decreased need for hospitalization. Unlike many others, we will once again live like hermits, social distancing to the degree possible. While vast improvements have been realized in disease severity and death rates, Long Covid which affects about 20% or more of those who have suffered the disease and Paxlovid Bounce pose real threats that we choose not to risk. This is getting very old, and there is no end currently in sight. I urge everyone to stay safe.

MY COOLEST MOVE

by slake, posted in Miscellany

Twelve years ago, Chocoholic and I took a river cruise in China. We traveled on the Yangtze River and to various destinations by Chinese air carrier, covering a lot of fascinating territory in the huge sprawling country. It was a wonderful trip. Our last stop was Beijing. The weather was clear but very cold. Chocoholic wore his warmest coat, an old one with sheepskin lining. At the end of the trip, we took a bus to the airport, a vast modern complex of many enticing vendors but seemingly few people. We waited in a short line to go through security. Chocoholic went before me. It’s always a big deal with him as he has to empty his pockets, untie his shoes and remove his belt. I took his coat, helping him to move a little faster.

There was a faint click against the floor. I glanced down and saw, to my horror, a 0.22 caliber bullet called a short. It had fallen out of his pocket. I immediately knew that we were in trouble if an official saw it, but no one was looking at it or at me. I calmly put my foot on top of it, checked again to confirm no one was looking, used the act of folding the big coat to obscure any overhead video camera and gently rolled the bullet under the x-ray machine, moving as little and as naturally as possible. After putting the coat on the conveyor belt, we cleared security in short order.

I didn’t tell Chocoholic about the bullet until we were back in the US. I had visions of his face looking much like Brad Pitt’s ruined face in the 2001 movie SPY GAME starring Robert Redford. Mr. Pitt’s character suffers a terrible beating in a Chinese prison. The movie has long been one of my favorites. Redford’s character is a clever American spy nearing retirement, underestimated by his younger arrogant superiors who are clueless about tradecraft. It was directed by Tony Scott and distributed by Beacon Pictures and Universal Pictures.

Why the bullet in the pocket? When Chocoholic walks at the lake, he carries a little derringer that he inherited from his father. He relies on it mostly as a noisemaker. I assume the bullet had been there for years, trapped in a crevice or fold of the lining. On the China trip, we cleared airport security at least five times before the bullet finally made its untimely appearance.

COVID-19 AND CHARMED LIVES

by slake, posted in Covid-19

As difficult as the pandemic lockdown was for us, I counted our blessings every day.

We signed up for the Covid-19 vaccine when it became available. Unlike friends and neighbors, I didn’t take the time to hunt down and make vaccine appointments in nearby towns. I spent too much time filling out online forms that collected way too much private information. We waited in long lines and even had to return the next day when vaccine supplies ran out. It was frustrating but worth it in the end.

Securing the second dose was easier. We waited another restless thirty days. When scientific research assured us we enjoyed 95% immunity, we celebrated with our first curbside pickup of prepared food. YUMMM!

The lockdown could have been so very much worse for us in so many different ways.

We did not get sick with Covid-19.

We enjoyed a steady income.

Adequate infection control supplies were available.

Family members weren’t forced by necessity to go to workplaces rife with viral outbreaks.

We didn’t struggle to hang onto a rapidly-failing business we had spent our lives building up from nothing or run through life savings in a matter of weeks or months.

Unlike many, we weren’t trapped at home without any company at all.

No elderly relatives were stuck 3,000 miles away without an adequate support system.

We had no small children to teach, amuse, discipline or care for day in and day out; no classroom to set up and equip; no complex curricula to develop and textbooks to secure and read. We had no lesson plans to make. There was no need to comfort young children when they were dying to go outside and play with their little friends and couldn’t understand why Mommy or Daddy or Granny or Grandpa was being so cruel and unfair.

And we didn’t have to agonize over what might happen to our babies or who would take care of them if we got sick and died.

Sure, like everyone else, we suffered from cabin fever, but for the most part, we enjoyed or at least tolerated each other’s company and support. Worthwhile work and entertainment were available via various electronic devices and reliable internet service. Personal privacy was available when needed.

Groceries and supplies were delivered. We rode the recumbent bike from Central Texas to Juneau, Alaska and back. Wildlife amused us. (The big squirrel that jumps out of bed and lands heavily on our rooftop every morning, rattling the house, has not yet shed his pandemic ten pounds!) We had nearby hike and bike trails when we needed to be separate or to walk in the woods.

We have an old family lake cabin in Central Texas, another escape when we need a change of pace. It holds lots of precious memories and is quiet, woodsy, teeming with wildlife and great views of the lake. Nature regularly delights us with unexpected wonders. Writing comes easier there. Productivity soars. We can fish, swim, walk in the woods or sit on the porch and contemplate the serenity of the lake. It’s my favorite place in the whole world.

I continued editing manuscripts for The Pig Parts Series.

I routinely said little prayers for others not so fortunate, especially single mothers and fathers worn down with childcare, unfamiliar educational responsibilities, lack of income and family resources, eviction, homelessness, loneliness and ill health. We stepped up charitable contributions and tips for services, hoping to help, knowing it was way too little.

Of course we suffered stresses and strains, but dreadful statistics show that for too many tragic souls, they proved to be unbearable.

HUNTING PREDATORS IN TEXAS

by slake, posted in Miscellany

I grew up in a small town in a state full of hunters, but no one in my family hunted. Chocoholic grew up in the big city hunting duck, geese. squirrel and birds with his father. Go figure. His family ate what they killed. Shortly after we married, Chocoholic went hunting with a friend and brought home a dead squirrel. I cooked it with the shotgun pellets still in it. We had to throw it away. Who knew?

With the exception of a single goose hunt near Katy, Texas with co-workers, he never went hunting again. Worked for me!

I have been present at only one hunt. When I was a junior in high school, my boyfriend took me to a fox hunt late one Friday night after a football game. I didn’t know what to expect, but I trusted the young man. He was a good guy.

He drove out of town onto a Farm to Market Road and turned off onto two winding white sand ruts leading into dense post oak woods. The only light came from headlights raking the trail and trees. After about a mile, we came to the campsite. There were at least a dozen men there. Most were young with perhaps three older men. I recognized a couple of recent high school graduates, one of whom was my boyfriend’s best friend. I think there was only one other female present, the wife of one of the men. It appeared to me that she was there to hunt, as she was getting her gear ready. Most of the men were warming themselves around a big campfire. Some had already begun drinking. One was obviously feeling no pain. My date turned down a proffered bottle of bourbon but promised to return after he took me home. They planned to make a night of it. Hard liquor and guns sounded like a dangerous combination to me, but I held my tongue.

Hunting dogs were excited and loud, eager to get going. I don’t remember horses being present. We left after a few minutes as I had curfew.

Years later Chocoholic, our Black Lab Jack and I spent a weekend at the lake cabin, located a few miles from the fox hunt campsite. We arrived midmorning on a bright sunshiny Saturday. While we were unloading, a neighbor drove over and warned us that a big cat had been on the property for a couple of days. He didn’t say so, but we assumed livestock had been killed. Jack and I gave up plans for a hike and stayed close to the cabin. He loved our walks in the woods but put up no resistance, and I assumed his nose had already made him aware of the predator. My mother, sister and her husband and other family joined us later that afternoon.

About an hour before sunset, a caravan of pickup trucks carrying horses and dogs rattled across the dam and gunned their engines up the deep sandy road behind our cabin and on into the deep post oak woods. All of the pickups carried at least one passenger, and all sported long guns secured in racks behind bench seats. Most of the men wore snap shirts and western cowboy straw hats or gimme caps. We watched the parade go by with big eyes, assuming they had come to kill the predator. It was oddly exciting.

We returned to the porch after dark to enjoy the night sounds on the lake. The hunting dogs occasionally bayed and barked excitedly in the distance. Once we heard a short scream, I assume from the big cat. As soon as the sun came up the next morning, the hunters returned the way they had come. We assumed they had killed the cat.

Perhaps eight years ago, I was walking up the road on an overcast morning and turned to look back at the lake. Maybe thirty yards behind me, I saw a strange cat calmly cross the road, a short trip of thirty yards from wooded section to wooded section. The cat was bigger than a house cat but not as big as a bobcat (which I have also seen on the property.) Its tail was long with maybe a bit of curl at the end. It was a dark mottled nondescript brownish grey and had small widely spaced somewhat rounded ears. The word “jaguarundi” popped into my head, and when I finished my walk, I googled it and concluded that the animal was indeed a jaguarundi, a rarity this far north.

Perhaps three years ago, I heard that one of my neighbors reported seeing a black panther from across the lake. Black panthers look a great deal like jaguarundis but weigh at least three times as much. Of course, I think she saw a jaguarundi, and if she knew about my sighting, she would probably think that I saw a panther. I’m not afraid of a jaguarundi, but I am afraid of a panther. I have learned to be more careful on my walks.

CHASING FALSE GLORIES

by slake, posted in Ukraine War

Unprovoked invasion of the Ukraine democracy by Russia continues to grind on. Death and destruction rain down on Ukrainians every day. It is difficult to watch on TV. It’s hard to believe that any one person has the power to cause so much misery to so many innocents, the aged and infirm, women and little children and the brave men both young and old. I can’t understand why any ruler would deliberately choose to do so. And daily, this man overtly threatens each and every citizen of the world, including his countrymen, with his nuclear arsenal. Meanwhile, the majority of Russian citizens deny the horror. They get to see little of the truth. State media propaganda deliberately dupes its citizenry. While this man holds power, it’s apparently safer (at least in the short term,) for the populace to go along.

I have never been to Ukraine. I have visited Russia twice, the first time while it was still part of the Soviet Union, travelling with a small tour group sponsored by a U.S. education association. We toured St. Petersburg and flew to Moscow where we spent a few days and boarded the Great Siberian (aka the “Siberian Express”) for the train trip across most of the Soviet Union.

Moscow was grim, the weather cold, overcast and often rainy in early September. Outdoor lighting was poor. What few ugly automobiles we saw sported very dim headlights. Muscovites were visibly subdued… cowed. It was obvious that we were Americans. Russians watched us, but only when other Russians could not see that they did. I assume they were curious about fashion, attitudes and demeanor. We were advised before the trip to tone down wardrobes, to dress plainly, but still the contrast was marked. We wore bright colors while all but a very few Russians dressed in dark colors. If nothing else, our dental work and shoes proclaimed us as American. Some Russians sported steel teeth. Most wore dreadful shoes.

Commuters packed municipal buses. Those located near grimy, mud-spattered windows stared at us, but not in any malevolent sense. They were curious, and if an official happened to see them watching us, the transport was usually gone before the offender could be pulled aside and disciplined.

We made stops along the way: Novosibirsk, Irkutsk, Lake Baikal, Khabarovsk, stopping short of Vladivostok, a closed military city. The further away we travelled from Moscow, the center of government, the more relaxed the populace appeared. A few bold citizens even dared ask us about America. Black market traders routinely infiltrated our group and urged us to trade dollars for rubles. They wanted to bargain. “I give you two for one.” We reminded them that it was illegal for us to trade dollars for rubles, but they persisted. “I give you three for one.” They wanted to buy our clothing, especially jeans that they could resell at a profit. I gave ballpoint pens and makeup items as tips: eye shadow, lipstick, nail polish, etc. My roommate had previously visited the Soviet Union and generously gave articles of clothing as tips after wearing them. Recipients were exceedingly grateful. If the item didn’t work for them, they could sell it.

We traveled “first class” on the train along with military officers and a few other Russians. Most natives travelled in a lesser class, “steerage” as we unkindly referred to it. Before I left home, I had set rules of behavior for myself, wanting to make it safely out of the country at tour’s end. My single defiant act against Communism was to take colorful American magazines with me and leave them on the train where Russians could snag them and read them: TIME MAGAZINE and BON APPETIT and BETTER HOMES AND GARDENS.

We were fed well: dark hearty bread, kasha, pierogi, fried steak, squid and octopus salad, beet and cabbage borscht, caviar and vanilla ice cream. However, what little food shopping we saw was bleak. At the massive department store GUM, the only food for sale seemed to be canned fish and dried pasta. Tiny street corner kiosks offered cabbages and small green apples. We toured one open air market somewhere deep in Siberia that offered a variety of foods. Vodka was always available on the train or at the hotels. The beriozkas (state run retail stores) sold flavored vodkas, Russian Champagne, chocolates and tinned Iranian caviar. We referred to them as “dollar stores” since their purpose was to secure desired American dollars… hard currency to be used in trade with foreign countries. Most Russians were not allowed to shop at beriozkas, only foreigners and high-ranking party members with access to dollars.

On the whole, the Soviet populace lived spartan lives… existing on adequate calories, but their diets were nutritionally inadequate and uninspired unless they raised their own produce or livestock.

Chocoholic and I visited St. Petersburg on a cruise a few years ago. I found it markedly changed, at least superficially. Western businesses had finally been allowed to set up shop. Storefronts sported familiar names and logos, but there were still glaring remnants of the old Soviet Union, work habits in particular. In many instances work still moved slowly, if at all, but the port moved much as a western port… all business, the forklifts in constant motion.

Judging by recent TV news from Russia, things appeared to have changed even more drastically. Luxury and high-end cars sported bright headlights. Cities were well-lighted, and shops were teeming with quality goods. The populace was fashionable and colorful. Life appeared to be vibrant.

It makes no sense to  me why anyone would want to return to the so-called “glory” of the grim old Soviet Union, risking isolation and ruination of his country so as to take over a small but fierce democracy that thus far refuses to be overtaken.

DRASTIC MEASURES

by slake, posted in Covid-19

At my urging, my family took the Covid-19 pandemic seriously from the get-go. I have long had an interest in public health, and the fact that this was a novel virus, one never seen before, called for drastic measures.

We took handwashing seriously, so much so that it didn’t take long before my poor hands were cracked and scaly. I started using disposable rubber gloves, but not wanting to waste them, washed my hands while wearing them, dried and reused them, marshalling my patience and taking seemingly forever to coax ornery little fingertips out where they belonged.

I found an olive oil soap on Amazon that came in giant green bars from Greece and a line of gentle hand and body wash products from a vendor in Austin. They worked well.

We canceled most appointments. Each time we left a store or office, we decontaminated in the parking lot before getting into the car, changing shoes and cleaning our things and selves with bleach wipes and hand sanitizer: bags, keys, door handles, steering wheels, gear shifts and armrests.

We drove home with windows open to blow the germs away. We shed outer layers of clothing in the garage, leaving them there along with shoes, hats and masks for three days, allowing viruses time to die. Masks were stored in paper bags. Showers were taken, mouthwash was gargled and hair was washed.

I cancelled a February 2020 cruise to Hawaii and learned I had not purchased travel insurance as intended. Instead I had purchased trip cancellation insurance, so we got almost all our money back. Those funds promptly got passed along to Amazon for Mr. Bezos’ outer space travel. Don’t get me wrong, I was and still am grateful for Amazon.

We stayed home virtually all the time, decreasing risk.

As of March, 2022, Covid-19 has now worked its way through Delta and Omicron variants. Most Americans are vaccinated and many are boosted. Case numbers are dropping rapidly, but deaths are still tragically high. The CDC Community Covid-19 Level for my county has finally slipped into the GREEN/LOW category. We are finally relaxing some infection control measures and social distancing at our house. Chocoholic and I even committed to a social engagement – Book Club of course. Finally.

BRIDGE COLLAPSE IN PITTSBURGH

by slake, posted in Bridges

This morning I woke up to the news that the Fern Hollow Bridge in Pittsburgh collapsed. So far there are only minor injuries.

The news brought back fond memories. For a number of years, I regularly travelled to Pittsburgh, joining other company reps to update local clients on consulting projects. That meant covering lots of miles over a three or four-day period, meeting with executives at client sites.

It is impossible to drive around the city without crossing a bridge… usually an old picturesque one. Pittsburgh claims to have 446 bridges, more than anyplace else in the world. I believe it. They add charm and beauty to the city already graced by ancient hills, deep dark woods and an enviable location at the confluence of three major rivers sporting non-stop river traffic. I loved it along with working with the people of Pittsburgh, both clients and consultants. Their professionalism, natural hospitality and humor were delightful.

We were usually “chauffeured” around by the local manager. We all got along very well and looked forward to seeing each other. Trips around the city were fun, even raucous at times. When we approached a bridge, the executive from Michigan, would warn the driver to, “Hurry up! Speed up in the case the old bridge collapses!” We all laughed at her antics. Some agreed it was probably a good idea, but we all got a kick out of it.

It’s possible we crossed the bridge that collapsed. Dunno. We routinely drove through that scenic area of town, passing by Kennywood and through Squirrel Hill at least once or twice a quarter.

No doubt my Michigan colleague is feeling quite smug this morning.