Flight

Once I get you up there, where the air is rarefied

We'll just glide, starry-eyed

Once I get you up there, I'll be holding you so near

You may hear all angels cheer because we're together

Weather wise, it's such a lovely day

Just say the words and we'll beat the birds down to Acapulco Bay

It's perfect for a flying honeymoon, they say

Come fly with me, let's fly, let's fly away

-Sammy Cahn / Jimmy Van Heusen, Come Fly With Me (as performed by Frank Sinatra)

Having a little trouble getting it in gear this morning after a restless night worrying about the practice of law.

This is the third day of my paralegal lying in a hospital bed, the second such episode in the last few weeks. If this proves serious, and it's sure looking that way, it'll have a rather dramatic effect on both of our lives. For me at least, it likely marks the end of my litigation practice. The only reason the current arrangement has worked these last few months is that Joanna and I developed a system for remote work during Covid, and we basically picked up where we left off when I fired the virtual paralegal service last March. Short of hiring someone and sitting in the office full-time, I don't see a way to train a replacement. And I'm not willing to do that, not now. Nor am I willing to join a firm as of-counsel so I can hand them half of my collections for the privilege of a desk and someone to do Joanna's job.

So I reckon this may be it. I'm too poor to retire, but the salad days of the last several years are likely over. You just never know when Fortuna's Wheel is going to spin that way, sort of like the bullet or missile that finds you after days of good luck on the battlefield.

Or in the air. It occurred to me at four a.m. that my last flight in the F-15 was thirty-one years ago yesterday, a 2 v. 2 against Hornets from Cecil Field. Cooch and I thought it would be fun to fly a Papas and Guns scenario, with no face kills and lots of swirling for position with the cannon or the old AIM-9P. A mistake, I guess, given that the F-18's leading edge slats give it low speed maneuverability we could never really match. So my very last day as an Eagle Driver ended in a solid "L" overall.

And so it goes.

This coming Friday, besides being the date of my last exam, also marks the thirty-fifth anniversary of my arrival at Dhahran AB, Saudi Arabia, for Desert Shield. So long ago I can't even touch it. The next day I flew my first mission patrolling the border with E.T. Williams, who went on like so many of them to become a general.

I'm crawling behind the controls in a few minutes to fly the Columbia over to Binghamton to see if Doug can fix the door seals that blew out somewhere over southern Pennsylvania last week, making for a cold, loud final hour of my flight back to Corning. I have to make that trip in the opposite direction on Sunday due to the new, arbitrary rule among our judges that substantive motions and hearings be held in person. Every trip a new opportunity to buy the farm in some south Georgia swamp if the propeller quits turning or the weather turns lethal, which it's wont to do this time of year. Another reason to get out of litigation, before Elohim takes me out of the game permanently.

At least the weather's shaping up to be favorable for aviating, if a little smoky from the Canadian wildfires.