Air Travel Ain't What It Used To Be

Air travel just isn't what it used to be. Boarding a 757 in Houston, I found an older Asian guy in my seat who insisted I should take his seat in 8E (a window seat) so that he could sit next to his wife. It wouldn't have been that big of a deal but the night before, when I checked in, I specifically worked on getting an aisle seat to accommodate my ever increasing frame and would be able to occasionally stretch my leg into the aisle. Aggravated that he wouldn't get up but kept pointing to his seat and giving me a sheepish grin saying, "You take my seat, okay?" I looked around at other passengers who appeared to sympathize with him. Let's face it, there was no way I was going to win a public relations battle over it so I made my way to his seat where I sat squeezed between the window and a very large Amazonian female for the next 2½ hours. I felt like a pressed ham.

I can remember when flying was a big deal. The first time for me, included getting all dressed up in a suit, buying a cigar and having my picture made at the airport. Boarding a Delta Douglas DC 3 tail dragger at Selman Field in Monroe, Louisiana for a very long ride eventually arriving in Hartford Connecticut, I was ever eager give the appearance of an experienced traveler. That was in 1967.

As the twin engine plane belched fire, let out a puff of smoke and became airborne, you could see the wings bending under pressure as it rose to a cruising altitude. Sitting in the rear, with no one beside me, I lit a cigarette when the seatbelt and no smoking signs went off. By the time we were in the seven to eight thousand feet range, my cigarette had developed quite a long ash. Looking around for an ashtray, I found what looked like on on the side of the plane. Holding the cigarette with my right hand, I attempted to pull on the ashtray with my left but found it somewhat stubborn in it's release. Getting a firmer grip, I gave it a mighty tug a the same moment I swallowed.

Never having been at that altitude, I didn't realize that your hearing was slightly impaired and I would have to swallow to clear my ears. So at that very precise moment that I did so and pulled on the ashtray, all the noise from those twin engines must have tripled in my head. Just in that brief nanosecond, the synapses in my brain began to compile all kinds of tragedies and I briefly imagined I had pulled a hole in the side of the plane and could see myself being sucked through it.

Those were truly the golden days of air travel.

Memorial Day

Memorial Day 2010, Gonzales, LA

Lafayette Car Show

My riding podnuh called me just as I had gotten in from Dearborn Friday night asking what I thought about a ride over to Scott, LA (Lafayette) to an auto show held in the parking lot of Cajun Harley Davidson. "But of course!", was my response. "Where do you want to meet?" was the next question. We mutually agreed on a place so at 9:00, Saturday morning we met for our ride over to the car show.

Before I left this morning, I found my front tire was nearly flat, so I aired it up and when we got to the Harley shop in Scott, I talked to the service people and they convinced me it would better to have a new tube installed. So, for 3 hours we wandered around a somewhat small car show with temperatures at 92° in the shade and can only imagine what it was out on the concrete.

This wasn't necessarily a restored car show for many were fiberglass replicas of custom cars. There was the abundance of 60s Chevys and Fords with a few Rat Rods thrown in for good measure. There was even a motorcycle drawn hearse, compliments of Pellerin Funeral Home.

While we waited on the tire, we sauntered next door to Fezzo's, a local restaurant for lunch. I'm telling you, their version of a loaded baked potato was outstanding. It consisted of a large pomme de terre laden with crawfish etouffe on top. Tres bon! Slap yo mama!

After the tube was finally installed on Boudreaux, we headed south out of Lafayette, cruising through Abbeville, Delcambre and New Iberia. Approaching Breaux Bridge, the bottom decided to fall out of the sky and we found ourselves seeking shelter under the cover of an abandoned service station. I'm not opposed to riding in a little rain but when it's lightening, blowing rain and hail, it's time to draw the line. Besides, riding in that kind of weather brought back haunting images of the Harley drawn hearse back at the car show.

After holding up there for an hour or so, we decided to take our chances getting home. We hadn't traveled 10 miles before the skies opened up again and we found ourselves parked at local grocery store on Hwy 31, just north of Breaux Bridge. At this point, we figured putting on rain suits might not be a bad idea.

Anyway, with a few items of clothing on the damp side we eventually made to Highway 190 where everything had dried out. Even though spots were a bit disagreeable, we both counted it as a great Saturday ride with 300+ miles on our bikes.

Hoedown Detroit

hoe·down :
-noun

1.

a community dancing party typically featuring folk and square dances accompanied by lively hillbilly tunes played on the fiddle.

2.

the hillbilly or country music typical of a hoedown.

A local radio station put's on a "hoedown" every May here in Detroit. Now, a "hoedown" isn't necessarily the same in all places but the folks in the frozen tundra look for any excuse to get out when the weather warms and the sun shines.

Detroit's hoedown is held downtown on the St Claire River right beside the tunnel that scoots daily travelers under the river to Windsor, Ontario. It's a free event with several country bands on various stages.

Participants dig through the bottom of closets and under beds to pull out old hats and boots to look somewhat southern, country or western. I'm telling you, Nashville denizens would lay on the ground and have a big ole belly laugh at some of the costumes that appeared. But bless their hearts, they really try and enjoy the heck out of themselves.

The music is constant and loud, the vendors sell cheap western hats and T-shirts and the food is plentiful and palatable.

Not bad for a Sunday afternoon in a city.

The Henry Ford Museum and Greenfield Village

Years ago, Henry and Clara Ford set up the Henry Ford Museum and Greenfield Village. Although they initially funded it, they left no provisions for the upkeep of it. At one point, a few years ago, the area fell into disrepair so badly it appeared it would have to be demolished. So, a foundation of volunteers and benefactors raised funds and have restored it to a magnificent reflection of not only Ford's history but 19th and 20th century America itself.

Greenfield Village provides a walking history tour of everything from railroads, aviation and automobiles to glass blowers, printing presses and farming. One impressive demonstration was the vintage Jacquard loom that was capable of weaving any image directly into the fabric. What's so impressive about that? Well, it was a programmable loom, invented in 1801 that took it's cues from cards with holes in them. In other words, it was the first punch card system which ultimately, led to IBM developing the first computer. Bill Gates, Michael Dell and Steve Jobs wouldn't be who they are today were it not for Joseph Marie Jacquard.

The Henry Ford Museum is not necessarily a pat on it's back to the Ford Motor Company. Sure it has a slew of old cars but also tells the story of American ingenuity in steam engines, electricity, farming, aeronautics and culture.

By the end of the day, my feet felt flatter than the streets I walked on for most of the day so I hobbled off to the car and checked into the Marriott Courtyard.