Month: February 2014

Plunking for Love

In high school I was honored with the opportunity to go to one of the Young Life summer youth camps.

The camp that the High School students of Aspen went to in 1978 was in Victoria, Canada. It was called “Malibu” and was named after the family that donated their family retreat to Young Life. The donors were the heirs to the Hamilton-Beach Corporation, a Malibu Beach, California based family.

What is “Plunking” you ask?

As the camp counselors described it, “plunk” is the sound you hear when a rock is tossed into a body of water, like a Fjord, lake or even an ocean. Malibu Camp was on the Princess Louisa Fjord in BC Canada.

The first rule of “Plunking” is that you have someone in your life that you want to kiss. Not the kiss goodnight or “Hi Gramma” kiss on the cheek type of kiss. Nope we are talking about that special person you want to have fall in love with you. Once you are in love, plunking is no longer needed.

You need to have the correct gear and mind set to Plunk. You will need Three pebbles, three is key. You need to be at waters edge, or preferably on a pier, Jetty or dock. You will need to bring the person you want to kiss. If this person has no desire to be your love interest you may want to rethink this.

Once you have done all your preparations and you have arrived at waters edge, explain to your companion that the way it works is that you will toss the first pebble and the two of you are to kiss until you hear the “plunk” as the pebble hits the water. Be sure to barely toss the fist pebble, leaving very little time to have your first kiss. Explain to them that you did a bad job on your first try and that you should toss another pebble.

This time. Give it a good toss, giving you a couple of “kissing seconds” until it hits the water. After doing so, is your companion showing a willingness to continue the activity? If so, now comes the good part.

Show them the third pebble. Now pretend to give it a really good toss but make sure it never actually leaves your hand.

I Didn’t Ask You Not To Let My Multi-Million Dollar Plane Get Destroyed

Summer 1976

The Mitsubishi MU-2B touched down at Sardy Field Mid-morning one summer day in 1976. Although the aircraft could carry six passengers and two pilots, on this day the only person on board was the Owner and Pilot of the aircraft. I guided him to the south ramp for parking and tie-down. After the MU-2 came to a stop in front of me, the pilot exited the aircraft and jumped into the rental car that had just arrived next to the aircraft, almost like it came out of thin air. Within seconds, it was just me and another ramp worker tieing down the aircraft, the owner was long gone. With chains attached to each wing and chocks under the rear tires, the aircraft was ready for an indefinite stay.

The next morning, while inspecting all the aircraft on both the north and south ramps, I noticed the MU-2 was leaning a bit to the “left” with its left wing sitting a bit lower than the right. I did not give it much thought at the time and carried on with the rest of my ramp inspection.

For the next few mornings during our rounds we noticed that the “leaning” to the left was getting more and more dramatic. The MU-2s carried their “fuel” in their wings and in “tip tanks” on the ends of each wing. During operation, the pilots can select which tank to draw fuel from in order to keep the aircraft balanced during flight. These controls managed fuel and could even allow the fuel to flow freely from tank to tank, this is known as “cross-feed.” On the ground the “cross-feed” selector should be set to closed, keeping the fuel in each respective tank. We were beginning to realize that the cross-feed setting may have been left open and gravity was slowly moving all the fuel to the left wing tip tank. This was not a good thing. We also had no way of reaching the owner to warn him of the impending disaster.

Within five days the left tip tank was inches from the ground and more serious damage could result if and when the tank made contact with the pavement. The local Airframe and Powerplant mechanic was consulted and what he had to say was not promising. Greg Murnane, was his name and he stated that we needed to do something and quick or the aircraft could sustain serious damages beyond a little scratched paint. Our first attempt was to put some old tires under the left wing to prevent any potential further damage. The problem was, with all five of us lifting on the wing we could not budge it, the fuel weighed too much. Greg’s next piece of advice was to put fuel in the right wing and as the left wing rose up, put the tires, as many as we could scrounge up, under the left wing so that it could no longer lean as dramatically.

Success!

The Aircraft sat on the ramp for another couple of days, left wing supported by the tires at an almost level position. We felt we had averted disaster for the aircraft and its “thankful” owner. We were wrong! When the owner drove up to his aircraft, as the story goes, he was livid! His next stop was back at the office and the yelling ensued. We could hear him outside on the ramp next to the FBO (Fixed Base Operator) office. First he tried to blame the ramp crew for going into the aircraft and changing the fuel selector settings. That was disputed by the fact that he had left the aircraft locked when he departed a week earlier. Next he stated that he had not asked us to protect his aircraft and because of that he was not only not going to pay for the fuel we had added to balance the aircraft, he was also not going to pay the landing and parking fees he had racked up during his visit. The management team had a few options on how to deal with the irate owner ranging from calling the sheriff to just letting him depart. With a few hundred dollars in fuel alone, the easy way out of just letting him leave was not an option they chose to make. They pulled an unexpected trick out of their sleeves. They informed the owner that he could either pay his bill or the local Mechanic could ground the aircraft pending a safety inspection which could take weeks.

Twenty minutes later the aircraft departed Aspen’s Sardy Field a few hundred dollars lighter in the pilots pocket.

Footnote:
Sadly, Greg Murnane was killed when the Cessna he was piloting crashed into Shale Bluffs, northwest of the airport on December 30, 1982. He was credited with saving the lives of all the passengers on board but was unable to exit the aircraft before being consumed by fire.

Fluoride, Red Pills & a Little “Yack”!

“National Brush in Day”

 I am not sure what the person was thinking that came up with “Brush In Day” but clearly social services should have been involved at some point.  This form of child abuse has long ended but back in the 1960’s and 70’s it seemed to a sanctioned event by our parents, or maybe they just were not paying attention.

There has been some debate where it took place.  Some say it was in the front lawn of the Red Brick School, Aspen Middle School at the time.  Others say it took place in the playground of the Yellow Brick School, the Aspen Elementary School at the time.  I believe both camps may be right based on which year the crime took place.  I for one remember most vividly, having all of us paraded from the school to Peapcke Park one block away.  At the time, before we picked up our house and moved it, we lived across the street from the park.

The crime went like this… all of the students were lined up in the park, or whatever venue it took place that year.  Each student was given a small “dab” of fluoride paste, a Dixie cup of water and a small red chewable pill.  We also got a small, toothbrush to aid in committing this travesty.  Very exacting instructions were given to us, dip the toothbrush in the water and then rub it the pile of fluoride.  At that point the punishment commenced when we were told to thoroughly brush our teeth.  Once the gagging and brushing stopped, we were allowed to spit out the paste.  Many followed that act with a retching sound; some even fertilized the grass at that point.  I was glad that I was yet to eat my lunch.  My mom’s standard affair of white bread lathered in Miracle Whip and processed American cheese.  Had I already had lunch, that sandwich would have come up faster than greased lightning.  But I digress.

For those of us not busy “selling Buicks” our next task was to chew up that little red pill.  After what we had already been forced to put in our mouths, the pill was a non-event.  What it revealed was another story.  That damn pill showed the teachers and dentists in attendance just how poorly we had brushed our teeth on the first go-around.

Rinse and repeat!  More nasty fluoride and brushing ensued.  More throwing up, gagging and even more groaning became the order of the day.

When the carnage was over the park was a white as snow, even some yellow snow if you catch my drift.  Let’s not forget, this was in the 1960’s and there was another side effect to this whole ordeal.  Peapcke Park was a “safe haven” for the hippies and druggies of the day.  After watching a bunch of brushing, gagging and yacking children, many of the hippies disappeared into the hills and did not come back for over a week.

My memory is strong but even it has some gaps but as for this annual event, I recall about four “Brush In” Days.  I can only hope there was a law passed putting this to an end once and for all.

A “Breckenfridge” Adventure

“One of Many”

As a member of the Aspen Ski Club in the late 1960’s and 1970’s I participated in Ski Races all over Colorado.  My team members and I traveled to the most remote ski areas in the state.  Places like Crested Butte, Telluride, Monarch Mountain, Steamboat and even Purgatory.  Our adventures included races in Vail, Breckenridge and Loveland.  Some venues were more inviting than others but each one created a lasting memory of its own.

It seemed like every race ever scheduled in Breckenridge coincided with the coldest day of the year.  We would wake up in our inns and motels at 4:30 in the morning to get our skis ready for the day.  Wax had to be matched to the temperatures predicted for that particular day.  Silver wax, best in the coldest temperatures, was always the order of the day when skiing in Breckenridge.  Coffee was served even to the youngest of kids if they wanted it.  By 7:00 a.m. we would all collect at the base of the ski area where we would get our “bibs” and find out what order we would be making our first run.  By now the cold had already reached the deepest recesses of our bones and our day was only getting started.

I do not know about today but back then we were not allowed to wear our jackets or parkas during our race.  By the grace of a concerned parent, our jackets would be shuttled down to the finish area.  It seemed like forever from the time we took off our jackets until we were reunited with them at the bottom.  I can only assume it made us race faster just to be reunited with our jackets.

40 years later while on a family vacation in Breckenridge my childhood memories came rushing back.  They were holding a race on the very same run where we had run our races so many years ago.  The kids are so small and yet so fast.  I forgot how young we were back then.

I went to the bottom of the racecourse to look at the results, deep down I think I was looking for my name among them but it was not there.

My First Mentor – Michael Strang

To say that I was just like all my friends and siblings as a child would be a stretch.  That said, none of us are alike and our interests are as diverse as each snowflake that falls from the sky.  At the age of 15 I became very interested in the stock market but had little knowledge or where to get it.  Besides, I was too young to be an investor.  I wanted to be a stock investor and had dreams of being a Wall Street “big wig.”  At the same time I was a very active kid, playing Hockey and ski racing, riding motor bikes and snowmobiles but my Wall Street dreams were never far off.

In the spring of 1975 my grandmother took me to meet a man who ran the local office of Bosworth & Sullivan, a brokerage firm with an office in Aspen.  They were located in the office building at Main Street and Hunter Ave. next to the new Playhouse Movie Theater.  Fresh off of a stint as a member of the Colorado House of Representatives, Michael came back to Aspen where he and his wife “Kitt” were raising a family.  Michael, with a little help from my grandmother, took me under his wing and started the process of teaching me about the stock market. I spent many afternoons during the summer hanging out in his office, watching the “ticker” symbols scrolling by on the digital stock ticker display mounted on the wall.  Every afternoon, between phone calls and other meetings, Michael would give me a lesson on investing.  What to look for and what to avoid.

On occasion I would come to Michael with a company I thought would be a good investment and sometimes I was right but most often he proved me wrong and why.  His lessons went beyond investing.  He taught me how to look at a company and its management, how to invest in a company financially but not emotionally.  He showed me the value of a dollar and the value of a penny.  He gave me life lessons and a sense of morality in what could, and years later became, a corruptible industry.

Over the years I used what I learned from Michael in every aspect of my life.  When I went off to College in 1979 I lost contact with Michael although I continued to invest in the markets through the local Bosworth & Sullivan office in Greeley, Colorado.  Our paths crossed over the years and were always very cordial with a little catching up. I learned a few years later that I was actually distantly related to Michael and his family through a family connection on my mom’s side of the family and through Kitt Strang.  I was never close nor distant to his kids. We ski raced on the same team but otherwise our lives followed different paths.

In January 2014 Michael passed away and a flood of memories came back.  I doubt Michael ever knew the impact he had on my life, nor did he need to.  I am sure he influenced others in different but impactful ways.  He was a good father, great mentor, amazing statesman and a steward of our land and its resources.  Even in the divide that became our diverse lives, Michael will be missed and never forgotten.

I never became that Wall Street “Big Wig” but my life is full and successful in my own way.  I have many people to thank for that and among them, Michael stands out.  Good bye my friend and mentor.