Lindbergh’s Spirit of St. Louis is on display at the National Air and Space Museum in DC along with the Wright brothers’ Flyer. And a third plane there is the Voyager, in which Dick Rutan, along with Jeana Yeager, made their historic flight around the world without refueling in 1986. Rutan died on Friday, at age 85, in Coeur d’Alene, Idaho.
The flight took nine days to complete. This is what Trip Gabriel wrote in Rutan’s obit in today’s NYT: “Putt-putting at low altitudes, taking catnaps to steal sleep, nearly slamming into a mountain in Africa and almost ditching in the Pacific Ocean, the Voyager and its crew limped home on fumes from empty fuel tanks two days before Christmas.”
Jeana is not related to Chuck Yeager, and a background story is that Rutan and Yeager were on very bad terms by the time they made their flight together. Just last year, Rutan, recounting their feat, stated that after they landed, Jeana “got out of the airplane and went back to Texas, and I’ve never heard from her again.” Ouch.
Dick Rutan’s brother Burt designed the ultralightweight plane, first sketching it on a napkin in a Chinese restaurant in Mojave, CA. The advent of new material made it possible. The success of the historic flight revolutionized the airline industry, leading directly to today’s wide-bodied 787s and Airbus 350s.
Dick’s brother said that when Dick was born he didn’t have a birth certificate — he had a flight plan. He earned a pilot’s license at 16 and joined the Air Force at 19. He flew 325 combat missions in Vietnam, earning the Silver Star, Purple Heart, and five Distinguished Flying Crosses. He is survived by his wife Kris, his brother, sister, and two daughters. His sister Nell, a retired flight attendant, flew more miles than either of her brothers.
While being interviewed by the LA Times in 2001, Rutan rolled up the sleeve of his flight suit and rubbed the arm he used to control planes. “See this right here?” he said. “This is the velvet arm. It is without equal in the universe.”
Rest in peace, Commander.
This poem by Suji Kwock Kim is from The Poetry Foundation. It’s called “Montage with Neon, Bok Choi, Gasoline, Lovers & Strangers.”
None of the streets here has a name,
but if I’m lost
tonight I’m happy to be lost.
Ten million lanterns light the Seoul avenues
for Buddha’s Birthday,
ten million red blue green silver gold moons
burning far as the eye can see in every direction
& beyond,
“one for every spirit,”
voltage sizzling socket to socket
as thought does,
firing & firing the soul.
Lashed by wind, flying up like helium balloons
or hanging still
depending on weather,
they turn each road into an earthly River of Heaven
doubling & reversing
the river above,
though not made of much:
some colored paper, glue, a few wires,
a constellation of poor facts.
I can’t help feeling giddy.
I’m drunk on neon, drunk on air,
drunk on seeing what was made
almost from nothing: if anything’s here at all
it was built
out of ash, out of the skull-rubble of war,
the city rising brick by brick
like a shared dream,
every bridge & pylon & girder & spar a miracle,
when half a century ago
there was nothing
but shrapnel, broken mortar-casings, corpses,
the War Memorial in Itaewon counting
More than 3 Million Dead, or Missing—
still missed by the living, still loved beyond reason,
monument to the fact
that no one can hurt you, no one kill you
like your own people.
I’ll never understand it.
I wonder about others I see on the sidewalks,
each soul fathomless—
strikers & scabs walking through Kwanghwamoon,
or “Gate of Transformation by Light,”
riot police rapping nightsticks against plexiglass-shields,
hawkers haggling over cell phones or silk shirts,
shaking dirt from chamae & bok choi,
chanting price after price,
fishermen cleaning tubs of cuttlefish & squid,
stripping copper carp,
lifting eels or green turtles dripping from tanks,
Hanyak peddlars calling out names of cures
for sickness or love—
crushed bees, snake bile, ground deer antler, chrysanthemum root,
bus drivers hurtling past in a blast of diesel-fumes,
lovers so tender with each other
I hold my breath,
dispatchers shouting the names of stations,
the grocer who calls me “daughter” because I look like her,
for she has long since left home,
vendors setting up pojangmachas
to cook charred silkworms, broiled sparrows,
frying sesame-leaves & mung-bean pancakes,
men with hair the color of scallion root
playing paduk, or GO,
old enough to have stolen overcoats & shoes from corpses,
whose spirits could not be broken,
whose every breath seems to say:
after things turned to their worst, we began again,
but may you never go through what we went through,
may you never see what we saw,
may you never remember & may you never forget.
There’s a story about baseball autographs in the NYT Styles section today, not Sports. It’s about ballplayers seeking autographs from each other — typically, from the current stars. A clubhouse attendant may be drafted to make a request of a visiting team member. Rookies are hesitant to bother big stars. Graciously, when Derek Jeter entered his final season with the Yankees, he let it be known that he’d be happy to sign for any major league player, i.e., rookies needn’t be shy. Conversely, pitcher Zack Greinke is known to be a big Mr. Grumpypants about it.
Did you know Derek and his beautiful wife Hannah have three daughters? Good luck when they are all teenagers at the same time, Captain.
Steve Albini passed away on Tuesday in Chicago. He was only 61. Steve was a very well-respected musician, producer, audio engineer, and journalist. He was critical of the music industry, arguing that it exploited and stylistically homogenized artists. He refused to take royalties from artists he worked with, arguing that it was unethical. He credits his career in music to hearing the Ramones’ first album when he was 14 or 15. One of his bands was Big Black. Here’s one of their tunes. Turn it up, and give it a minute to get going.
Rest in peace, Steve.
Headline in The Onion: Trump Drapes Jacket Over Head So Nobody Can Tell He’s Sleeping In Court
The puzzle was pretty crafty today. It used roman numerals as words. For example, at 30A, the clue was “‘Everything will be fine,’ in old Rome?” and the answer was DONIIRRYABOUTIT. If you replace II with TWO, it becomes DON'[T WO]RRY ABOUT IT.
For “Do a judge’s job,” the answer was WVIIIHEEVIDENCE. Replacing the VIII with EIGHT gives you W[EIGH T]HE EVIDENCE.
At 51D, the clue was “Like the smell of a pub:” BEERY. Some would have preferred Noah BEERY, Jr., the dad from the Rockford Files.
Thanks for popping in. See you tomorrow!
The Wellington Files 