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Sometimes color is much too distracting.

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Lightning strikes captured by my iPhones over the years.

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The weather will soon mellow around the continent. Then it will be time to journey.

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This is an excerpt from a draft of one of my memoirs.

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In the early 1970’s, I had dreams of getting out of New York City and moving to Atlanta.

I heard so much about ATL. It was a growing Mecca, favorable to Black enterprise. All of the magazine articles pinpointed Atlanta as the place to be for young folks. It was particularly attractive to young Black college graduates.

I was newly out in the world completely on my own, just back from four years in the Air Force. Putting all of life’s pieces together in NYC was a struggle for me. Rent was high. Car insurance, groceries, and even cleaning my clothes were big ticket budget items. I was keeping up with the struggle, but had to have a room-mate. I certainly couldn’t afford a place of my own.

I loved working Kennedy Tower. Controlling fast paced and high volume domestic and International flights was a point of pride. I loved mastering the complexity of Kennedy Airport’s runways and taxiways. The accents on the radios of pilots from literally all over the world had become familiar. The rhythm of rotating hours of shift work was starting to gel. Other than the senior controllers repeatedly screwing up my days off, I found a good fit.

But I kept hearing about Atlanta, and I liked what I was hearing. I had scattered dreams of quitting my ATC job and moving to Atlanta as a flight instructor.

My sister was a recent graduate of Fisk University, in Tennessee. She decided to stay in the south. She and her college roommate chose Atlanta.

My first visit there opened my eyes to an entirely different galaxy of life. The most visible parts of the city were vibrant. New modern construction was all over the city. Entertainment was everywhere. Black folks were thriving, or appearing to thrive like I had seen no where else in my life. Rent was half what I paid in New York, and the apartments were much better appointed.

As soon as I could build enough flight time to become a flight instructor I would move to Atlanta. I found where I wanted to be.

While there I visited the control tower at Atlanta’s Hartsfield Airport. The first person I saw when I got off of the elevator happened to be the tower chief, as they called air traffic managers back then. The chief was amused by my interest in the what they did in the control tower and radar room there.

He took me on a tour and introduced me to a few controllers. He was surprised by some of the questions I asked the controllers.

“You have been reading quite a bit about ATC, it seems.”

“Yes sir, I had to study a lot, to get certified at Kennedy Tower.”

“YOU are a controller? At JFK in New York?”

“Yes. I have four years of Air Force air traffic experience, and just last week I completed my training as a full performance level controller at JFK.”

“Really?!!”

He told me Atlanta airport had plans to grow tenfold. I assumed tenfold was an exaggeration. As it turned out over the years, it was no exaggeration at all.

That was when the chief of possibly the most sort after ATC facility in the nation, looked me in the eye and said, “We’ve never had a Black air traffic controller here.”

I think we both knew then that that was about to change. If it wasn’t me, some other controller of color would soon be selected to work in his growing facility.

The chief’s name was Lester Shipp. After he grilled me about my experience and knowledge for over an hour, Mr. Shipp told me who to send my paperwork to. He told me of four people I needed to stay in contact with, and how often to contact them about the progress of my transfer request.

I appreciated him being cordial to a starry-eyed kid, but I knew it was a useless exercise. No one transferred out of the Eastern Region in those days. And no one leaves JFK tower, other than to fill a vacancy in Hangar 11 which was the NY Terminal Radar Control room, aka the Common-I; colloquially known as "the room". Hundreds of controllers around the country wanted to transfer to the Southern Region. And Atlanta Tower took only the most experienced controllers from other facilities. It was well known that the Southern Region was in the build from within mode. So anyone transferring into ATL traditionally came from other Southern Region facilities. That was just how things were done. I was an outsider in more ways than one. My best avenue to Atlanta was to take a pay cut and become a flight instructor at one of the small airports in the area.

I put my papers in anyway. I called the people Mr. Shipp said to call, and asked them to please look out for my transfer request. Then I forgot about it. Living in Atlanta, having my own place, socializing in a hip progressive environment was the plot of a fairytale, but in real life it was only a dream. But I did follow Mr. Ship’s suggestion, and checked-in with the four people on his list from time to time. I looked at it like going to the bookie to play a long shot on the numbers; the precursor to the legal lottery.

Slowly flight time toward my commercial pilots license grew. I periodically flew friends to Atlantic City, upstate New York, Connecticut, and Boston to increase my time in the air.

I continued to build a life in the giant city that never sleeps. I made new friends, one of whom became my best friend for the next 45 years. I started hanging around the radio station where my new friends worked. They were informally training me to become a disc jockey. I thought that was a good way to meet women. I was part of the radio station’s entourage when the DJ’s and lead engineer hit the night clubs.

Even when I worked until 11 o’clock at night, the “in-crowd” was just getting out to the clubs. Every night was a social event.

I was getting into the rhythm of the city when one day at work I was called to the chief’s office, on tenth floor. No controller liked be summoned to the tenth floor. The chief and a couple of staff members were in his office. None of them looked happy. I couldn’t imagine what I had done. I could remember no unusual incident with any flights. I had no disagreements with fellow controllers, so the long faces of this group were puzzling.

At the time, Kennedy Tower’s chief’s name was Art. He was normally a jovial guy. That day was different.

“Dave, I believe you know we are short-staffed, on nearly every shift.”

“Yes, believe me, I feel that”, I said. I couldn’t remember making any requests for time off. Although, a week prior I did take a sick day. With my lousy seniority sick leave was the only way I could get a needed day off. I doubted these guys could prove I wasn’t sick; unless they saw me going into the radio station; which was in Harlem. In those days I was certain these guys weren’t up in Harlem.

“Dave, I would like you to withdraw your request for transfer.”

“Withdraw it? Why?”, I said. I was certain that no one was taking this rookie’s Atlanta dream seriously.

“If you transfer out of the facility at your low seniority level it would cause all manner of turmoil amongst those senior to you who have been trying to get out of here for years.”

“Well, it’s not likely I would get selected for a job before any of the big guns do.”

Art, got even more stern. His eyes narrowed. He lifted a stack of papers off of his desk. “The problem is, you have already been selected by Atlanta Tower and TRACON. We can’t afford to lose you for a number of reasons. Staffing and the breach of seniority protocol are chief among them.”

New York was a big union friendly area. Seniority was a union hot-button. I was chummy enough with the local union rep to know he had a mean streak and would probably turn red in the face for hours when he got the news.

“They want me in Atlanta?”

“Yeah! And I don’t have the power to block it. You must have been talking to people in high places.”

I thought back to the four names Lester Shipp gave me to call. I had no idea who they were. I assumed they were administrative staffers working in the two regional offices. My chats with them were casual but they were in depth enough to show I knew my stuff.

Art repeated himself, “I need you to withdraw your request.”

My head was spinning. Many controllers around the country wanted to get into the laid-back Southern Region, and Atlanta was the crown jewell in the region. It was one of the most coveted air traffic positions in the country.

Art said it again, “I need you to withdraw your transfer request.”

All of this was too much. My adult life was getting into full swing in the big city I grew up in … but the dream of Atlanta once fuzzy was now coming into focus.

I looked Art straight in the eyes, ignoring the others in the room.

“Would you?”, I asked.

“Would I what?”, he wanted to know.

“If you were selected to go to Atlanta would you withdraw your request?”

He slumped back in his chair. The staffers in the room slinked against the corner bookshelf. “You know you would be leaving us with a helluva mess, don’t you?”

“Art, I didn’t create this staffing mess. It was like this when I got here. I can’t fix that.”

“And what about the seniority protocol?”

“Three times in the last two months I got my days off unfairly changed because of seniority. Sorry, the seniority policy around here is not my friend.”

Art sat up and straightened the stack of papers he had been fidgeting with.

He said, “No.”

I was confused, “What do you mean no?”

“No. If I were selected to go to Atlanta I would not withdraw my request.”

He handed me the stack of documents. The top page read, Permanent Change of Station.

_________

P.S. In my entire FAA career, Mr. Shipp is the only colleague I never called by his first name. He passed recently. He will always be Mr. Shipp to me.

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Morning Pages

Algorithm

I noticed that my life, even in retirement, works like a programmed algorithm. There are a set of actions that I follow most days.

Wakeup.

Check the sky, through the south window, before sunrise: Clouds, or no clouds? Color, or no color? Good light, or poor? Photo, or no photo?

Hygiene. Get dressed.

Out the door for our two mile walk.

Back home.

Laundry.

Meditate.

Edit morning photos.

Write Morning Pages.

Breakfast.

Social media ... social media is where my life’s algorithm gets bogged-down. Social media introduces powerful algorithms of its own. Everyday, these algorithms learn more and more about my interests. They use what they’ve learned to keep me in a whirlpool of interesting articles, ads, photographs, and posts. Time passes swiftly. If I’m not careful lunchtime will arrive before I break the trance.

Lunch

If I have things to do out in the world, or around the house, this is when that generally happens.

One hour, or so of writing and/or photo editing.

Tai Chi

Dinner

News

Check the sky before sunset. Clouds/color/light, or no? Photos, or no?

Maybe some evening TV. Maybe not.

Social Media ... again!

An hour of reading.

Hygiene.

Bed.

Now that I’ve discovered my lifestyle algorithm, I want to clean up the code. I should start the cleaning with social media; which is the addiction that creates the most “bugs” in my programing.

There are two things I will not reprogram in my algorithm; the celebration of the sky at sunrise and at sunset.

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Carl and I went to European Village for lunch. Vietnamese Pho Tai and Banh Mi was quite tasty.

Carl and I have known each other for more than sixty five years; so the conversation spanned all kinds of topics like, the old days of riding the New York subways, traveling to distant countries, paying homeowner’s insurance premiums in the hurricane alley called Florida, the quality (or lack of quality) of modern education, and more ... We even talked about some of our first jobs when we were in high school.

As you go about life you can meet plenty of new friends - but you can’t meet new old friends. Old friends are where some of life’s richest treasures are found.

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Morning Pages

In yesterday’s Morning Pages, I recalled walking in New York City as a young man. Those thoughts were born during my current daily walks along a waterway I call the River of Dancing Dolphins.

Every weekday morning, Jill and I begin our walk along the river. Our path eventually turns to travel under a rich canopy of trees.

The contrast between a morning walk in the city and a morning walk in nature could not be more stark. All five senses are stimulated by both walks. In the city my senses came alive because of human impulses; mechanical sounds, concrete and glass scenery, tastes and smells created by humans hands. In nature, my eyes, ears, nose, palate, and nerves are opened by earth’s vibrations. Everything I sense in nature depends upon the planet for existence. The flora and fauna thrive on a frequency that would be drowned out on a city street.

So there is the vibration of the city, and there is the vibration of being in the country. I am more than thankful to have embraced both.

Years ago, the musical group War recorded a piece called City, Country, City. I am going to find that song this afternoon and listen to it two or three times to help myself marvel at the yin/yang of my life’s experiences.

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Morning Pages

I used to work in lower Manhattan before I went into the Air Force.

Most days I took the F Train from home, in Queens, to Midtown Manhattan. I generally got off the train at 42nd Street. I could have taken the train all the way to within two blocks of the office, but when I had time I preferred to walk ten, twelve, fifteen, or so long blocks - just to be a part of the city.

Some days I walked south on 6th Avenue; other days on 5th, or Madison, or Park Avenues.

I enjoyed seeing people rushing by. I window shopped the storefronts; heard sounds of taxis, buses, bicycle couriers, cars, and trucks as they dashed to make another intersection before the traffic light changed to red.

The aromas from early opening restaurants often made me stop to feel and taste the warm fresh baked pastries that would be my breakfast as I walked.

I am sure there were rainy days, or days when it was hot or cold, but I don’t remember ever much thinking about the weather in New York. I simply remember the city enveloping my five senses.

When I left the city for the Air Force was the first time I realized that most people did not vibrate to the rhythm of the city. As I got older I realized that some people vibrated with no rhythm at all.

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A weekend birthday party for a one year old.

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At every moment, thousands of people around the world are having sex

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Surely someone on the planet must wear the same exact outfit as you when you do

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Every Saturday morning we walk Flagler Beach. These shots are from 8/13/22.

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Sunday’s moon rose as an 88% waning gibbous.

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This was the second Saturday we saw Rob Whiting. Last weekend Rob gave a crystal clear talk about human’s history with water. This weekend Rob’s Jazz Express (RJE) put on a performance that I think would stir any venue, in any city.

Just like Rob’s talk last week RJE’s music this week was crystal clear and tight. They played like they were a family. Music written by Adderley, Gillespie, Shorter, Basie, Hargrove, Rollins, and more filled the afternoon. Great performances.

Rob’s Jazz Express (RJE)was hosted by the North East Florida Jazz Association (NEFJA), in the amphitheater of Daytona State College.

RJE is Rob Whiting, guitar; Ray Callender, trumpet; Melvin Smith, saxophone(s); Jack LaForte, bass; and Robert Banks, keeping time with the drums.

Before we got there we thought rain would be an issue. As it turned out it did rain quite heavily, but the rain was no concern. The amphitheater, on the college campus is covered. The roof protects both talent and audience. The covering also helps shape the venue's great acoustics. This is the DSC campus in Palm Coast. The line for the food truck during intermission was a testament for Q’jay’s tasty lemon peppered chicken.

The audience loved the performance. Anyone seemed well pleased with the venue, and the tremendous effort by NEFJA to bring it all together.

It was a great Saturday afternoon!

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Toward the Light

No phone no music

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Nine Merlin engines powered four astronauts out of the stubborn part of earth’s atmosphere, before sunrise Wednesday.

After they reached the upper atmosphere those nine engines, called first stage boosters, separated from the rest of the spacecraft and returned to earth to be reused on another mission.

The engines of the second stage ignited after the first stage booster fell away. The second stage maneuvered the Dragon spacecraft into orbit where the astronauts rendezvoused with the International Space Station.

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