Caswell Airpark

The official blog of the Caswell County Historical Society recently put up a post about the airstrip on the family farm back home. It is an interesting read, and includes a picture of the underground hangar that my grandfather built there. 

He was always burrowing.

Stranded

Another gratuitous picture of the Tater:

Last week, Mrs. Warpiper took her eyes off the Tater for approximately 5 seconds. Tater managed to get stuck on the sink, giggling and laughing at her predicament. Laughing in the face of adversity isn't a trait I would have expected from a 16-month old, but I'll take it.

Alone

It is like an itch I can't scratch. 

Mrs. Warpiper and Tater went to Philly for the week to see old Bucknell friends. I have reverted to my younger days and have actually played the sax out on the town for two nights straight now. Maybe I am just trying to take my mind off the fact that I miss them. 

Speaking of playing the sax, I really have no idea how I played in various rock bands for so many years. After playing at a club with an old band member last night, I woke this morning (morning is a misnomer in this case) with a raging headache and what had to have been about twenty cotton balls in my mouth. Stinky cotton balls, at that. I don't know what happened to my stamina, but I used to do this about four nights a week, on average. Right now I think that if I did it one more night I would need supplemental oxygen or something. 

Today, after I managed to get over the worst of the day-after blahs, I managed to clean out a portion of my storage unit in preparation for the big move in a couple weeks. I was amazed at how easily I was able to sever the bond with so many old possessions. Then again, I think I cut the cord with about 50% of my stuff when I left for Iraq back in 2004. 

I hope that one day many years from now I don't find myself wishing I still had my old 7th grade report cards.

Gross Tater

Adorable kid, yes? That's a ruse. This child has a dark side. Among her other tricks, Tater has learned an especially adorable little one that she displayed for us today. Tater likes to stuff entirely too many graham crackers in her mouth. In the past, she would just chew and chew until she got them to go down. Today she learned that she can spit graham cracker mush into her hand and then feed it to the waiting and ever grateful dog. Mmmmmmgood!

Also, Mrs. Warpiper has informed me that it is customary to credit photographers when displaying their art. 

The above photo was taken by Mrs. Warpiper.

The Call

   It came today. It was totally unexpected. My ranking on the hiring register was such that I was hopeful for a call for the May A-100 class, but it looks like I now have a little over four weeks to close up shop in Charleston, get my life in order, pack out, and report to DC for the start of the next class on 2 March.

   It is hard to know how to feel right now. The last seventeen years of my life have been spent as a cop. Being a cop is akin to being a prison inmate. You become institutionalized. Cops tend to only hang out with each other for a number of reasons, not the least of which is the shared knowledge of a calling that is mostly misunderstood by the general public. I am going to miss my friends and comrades of the last seventeen years. I'll miss the unpredictability of the job, but then I am sure that being a U.S. Foreign Service Officer will have plenty of that, as well. 

Right now, Mrs. Warpiper and I are walking about six inches off the ground, with an excitement that is tempered with the knowledge of the five million things we are going to have to accomplish within the next four weeks. I think that this is going to be a great trip, and I'll be sure to keep you all up to date on the upcoming journey.

The Underground House

   My grandfather, Dr. L.G. Page, had eccentric interests. Papa was a dentist, entrepreneur, amateur inventor, professional whisky drinker, de-segregator, pilot, and from what I can tell, a professional dreamer. Stories about Papa could fill volumes, and even to this day I hear a story about him that is new to me. 

   One of Papa's interests was in the area of underground dwellings. He built an underground hangar on the airport on our farm in North Carolina. Airplanes have been kept in it for many years. He also built an underground "house" next to his regular house on the family farm. Built into a hillside with concrete walls and ceiling, this underground home was very modern in 1961. It had full plumbing and electricity complete with a living room, two bedrooms and a kitchen. Recently, WRAL TV in Raleigh did a short story on the underground house, with a brief interview with my father. 

The link to the video is here.

   Dad, ever the "It's No Big Deal" guy that he is, didn't mention to me that he had done the interview. My aunt sent me the link. During the email exchange, I mentioned one story of Papa which had always stuck in my mind. It seems that Papa once built a bicycle with an alternative form of propulsion. Instead of linking the pedal chain to the back wheel, he linked it to a propeller mounted to the bicycle. Papa would propel himself along on that bike, dressed in his white shirt, tie, and wingtip shoes. I could swear that Dad once told me that Papa drove that bike to Danville, VA once. 

   Thinking about Papa also brought to mind something that I learned about him just a few years ago. Back when flying lessons were being offered at our airfield (most likely in the late 50s to early 60s) a young black man apparently asked Papa if he could learn to fly. Papa, always more than ready to introduce someone new to the joys of flight, was more than happy to oblige him. Apparently, however, there was a small problem with some of the flight instructors not wanting to teach a "n*****" how to fly. I cannot remember what I was told about how Papa dealt with the flight instructors, but I think it had something to do with telling them they could find somewhere else to ply their trade if they didn't like it, and if he wanted to teach a black man how to fly he would damn well do it. Papa also refused to segregate the waiting room in his dentist office. I know that Papa was very racially progressive for his day, but sometimes I wonder if there wasn't a small part of him that was that way just to piss off the yokels. I learned about this story during my bachelor's party trip to Las Vegas. Dad was with us, and at some point he mentioned that the young man Papa taught to fly went on to become a successful engineer, and that he had a second house in Las Vegas. Dad mentioned that in a recent conversation with the man, he told Dad that anyone who was in the family of Dr. Page was welcome to use his house if they were ever in Vegas.

   Papa was also known as a hard drinker. Apparently some of the best stories about Papa revolved around his exploits while having a tipple. In fact, his eulogy involved such a story. Papa had a series of gates down on our farm road by which he could open and close to limit access. Access by whom or to what, I do not know. Maybe people who wanted to fish without paying $1. Anyhow, one day, Papa drove up to one of the gates near the end of the runway to the airstrip  and got out of his old 1938 Lincoln to open the gate. he must have forgotten to set the brake, because the old Lincoln began to roll back down the steep hill from whence it had come. Papa took off running after the car, but tripped and struck his head on a rock, knocking him unconscious. The local Methodist parson was taking his daily walk down on the farm and came across Papa who was regaining consciousness. Legend (and the minister who eulogized him) has it that Papa told him, "You know, if I had had just one more highball I would have caught that damned car!" I guess Papa thought he was more functional drunk than sober.

   Everyone has a Graham Page story in Yanceyville. Sometimes I wonder if I do not live with the same luxury as they do, recalling and retaining the good, the memorable. My Dad and his siblings may not have this same luxury, but they do not seem the worse for wear. I am sure that there are memories of Papa that my Dad and his siblings might not commonly relate. I can tell that he was famously strict with Dad and his brother John. Some might even say he had a cruel streak when it came to his sons. Dad speaks of him admiringly though, and it seems as though time has accentuated the good in the man while at the same time blurring the less memorable. Ultimately his children seem to have taken from him those qualities that were the stuff of stories instead of those things that would detract from his memory. I imagine that this is the best kind of legacy a man can hope for.

   I consider myself fortunate that I actually have a memory of Papa. Of his many grandchildren, I think I am the only one with a conscious memory of him. He died when I was two, but not before I imprinted a memory of him feeding me Cracker Jacks from the box, one by one as I stood in front of him.

   There is an old fantasy question that people are sometimes asked, and that is if you could have dinner with just three people, who would they be? My answer has always varied on that subject, but the one person who is always part of that fantasy trifecta is Papa. Time has probably helped to embellish the stories. I would think that I would rather know the real man - not just the good, but the warts, too. When I am home for visits and I run across people who have always lived there, I am more Papa's grandson and my father's son more than I am myself. Just broaching the subject invariably leads to an anecdote, a story, or a comment about how much larger than life he was. As the years go by it is harder to find people who knew the man personally, but maybe that is just as well. I am content to know him through the tales of the many who knew and admired him, and the memory of a two year old boy who only knew at the time that the kind, aged man sitting in the easy chair in the big house was the source of a comfortable lap and Cracker Jacks.

Spend baby, spend!

Let's look back at the Washington Post from December 2005 here.

Seems like there was a lot of criticism of Bush's second inauguration and the fact that it cost about 40 million bucks. The fact that it was wartime was what prompted some of the chattering. Rep. Anthony Weiner (D-NY) was particularly vocal. The Post mentioned that this cost was pretty well in line with the cost of previous inaugurations, and that it actually fell under the 42 million dollar bill for Bill Clinton's second inauguration. 

That's all well and good. The left would have criticized Bush for curing cancer. Not a big deal.

Here comes the however. HOWEVER, I wonder if anyone has bothered asking Congressman Weiner about the bill for next week's festivities. Obama's inauguration is going to cost somewhere in the neighborhood of $150 million. That's right, more than 3 times the cost that four years ago produced all the whining.

Not only are we still at war, but aren't we supposedly in the biggest recession since WWII? The chirping of the crickets is deafening.