In watching the 1937 version of My Man Godfrey with William Powell, I could not help but be struck by a comment made by one of the peripheral characters, Alexander Bullock, to the effect that "all you need to start an asylum is an empty room and the right kind of people." I'm sitting here, hopped up on gin and tonic, laughing like a hyena every time I run this line through in my head. (To be fair, the line is not running in an endless loop inside my head; rather, in the general scheme of things, I do find it amusing.)
In any event I came up with at least three fine LiveJournal essays while driving in the car today; however, none of them had the least thing to do with translation, nor have any of them been memorable enough for me to remember them in any detail.
Today, I had an appointment for the followup to my flight controller physical. I had forgotten that such followups are not simply a review of the results of the first session, but in addition, are a set of additional tests and an interview that raises issues best pursued with one's personal physician. What I find interesting is that none of the additional tests are the same two years in a row, though when all is said and done, I pass them anyway. It turns out the flight controller's physical is basically the same as that given to air traffic controllers, and in the final analysis, I am now the proud possessor of a card that says I have passed said physical and am qualified to work in the Mission Control Center, or as an air traffic controller.
I am sure people sleep better at night knowing this to be the case.
* * *There are times I wonder about my grandfather.
What is interesting, is that only one person crops up in my thoughts when I think of "my grandfather." It's my mother's father, as he was often a subject of conversation as I was growing up, and my paternal grandfather died long before I was born, his cause of death being a complication (a blood clot?) following an operation in a hospital, which I find a little ironic, as he was a small-town physician in Indiana.
My maternal grandfather, on the other hand, is someone who is not... quite... there... but close. As I said, he was often mentioned in the course of my childhood. He died, I learned, of a heart attack when I was 18 months old or so. Somehow, somewhere, in my mind, I think I recall a moment during infancy where I saw him and remembered him. At the moment I imagine, I think I am lying on a sofa, or something similar, and I can see him standing in a doorway, though I am probably wrong.
Most of the photographs of him that I have seen are of the posed variety, which would make any person seem tranquil, composed, and... regal, perhaps. "Bigger" than one might expect a person to be in real life. Just last year, however, I ran across a photograph taken in the early 1920s, and in it, he looks positively... small and ineffectual.
Yet, far be it for me to pass any kind of judgment on the guy. He had to deal with a world that was a lot less kinder. He had to deal with the Depression (the aftermath with which I still live whenever my mother talks to me), and he pretty much did what it took to deal with it successfully. I remember being told he took a job at a cracker factory in Brooklyn at some abysmal salary to make ends meet. I recall being told that he died at a relatively young age because he worked so hard to support his family. I don't know about that, but I do not doubt the old man had grit.
There are times, however, when I wonder what he would think of me and of what I've accomplished in this life. I like to think he'd be proud, for even though I can look back at missed opportunities, bad decisions, and other similar phenomena and not feel so hot about myself, I haven't done all that badly, either. And I'm a far piece, God willing, from the finish line, too.
But I'm starting to get maudlin, and that's boring. Time to go to sleep.
Cheers...
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