here's life

This evening I went to the house of a coworker. I drove 30 minutes out into the country, between freshly plowed fields that had just received a light rain. There were tree-lines splitting the fields into manageable chunks, and houses, and old outbuildings. Finally I turned onto a sand road, and then parked at the end of the row of cars along the road. Old farmers stood around in little groups and talked. People walked around the stone-faced house, nestled in the gums and cottonwoods. One group was discussing a large tree. "Figure it's about a hundred years old--26 feet around" It was indeed a large tree, an old cottonwood that had been there since before any of the old guys standing around--guys tanned to leather by hard work and sun. I sort of felt out of place, but I shouldn't have--I'm an old farmer myself, but am totally out-classed by these guys. We had a good meal of brisket, pork and all the side dishes one would expect. I was introduced to various family members, and made to feel included. But, as often happens, I copped out most social interaction, and after discussing the major of one girl who goes to Rolla (Aerospace) I went over to the circle of people listening to a handful of musicians play bluegrass. It was interesting--especially to see the different styles/interests/specializations of the different artist. One guy wrote gospel-centric pieces--coulda been at that church in Beulah. One lady played violin and guitar, and sang songs about cowboys. Another guy with the same instruments played pieces that he wrote that made fun of stuff--himself, politics, domestic woes. One guy had a bag of harmonicas and accompanied the others. A guy plucked silently on his steel guitar. It really wasn't good weather for instruments, but they just kept tuning them, and didn't really seem to mind the rain blowing off the trees. I saw a cicada shell on the underside of a mulberry leaf.
After they stopped playing, I went over to the other group of people---these guys were playing country--Johny Cash, and that sort. But then it was getting dark and the fireworks were really starting to pick up down on the bridge over the creek, so I wandered down and tried not to get hit by stuff. A family (another coworker) was shooting stuff off--mother playing the voice of caution, son playing the somewhat compliant pyro, daughter and dad mostly just shooting stuff off. One ironic sequence: the son is holding roman candles, and directing the fiery projectiles off the bridge--into the air, into the damp bushes, into the water. "You aren't supposed to hold them! It's dangerous!" Dad can't really find a way to stand up the roman candle he is about to light, so he props it up somehow on the concrete bridge, and lights it off. Of course it falls over, sending a flaming ball of incendiary gunpowder across the bridge, narrowly missing the fleeing mother. The son rescues it a unpredictable discharges later, and directs the rest safely away from the bystanders. After all the fireworks were gone, I went home. Driving through town I could see explosions all over town, and I think someone is attacking my apartment complex.



Some pictures of my plane's "exploded view."


The engine---I think I see why it doesn't run:


Wing-bone not connected to the fusilage-bone...


Bad lighting on a broken plane: