Steve Pollock

Since 1963.

Category: Work

Remembering the Past

Remembering Bill Schock on his 100th birthday … and the 52nd anniversary of Braniff 250 in Falls City. Also … feeling old from … time flying and stuff.

Since the AM2431 crash in Durango a few days ago appears to be from weather-related causes, never forgetting the lessons of BN250, as well as CO426, OZ809, EA66, PA759, DL191, and US1016 is as important as ever. Hope today’s flight crews are paying attention.

Trees, Part Deaux

Trees, Part Deaux

(cont'd) … but it fell onto the neighbors' yard, barely missing their porch and stuff.

Its carcass…

Posted by Steve Pollock on Friday, July 1, 2016

Trees, Part Une

Trees, Part Une:

"I think that I shall never see
"A nasty devil like a tree.
"They always fall over on me,
"Leaving a…

Posted by Steve Pollock on Friday, July 1, 2016

Ole Yeller

His Imperial Highness, #IAmTheRoux, and His Imperial Clown Prince, #GooseIsLoose, wish it known that They do not exert…

Posted by Steve Pollock on Thursday, June 30, 2016

I Am The Roux!

I Am The Roux.

I am a loud basset.

A proud basset.

A messy basset.

A hungry basset.

A loving basset.

A force of nature.

As a puppy, I got lost and couldn’t find my way home.

I was very, very hungry. And scared.

I ended up in a sad place. The concrete was very hard.

But then someone saw my long sad face behind the chain link fence.

I was rescued!

Bad Beginnings

I’m sitting in a chair in an airport. Waiting on yet another flight. Taking a drag on a cigarette, trying to read the States-Item. Hard to concentrate since it’s been such a long day.

The best routing at the best price the travel agency could give me home to Minneapolis is a Braniff hop via a torturous route: Shreveport, Fort Smith, Tulsa, Kansas City, and Omaha. At least it’s a pretty comfortable jet, not one of the old prop jobs, which is why I went for it. If you have to hop around the midwest, might as well do it in style. It’s a brand new British type, a BAC 1-11. The one sitting on the tarmac, my ride home, is painted a kind of weird tan that the airline refers to as “ochre,” but it glows like an orange fireball in the early evening steamy Louisiana sun.

The intercom in the boarding area crackles to life. ‘Mr. Donnelly, Mr. Sean Donnelly, please see the Braniff ticket agent at gate 12,’ a disembodied voice pronounces.

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