The Chinese Spy Balloon - An Affirming Experience

The infamous Chinese Spy Balloon

I am compelled to comment on the recent kerfuffle of the ‘Chinese Spy Balloon.” I was not going to say anything because, quite frankly, I was not very concerned. After all, what could the Chinese possibly learn that would be of military value from a balloon that they couldn’t learn from satellites in low Earth orbit? I doubt they would attack the USA using a single, slow moving balloon and I did not perceive a serious threat. Though, of course, I could be wrong – time will tell. To me, it was simply not a significant event worth talking about. 

I changed my mind after I had two random encounters with strangers who brought the topic up in conversation. The first was with a customer service representative who I called to ask about an appliance issue. He asked me how I was doing, I replied and reciprocated. He then told me he was very anxious about the balloon and was hoping the military would shoot it down. We then talked about the balloon, its possible purpose, and our response to it for at least 5 minutes of the ‘customer service ‘ call. 

About 2 hours later, Carol and I walked to the local supermarket to buy some milk (we didn’t want to spend my entire paycheck buying eggs…). I made the purchase and went outside to wait on Carol, who ran into a friend in the store, by sitting on a bench next to the door. One of the younger employees walked up and asked if he could sit down. He was on his break and had hurt his foot playing some sport the day before. (Mental note: This is an affirmation of my lifelong aversion to sports.) After a few moments, he asked me, “What do you think of that Chinese balloon? I think we ought to shoot it down.” Yes, another conversation ensued. We had a good discussion. 

So, you may be wondering, what do I, as a ‘space expert,’ think of the balloon incident and our response to it? 

I found it affirming. The two people who asked me about it may or may not share my political and social views, likely not, given the demographic differences between us, but for a brief few moments, we shared a common experience and what appeared to be a common threat. While left and right might have disagreed on how to deal with it (Shoot it down? Don’t shoot it down?), we came together as a people and talked to each other about the balloon, we shared our concerns, and most importantly – we had serious conversation. Imagine that! 

Maybe, just maybe, this is a sign that the vast majority of Americans, of every political persuasion, can come together to talk about our common problems and bridge that which divides us when it is time-critical to do so. 

I am an optimist. 

(Now that the balloon has been shot down, my opinion about it has not changed. I look forward to learning what we find out from the wreckage. Maybe I should have been worried…)

Uncle Timmy Kept Me in Science Fiction Fandom

Richard "Uncle Timmy" Bolgeo. This photo was taken by my daughter at a meeting of the Tennessee Valley Interstellar Workshop, of which Timmy was a big supporter.

    If it weren't for a man named Richard Bolgeo, my life would be far less rich and innumerable friends and acquaintances would have remained strangers. For those whose life Richard touched, this is a very common story. His counsel on a cold January morning changed my mind about science fiction (SF) conventions and fandom. He kept me from walking away from attending science fiction conventions, or cons, after a particularly bad experience many years ago had left a sour taste in my mouth and that of my wife and some close friends.

    In high school, I was an avid reader of science fiction, including Analog Magazine. Analog published monthly some of the best SF short stories, popular science essays, and book reviews. I was a subscriber. On the very last page of the magazine was a listing of upcoming SF conventions where fans of the literature would gather to talk about their favorite books and authors, get to know each other, and, of course, party. Cons also feature lectures and panel discussions populated by authors and fans, a dealer’s rooms for buying books, models, games, and other genre swag, and the ever-popular con suite where food and beverages are available nearly 24/7.

    I attended my first con in the late 1970’s, while I was still a high school student. RiverCon was a longstanding convention held annually in Louisville, KY at the historic Galt House hotel located in a scenic spot overlooking the Ohio River. My good friend, Jim Morman, and I got permission from our parents to drive from our homes in Ashland, KY across the state to attend. By today’s standards, this was an unusual thing to do – allow two 17-year-old high school students to drive 150 miles to an event none in their families had ever attended (and knew nothing about), rent a hotel room (in our names – yes, the hotel rented a room to two minors!), and spend the weekend in the state’s largest city. Remember, in those days there were no cell phones, so no one could track where we were, and we had no easy way to seek help in the event of an emergency.

    Jim and I were in heaven. We met a rising new writer, George RR Martin, chatted with the Guest of Honor, Roger Zelazny, and drooled over the many cool items in the dealer’s room for which we didn’t have the money to buy. The weekend went well, we weren’t arrested, and arrived safely home late on Sunday evening. We were hooked.

    Over the next few years, I was in college and then graduate school, unable to spare the time or money to attend very many conventions, managing to go about once each year. After I landed my first real job, I once again began attending conventions (and this time I could afford some items in the dealers’ rooms).

    Then came marriage. Fortunately, my wife is an understanding sort and readily accepted my occasional participation in these quirky science fiction conventions. She was eager to experience one with me as we began our new life together. It was now the late 1980’s and there were many cons to choose from to have as her entry point into fandom. We chose one in Chattanooga, TN where some writers I admired were attending to be our first ‘together con.’ We invited some local friends to go with us. I was eager to also introduce them to cons and fandom. We packed up our car and off we went.

    During the day, the convention was great – the panels, the talks, the serendipitous hallway meetings and discussions, etc. Nighttime was a very different matter. We, like most con goers, were up late (to nearly 1:00 am), but when we wanted to sleep, we wanted to sleep. Instead, we were kept awake by obnoxiously loud shouting in the hotel hallways, a loud party next door, and even the fire alarm being pulled in the middle of the night. The police were called, but even that did not calm the rowdiness. We were not pleased.

    The next morning, I learned that the convention had been invaded by local high school students in search of beer. They were rowdy, destructive, loud, and ruined the overall convention experience for me, my wife, and our friends. I was embarrassed at bringing my new wife to the convention as her introduction of fandom and we were both embarrassed at having brought our friends. It was a disaster.

    The second night of the convention was no better.

    Sunday morning, the last day of the convention, could not arrive soon enough. As I was waiting in the hotel checkout line, one of the people I met at the con and felt a kinship with, Richard Bolgeo, walked up to chat. He asked if we had a good weekend and I’m afraid I unloaded on him, spelling out in detail all the nighttime annoyances, and I concluded saying something like, “I’ve outgrown this.” Mind you, I said that to Richard (AKA “Uncle Timmy”) Bolgeo, a seasoned and experienced engineer working for TVA at nearby nuclear power plants. He would have none of it.

    “Les! You cannot drop out of fandom until you come to this new little convention we are starting next summer.  We won’t allow unaccompanied high school kids in the door, and we plan to limit the attendance to only a few hundred. It’s a literary con and I’m the chairman. We want our con to feature prominent writers and scientists, and, very importantly, be family friendly. I won’t leave you alone until you say you’ll join us next summer for LibertyCon.” For those that never met Uncle Timmy, he was very persuasive.

    I had no choice but to agree to come to LibertyCon (their first meeting!) that next summer and I am glad I did. Not only did I meet the great L. Sprague & Catherine de Camp, Vincent DiFate, and Bob (“smooth!”) Tucker, but I began a friendship with other guests and people on staff like Klon Newell, Linda Bolgeo, Timothy Zahn, Tish Groller, Kevin Ward, Ron Hogue, Brandy Bolgeo (Timmy’s young daughter and the new chair of LibertyCon – then part of the teen “Brat Pack”), Blake Powers, and many others – all at LibertyCon #1. Since then, my list of fandom friends has grown to include far more people than I can name here and most can share their own memorable "Uncle Timmy" stories.

    There have been more than 34 LibertyCons since then and I have had the privilege to attend almost all of them.

The program book for the first LibertyCon

    Thanks to Uncle Timmy and the great people who organize and run LibertyCon, it is one of my favorite weekends of the year. We are family.

    From LibertyCon, I’ve branched out to other great conventions, mostly in the South, including Constellation (alas, they no longer host an annual con), CONtraflow, and MidSouthCon. I even manage to participate in and enjoy the spectacle that is DragonCon. And yes, my wife now accompanies me to most of these conventions and is an eager participant. They are her family too.

    All this to say, “Thank You Uncle Timmy” for starting and running a con for people like me and for keeping me among my peeps – the people of science fiction fandom. Though Timmy has passed from this world to the great science fiction convention in the sky, his legacy lives on and I am indebted to him.

 

For more information, please visit my website: www.lesjohnsonauthor.com

Simple Choices Can Shape A Lifetime

 

The "Young" Adult Fellowship in 2009.\

Life is full of choices, some seemingly inconsequential (What shirt will I wear today? Do I want a cookie or ice cream?), others are major forks in the road of life even if they don’t feel like it at the time. I followed one such fork, one that has enriched my life in innumerable ways, when I first moved to my adopted hometown of Huntsville, Alabama in the late 1980s. There are many more such forks that I will cover in future posts.

First, some background and context. I earned my M.S. in physics from Vanderbilt University in 1986, after 2.5 years of arduous work and relative social isolation. Graduate school was one of the best things I’ve done in life and one of the most difficult. The academics were challenging, to say the least, and I had a tremendously inspiring and helpful thesis advisor. Aside from two close friends, one of whom was regrettably taken by Covid 19 in 2021, it was a time of great loneliness. Physics students are stereotypically not known to be the most social. (No offense is intended to any of those with whom I studied at the time. I suspect they would now say the same.) By the time the degree was conferred, I had a job lined up in Huntsville and I was more than ready to begin the next phase of my life.

I found an apartment and moved in during the late spring of 1986. It was during that first week that I called First Christian Church of Huntsville, the largest local congregation of the church denomination of which I was a member, Disciples of Christ. When I called, an immensely helpful woman answered the phone. I asked her about the church and the service times. (This was pre-internet and one had to make a phone call to find out such things.) She enthusiastically welcomed me to town and said she would inform the pastor that I would be visiting on the upcoming Sunday morning.

Sunday arrived and I did the socially awkward and always uncomfortable first church visit, sitting next to people I didn’t know, chatting with people much older than me (Why are older members the only ones who greet visitors?), and trying to observe and determine if this church would be the one in which I would want to worship. The service was traditional and the pastor inspiring. Afterward, I exited the sanctuary with everyone else and moved into the narthex for the post-service social time. I was, of course, standing there mostly alone.

After a few minutes, Pastor John Jackson, wearing what I would later come to know as his genuine and infectious smile, walked over and introduced himself. He had been told of my planned visit, and he made a point of finding me among the crowd. During our conversation, he mentioned that the church had a Young Adult Fellowship (YAF) composed of people at the same life stage as me — post-college, single, and seeking camaraderie. He briefly excused himself and came back moments later with a tall, smiling man who reached out his hand to shake mine. His name was Alan Patterson. He immediately told me about the YAF group and invited me out to lunch with them. They were just deciding where to go after church for a meal and fellowship. I readily agreed and joined them at Michael’s, a local buffet restaurant that has long-since closed its doors.

The group was as described: There were about twelve people, evenly split between men and women, and all greeted me with smiles and sincere welcomes. I don’t recall who I sat next to at lunch that day, but I vividly recall the setting and the euphoria of finding a social group with whom I could engage. Following lunch, they planned to go to a pool and invited me to join them. I agreed, rushed home to grab my bathing suit and towel, and met them for an afternoon of fun, sun, and fellowship.

I had instant friends. (“Just add water!”)

An early photo of the YAF Group before couples formed.

Over the next several weeks, I joined them for their Tuesday evening Bible studies and fellowship time, Friday movie and game nights, Saturday hiking trips, and, of course, Sunday worship and fellowship. Many of our activities were facilitated by First Christian’s associate pastor, Tom Van Laningham. Tom had a passion for nurturing young adults and made sure that the social aspects of our fellowship did not outweigh the spiritual — which was critical to our growth as Christians and deepened our understanding of what Christian fellowship is meant to be.

It was on those Tuesday nights that we really got to know each other. These gatherings were hosted by Margaret and Dick Schock, the parents of three of the group’s members. Margaret and Dick fixed snacks, and sometimes food, for us and provided wise, spiritual, and practical advice as we studied the Bible and spent time together. The evenings would begin with social time, followed by a meal, and then a short Bible lesson. Following that, we would ‘go around the circle’ and tell everyone about what had happened to us since we last met. Each person would share the high and low points of their week at work, with family and friends, and life in general. Over time, as we grew more comfortable letting down our guards and really sharing what was on our hearts, our friendships deepened. These were people who understood and cared about each other without judgment. I felt accepted.

After a while, it became clear that the group had an unspoken rule: no dating within the group. I realize this sounds odd since many who seek out and join such fellowships are either overtly or subtly seeking their future spouse. Honestly, that thought had crossed my mind, but it also became clear to me, as it did to everyone else there also, that dating someone within the group could ruin the dynamics of friendship and trust we had come to enjoy. After all, if some began dating and then broke up, how could it not spill over to the rest of the group? We were all friends and the thought of having to ‘take sides’ in any relational dispute was too dramatic to contemplate — hence the unspoken rule.

Shortly after I arrived and joined the group, my future wife, Carol, visited First Christian and became a member of YAF. You now know that the unspoken rule was eventually broken, but not just by us…

Over time, the YAF group began taking weekend trips to local state parks where we rented cabins. We took a long Columbus Day weekend for a trip to Gulf Shores, Alabama. Some went skiing in Colorado. At all these events, there was, of course, a ‘guys cabin’ and a ‘girl’s cabin.’

I believe it was the heartfelt sharing on Tuesday evenings that changed the group dynamics. One by one, we would go around the circle and share stories of our week, with one topic coming up over and over — dissatisfaction with the dating pool and the disastrous dates some had during any given week. It became clear that what we were each looking for in a dating relationship was someone like… like someone in the YAF group. Uh oh.

And then, a couple formed in secret. I don’t know when they realized it themselves, but Bill Schock and Hanna Brown fell in love and started spending more time together outside of the group. At first, most of us didn’t notice. But, over time, when we saw that they were always sitting next to each other on Tuesday nights, at pizza on Fridays, and in church on Sundays, and that they always managed to be together when arriving at events and carpooling, we realized the unspoken rule of the group had been broken. And I am very, very thankful they broke it.

Within a matter of a few months, four couples formed: Bill Schock and Hanna Brown, Kevin Frankland and Wendy Keller, David Arrington and Melody Rutledge, and, of course, Carol and me. In less than a year, there were four YAF weddings.

What happened to the YAF group when nearly half its members married each other? It grew. Joining the fellowship were an already-married couple, Frank and Lisa Fitzgerald, and then others. Some came and went, but the core remained and continued the traditions begun when it was exclusively a fellowship of single adults. Shortly thereafter, some longtime members found their life mates and married: Alan and Sharon Patterson and Joe and Angela Schock, specifically. Not everyone in this tight-knit group chose to get married, including our good friend Terry Sullivan, one of the key personalities that has kept the group together over the last 35 years.

Then, as it often does, life happened. One of the ‘original’ couples, Bill and Hanna, moved to Birmingham. Fortunately, the story did not end there. This group of friends remains closer to one another than many families — thanks (again) to Margaret and Dick Schock…

At what I believe was a backyard engagement party for Joe and Angela, Margaret (it could have been Dick, or both) said, “You know, life can deal anyone a ‘handful’ at times. Y’all have something special here and you shouldn’t let jobs and distance (referring to Bill and Hanna’s move) prevent you from sustaining your friendship. It will be hard work, but you should be intentional about keeping up with each other, so you don’t become distant as the years pass. You should commit, right here and now, to finding time for each other every year, no matter what.” And we did.

Those “guys” and “girls” trips I mentioned earlier continued every year. Every year — for a week — scheduled a year in advance. Sacred. Inviolate.

At first, the gatherings (each between four and seven days long) were all fun, sun, late-night games, and fellowship. And then the children began to arrive. The fun continued, but in a quite different way as, over time, the children outnumbered the adults. And then some of the YAF couples followed their jobs to cities other than Huntsville, making the trek to South Alabama a prohibitive drive. We shifted our annual gatherings to Prizer Point and other lake recreational areas in Kentucky and then to the mountains of North Carolina. What didn’t change were the deep friendships and the group dynamics.

YAF at Gulf Shores in 1995.

During one of our trips, when the average child’s age was somewhere between six and ten, we learned that they, the children, had inherently assumed the YAF gatherings were family reunions and that they were all cousins!

Life has its challenges, joys, and tragedies. The YAF group has not been an exception. We comforted each other as parents became ill and died. We grieved when one of the children was called to heaven at much too young an age. We encouraged each other when children faced difficult medical conditions, treatments, and surgeries. We stood together when one of our number faced a cancer diagnosis and arduous treatment. We shared in the joys of the births of each other’s children and their accomplishments growing up. We watched as our children became young adults of the same age as us when we first met each other — and secretly wished that the YAF offspring would marry each other. Alas, they did not.

YAF trip to North Carolina when the children nearly outnumbered the originals!

All the YAF couples are still married, defying the odds (!!), and Terry is still keeping us in line.

A note about the name: Though we are no longer “Young Adults,” we couldn’t bring ourselves to change the name away from YAF. It now stands for whatever anyone in the group wants it to stand for. I prefer, ‘Youthful Ageless Friends,” but I might be alone in that.

This year marks the 34th anniversary of our first annual group trip to Gulf Shores. We’ve gathered annually every year, with the summer of 2020 being the first at which only about half of the group participated due to the spread of Covid — though we did manage to engage everyone with Zoom so we could at least ‘go around the circle.’

The fork in the road that I followed began with a phone call to a local church. The greatest joys in my life, the friendships with my YAF brothers and sisters, meeting Carol and with her raising our two children, and all the experiences in between, hinged on me making a simple, seemingly inconsequential phone call.

Praise God for being with us as we make what we believe are the small life decisions. They may have consequences well beyond anything we can imagine.

YAF in 2022 thanking Margaret Schock for fostering our group and providing celebratory wine during our annual summer gathering.

The Words of One

 

The words of one can change the minds of many.

            What do you believe? What do you just think you believe, but don’t really, when push comes to shove? People, especially scientists, can get caught up in the intellectual debate and lose sight of what they are trying to prove. Sometimes all it takes is a simple question, asked by a person with unique experience and insight, to get people to examine their core beliefs and, if they are honest, admit they were wrong. I experienced such a moment a few years ago at a Mars exploration meeting hosted by the Lunar and Planetary Institute in Houston, Texas.

            The conference was all about finding innovative new ways to support our exploration of Mars. Being selected to attend was competitive. A call went out for those interested in attending to send in an abstract describing a new approach, technology, or system that could be used in the future exploration of Mars. People submitted ideas for new types of rockets and propulsion systems, creative methods for taking landers and rovers to and from the surface of the planet, new science instruments that were lighter weight or required less power, etc. My abstract described how something called an Electric Sail might be used to reduce the cost and flight time of future robotic spacecraft traveling from Earth to Mars. It was accepted, and I was among the hundreds of scientists and engineers that converged on Houston for the three-day event.

             As is typical for big meetings like this, there was a plenary session on the (space) age old debate, “it is better to explore Mars with robots or people?” There were more than three hundred people attending this plenary, most of whom were space scientists and engineers who, over the last several days, had been presenting or listening to others present their ideas and concepts. Everyone was primed for intellectual sparring.

            The panelists debating the topic were on a stage in the front of the room. The discussion had become heated, with members of each side providing evidence making their case. What struck me was both sides’ seeming inability to understand how anyone could possibly not agree with them. After all, they had presented data supporting their view. Having worked in aerospace for decades, I had heard the arguments and read articles and papers on the topic. Not much new was being said.

            Sitting in front of the auditorium, facing the stage and the panelists, was a single, empty chair with a white sign on its back saying that the seat was reserved for someone with a four-letter name—Buzz. It did not remain empty for long.

            From the front left-side entrance, the person for whom the seat was reserved entered the room. That person was, of course, Buzz Aldrin, the second man to walk on the moon. He paused, for effect I think, before he strode forward and took his seat. Since I was not fully engaged in the debate, and because of who he was, I was distracted from what was being said and watched him instead. Aldrin sat there listening to the debate for no more than five minutes before he rose from his chair.

            

           When EF Hutton Buzz Aldrin speaks, he gets people’s attention. One by one, the panelists diverted their gazes to him and stopped talking. He was, after all, one of the few people in the world to experience what everyone in the room was discussing – walking on another world. The pause seemed to last a long time, but it was probably only a few seconds. Finally, he broke the silence.

            “I’ve been part of this discussion since I was selected for the astronaut program back in the early sixties. I’ve heard both sides of the debate make their case, but I want to ask a question. I want to ask those watching, not the panelists,” Aldrin turned to speak to us in the audience. Aldrin again paused for a few moments, no doubt to raise a sense of expectation and for the dramatic effect. He then broke the silence with a question.         

            “If it were possible, how many of you would sign up for a one-way trip to Mars?”

            The room was silent, and a few people looked furtively from side to side, waiting on someone else to respond. First, a few hands went up, then more, until finally nearly 70% of the people in the room raised theirs. I was dumbfounded. These were people who fully understood the risks and heard him say it would be a ‘one-way’ trip. It is interesting to note that prior to this, it seemed as if the robots versus people split among the audience was roughly 50/50. Not anymore.

            I did not raise my hand, not because of it being a trip to Mars, but because it would be ‘one way.’ I love the verdant planet upon which we live, my family and friends, and the ability to enjoy the natural world, teeming with life, that is just outside my door. The idea of spending my last days in a pressurized tin can on a desolate world is most definitely not on my list of things to do. Go for a visit and then return to Earth? Sure. But I would not go to Mars and stay.

            When the panel resumed, the debate aspect faded into the background and the topic changed to be something like, ‘we will send robots first, then people.’ This soon became the focus of many discussions and permeated the meeting report that was published afterward.

            To those who follow the history of space exploration, this should not be a surprise. Before we sent Yuri Gagarin and Alan Shepard to orbit the Earth, we sent Sputnik and Laika (the dog). Before Neil Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin went to the Moon, we sent Surveyor (but no mammals). When we finally go to Mars or other solar system destinations, we can be reasonably confident the robots will go there first.

            Once again, as the regular reader of my blog posts might be beginning to understand, I am a passionate believer in the power of the individual. This one man’s (Buzz’s) experience of walking on another world changed many opinions in just a matter of a few minutes. People matter. What they might say matters. We need to listen.

 

To learn more about me and my writing, please visit my website: www.lesjohnsonauthor.com

             

 

When I first moved to Alabama, I applied for a driver's license. What happened next was a complete surprise...

 

And then there was the time I was almost arrested for trying to get a driver’s license…

               I finally launched. College and graduate school were behind me. It was the mid-1980s and I landed a fantastic job with an aerospace company in Huntsville, Alabama working on Ronald Reagan’s Strategic Defense Initiative (SDI) or as some called it, “Star Wars.” Specifically, I was on the team developing neutral particle beam weapons that might someday be used to identify and then destroy incoming nuclear missiles. Heady stuff. Among the first things my employer did was have me apply for a security clearance. I was going to be working on stuff that was “secret” and had “implications for national defense.” Cool.

               When you apply for a security clearance, they want to know everything about you, your immediate family, friends, and employers. They ask if you’ve ever been arrested, joined the communist party, or smoked pot. You must list every foreign country you’ve ever visited and the names of all non-US citizens with whom you’ve had contact – in your entire life. You must list every place you’ve ever lived without any gaps. The list goes on. And on. Once the paperwork is complete, you are interviewed by a field agent as are your family and the friends you listed on the form. It is a thorough and exhaustive process. If there was any dirt in my background, then they were going to find it. And if they found anything questionable, I would not get a security clearance and lose my job. While the background investigation was in process, I was working on ‘unclassified’ parts of the project.

               I was also desperately trying to fit into the adult world and not let everyone discover that I had imposter syndrome – in my professional life as well as personal. After all, I had just left the academic world and was green behind the ears at work, wondering if I could do the complex math and analysis my job would require. I was also new to the whole ‘adulting’ thing – getting an apartment, signing up for utilities, finding a church, buying clothes appropriate for work (at the time, this meant dress shoes and pants, oxford cloth button-down dress shirts, and a tie), etc. Life can be complicated!

               As part of ‘adulting,” there was an election coming up and I wanted to be able to vote in my new home state. That meant I had to officially become an Alabamian and register to vote. Voter registration requires proof of residency, like my apartment lease, and an Alabama driver's license. It was the latter I didn’t have, so I went to the downtown municipal building and picked up both the application materials and a study guide for the Alabama driver's test. A few days later, after reviewing the study guide, I asked my boss if I could have a long lunch to drive downtown and take the exam. He, of course, agreed. Off I went in my coat and tie to take the next big step into the adult world.

               The Huntsville and Madison County Municipal building is about what you would expect. Built in the 1960s, it was functional and could have been in just about any other city in the USA. I found where I was supposed to be, then took and passed the written exam. Next, I stood in a line filled with excited teenagers to get the coveted license. When it was my turn to speak with the attendant, she asked for my old driver’s license, the one I had been using from my home state of Kentucky, and began clicking and clacking away entering my data. It is useful to remember that this all happened at the very beginning of the personal computer age. The city was not using Macs or Windows machines, the latter had not yet been invented, and there was no internet anywhere except DARPA (but that is another story).

               After she entered my data, a puzzled look crosser her face and she said, “Mr. Johnson. I can’t give you a license. The system has your name flagged.”

               “Flagged? What does that mean?” I probably asked.

               “It means you will need to go upstairs to see Corporal Byers. He is my supervisor and will let you know what you need to do,” she replied.

               I looked at my watch and noted that my lunch break was already long over. I was new to my job and still in that ‘first impression’ phase. I didn’t want to take too-long a lunch break and have my employer think I was going to be ‘one of those’ employees. But the time was already invested, so I followed her directions up the stairs to see Corporal Byers.

               As luck would have it, Corporal Byers was out of the office and I met instead with his assistant, Corporal Smith*. After introductions and me explaining why I was there, she began clacking away at her computer terminal, once again entering all my data, and viewing whatever came up on the screen. Her facial expression noticeably changed after a few moments and then she looked away from the terminal and back at me.

               “Mr. Johnson, I am a bit surprised to see you here today,” she said.

               I don’t recall if I said anything or just sat there with what I am sure was a puzzled look on my face.

               “With the outstanding warrant for your arrest after skipping your court appearance in Jasper (Alabama), this is the just about last place I expected to see you,” she said with that serious look only a police officer can make.

               I was dumbfounded. Arrest? Skipping a court appearance? Where the heck was Jasper? My mind was racing until I finally answered, “I have no idea what you are talking about.”

               She studied me carefully, likely noticing that all the color had left my face and I was now likely so pale that she feared I might pass out on the spot. I certainly felt like I might.

               “It says here that you have been arrested multiple times, the most recent of which was for a DUI near Jasper. Your court date was just over a month ago and you are listed as no show. I should just arrest you right now,” she said.

           

    “I have no idea what you are talking about,” I said and then explained my circumstances – about my recent move from Nashville, my new job, and just wanting to become a resident so I could vote, etc. I also mentioned that I had never, not even once, been arrested or even pulled over for a traffic violation in Jasper or anywhere. My driving record should have been completely clean.

               At this point, I think she was starting to believe me. But she had to ask more questions to be sure.

               “Is your name First. Middle initial. Last? (I am omitting my full legal name for privacy reasons)?”

               “Yes,” I said.

               “And were you born on Month. Day. Year?”

               “Yes,” I reluctantly said.

               “It sure looks like you are the one we’re looking for,” she said.

               “But wait. Does this guy have an Alabama Driver’s license? What about his social security number?” I asked.

               “We have his license number on file, but not his social security number,” she replied.

               “That’s not me. I’ve never even heard of Jasper, Alabama!” I exclaimed.

               She paused and then replied, “Mr. Johnson. I believe you. But I have no way to provide you are not the man we’re looking for unless I get a copy of his arrest report. That will have his photograph and fingerprints so we may prove you are not him. Once we do that, then we can give you a license.”

               “When can you get it?” I asked.

               “In about a week,” she replied. You should come back then to meet with Corporal Byers and we can get this all cleared up. You are free to go.”

               I was relieved. She wasn’t going to arrest me and cause me to lose my job.

               “Thank you,” I said. “May I have my Kentucky Driver’s License back?”
               “No,” she said. “We need to keep that until we have proof you aren’t the man we’re looking for. You should not be driving.”

               At this point, my panic began to return. At the time, Huntsville had no mass transit system and there was no way for me to get around, to or form work, church, or the grocery store without driving, let alone home back to the office from the downtown municipal building. Explaining my plight had no effect on her. I am sure she was used to hearing sob stories.

               “Wait a minute,” I said. “My license was issued in Kentucky. Shouldn’t they be the ones to pull it if there is a problem? This is Alabama.” I was grasping at straws. I had no idea if they could legally confiscate someone’s license from another state, it was just all I could come up with on the spur of the moment. I could tell from her reaction that she was considering what I said, so I continued, “Please call the Kentucky Department of Motor Vehicles and check my record. If there is anything even remotely like what this other guy is charged with on my record, then I will gladly let you keep it and go on my way.”

               “Okay. I’ll contact them now. Please wait outside,” she said.

               After a few minutes waiting in the hall, which seemed like hours, she called me back in.

               “I made a few calls and your Kentucky driving record is clean. You can have the license back. Just make sure you come back soon to meet with Corporal Byers so we can get this cleared up,” she said.

               I thanked her and went back to work – late.

               While I was driving back to my office at General Research Corporation (GRC), I began to ponder the implications of what had just happened and had almost just happened (being arrested). I knew the arrest record would clear my name, but what if the same information popped up while I was being investigated for my security clearance. Would I be able to get the clearance? Was my career over before it ever really began?

               When I returned to my office at GRC, I stopped by my boss’s office to explain why I was late and what happened. My boss, Steve Kosovac, had recruited me from Vanderbilt and had been mentoring me as I learned the work culture and what was expected. His usual smile and welcome demeanor vanished after I finished telling him my story. His response was something like this, “What happens in your personal life is not my concern unless it affects your ability to get your work done here.”

               That wasn’t what I wanted to hear. But in retrospect, he really did not know me that well yet and had no way to discern if I was telling the truth or if I was really the guy who skipped out on court appearance. I now felt even less secure. Just great.

               That evening, I called my sister, an attorney, to get her advice. She said I was doing the right things, not to worry, and just follow up with the police after the arrest records arrived.

               It was a long week.

               On the appointed day, again during my lunch break, I went back to the municipal building for my meeting with Corporal Byers.

               Byers greeted me with a smile and immediately tried to put me at ease. He ushered me into his office and did the usual clacking thing on the computer terminal before he opened a file folder that was on his desk. I surmised it was my doppelganger’s arrest record.

               “This arrived from Montgomery yesterday,” Byers said, with his Alabama accent highlighting and prolonging the pronunciation of the first syllable, ‘mont.’ He held up the paperwork, first looking at the record and then at me, then back again.

               “Nope. You aren’t him,” Byers said, putting down the file. “I’ll clear the system so you can have your new driver’s license.”

               “Thank you!” I said, with what I am sure was a big expression of relief crossing my face.

               Byers noticed that I was new to the whole ‘criminal justice system’ thing and that I was still very unsure of myself adulting.

               “Mr. Johnson,” he began, “I want you to have my business card.” He picked up a card from the stack that was on his desk, grabbed a pen, and wrote something on the back of it before handing the card to me.

              

 “My office phone number is printed on the front, and I wrote my personal number on the back. Please keep this with you and make sure that I am the first person you call if you are ever pulled over for speeding or anything. You are new to Alabama and should know that not everywhere in this state is like Huntsville. If some redneck sheriff in South Alabama were to pull you over and run your name through the system, he might find the same information we did but I can guarantee you he won’t be as understanding. He's liable to beat the hell out of you and throw you in a cell. I’ve noted the mix-up on your file, but he might not find that until the next day or so and we don’t want that to happen. Just call me if the need arises.”

               I shook his hand, thanked him again, and placed his business card in my wallet where it remained for at least the next ten years.

               Welcome to Alabama!

To learn more about me and my writing, please visit my website: www.lesjohnsonauthor.com

 

*Not her real name – I don’t remember it!

Isaac Asimov Presents The Great SF Stories: 16 (1954) - A Review

Isaac Asimov Presents The Great SF Stories: 16 (1954) - A Review

I’ve owned several volumes in this anthology series for years and, embarrassingly enough, never read them. A few weeks ago, I decided to remedy the situation and randomly pulled #16 from my bookcase and began reading. Why on Earth did I wait this long? The stories are amazing.

The volume opens with a story by Richard Matheson (who, by the way, wrote some of the best episodes of The Twilight Zone TV series) called, “The Test.” Though the storyline was somewhat predictable, the emotion of the characters nonetheless drew me in – and the ending was a real gut punch.

William Tenn’s contribution was “Down Among the Dead Men.” The story was imaginative and haunting – in more than one way. I am confident John Scalzi read the story before he wrote “Old Man’s War.” The plots are not the same, but…

Almost all of the stories were excellent. There were a few I’d read before, like “The Cold Equations” (tom Godwin) and “The Deep Range” (Arthur C. Clarke), but many I had not and should have. The best example was from Chad Oliver, an under-appreciated writer whose collective works are among the most creative of the Golden Age. I have thought about his fantasy-ish “Transformer” every day since I finished the book. 

There are great stories by Philip K. Dick, Damon Knight, Gordon R. Dickson, Algis Budrys, and more.

Moonraker (by Ian Fleming) - A Review

Continuing my trend of re-reading books that I read so long ago that I don’t remember many details (or, sometimes, even the plot!), I just finished Moonraker. The first piece of advice I can give a reader is ‘ignore the movie of the same name.’ The second bit of advice is ‘put yourself in the time period in which it was written and remember the context.’ The third is, ‘hang on, you are in for a great read!’

Written less than a decade after the end of WWII, when nuclear weapons and long-range missiles were new, the developed countries of the world were desperately researching both because they felt that if they did not, then they would be easily taken over or destroyed should another world war break out. Such is the setting for the development of the Moonraker rocket occurring in the UK under the direction of multimillionaire patriot Hugo Drax. (A rich, self-made man endears himself to a country by using his fortune to build a new type of rocket that revolutionizes everything. Hmmm. This is too farfetched to ever be possible…)

The only action in the first part of the novel is a card game - a game of bridge, not poker, not a casino game like Baccarat Chemin de Fer, no, just bridge. Fleming finds ways to build up to the game that make the reader think the fate of the world, or at least the lives of key characters, will depend upon the outcome. The game itself is suspenseful with the outcome uncertain until the very end.

Fleming loves describing food, rooms, and women and weaves key story elements into complex sentences that at first seem like they will only be providing the setting. But you need to carefully read every word lest you miss an important detail. The story moves along nicely and culminates into a very James Bond-like ending that is extremely satisfying.

SPOILER ALERT: At the end of the novel, to my great surprise, Bond does NOT get the girl.

As a writer (though clearly not in the same league as Fleming), I noticed he did one irritating thing that is a major ‘no-no’ today – head jumping. In many scenes, the story is described from the point of view of multiple characters. At more than one point, I was confused as to who was perceiving what and had to re-read the previous paragraphs to get it right.

I highly recommend this book, the 3^rd in the James Bond series of novels. I am glad I re-read it.