Dave wanted me to join him on, what he called, the trip of a lifetime. I was definitely caught up in his enthusiasm. There was, however, one big drawback for me. I had a sweet little toddler still attached to my hip.
I didn’t want to leave my baby. I even went to my doctor to get his support, but he believed that it would be a healthy separation, saying that we were getting too co-dependent. So, warily taking his advice, I left my young son with my cousin, Rachel, who had a little boy around Ronnie’s age.
Since the Royal Jordanian Air Force used the Scottish Bulldog to train their pilots, Dave wanted an opportunity to get some time in that aircraft, so he planned a trip to Scotland, where the planes were manufactured.
The long flight to the British Isles took us over the frigid expanse of Greenland, which was bathed in the midnight hue of blue satin. We landed at Heathrow Airport in London in the evening. We were starved for a good meal. After renting a car we hunted for a place to eat. We had English cuisine in mind, but seemed to be out of luck to find anyplace along the road. Then we happened onto a one-way street and saw what a appeared to be a warm and cozy restaurant. To our surprise it was a very ethnic Russian restaurant.
We joined other diners at a massive benched table, soaking in the ambiance of Russian music while we waited for our order to be taken.
After we finished our meal, the proprietor came over to ask how we enjoyed our Russian uzhin (dinner), Dave described it as interesting and enjoyable. During the conversation, Dave gestured towards the stage and mentioned that I was a singer. With that, the boisterous, burly man lifted me from the bench, slung me over his shoulder without ceremony, and carried me to the stage. He handed me a guitar and declared, “You sing for your dinner!” Oh brother, I hate when that happens! The first song that popped into my head was “Dona, Dona” from a Joan Baez folk songbook. In hindsight, it was quite fitting.
I didn’t want to leave my baby. I even went to my doctor to get his support, but he believed that it would be a healthy separation, saying that we were getting too co-dependent. So, warily taking his advice, I left my young son with my cousin, Rachel, who had a little boy around Ronnie’s age.
Since the Royal Jordanian Air Force used the Scottish Bulldog to train their pilots, Dave wanted an opportunity to get some time in that aircraft, so he planned a trip to Scotland, where the planes were manufactured.
The long flight to the British Isles took us over the frigid expanse of Greenland, which was bathed in the midnight hue of blue satin. We landed at Heathrow Airport in London in the evening. We were starved for a good meal. After renting a car we hunted for a place to eat. We had English cuisine in mind, but seemed to be out of luck to find anyplace along the road. Then we happened onto a one-way street and saw what a appeared to be a warm and cozy restaurant. To our surprise it was a very ethnic Russian restaurant.
We joined other diners at a massive benched table, soaking in the ambiance of Russian music while we waited for our order to be taken.
After we finished our meal, the proprietor came over to ask how we enjoyed our Russian uzhin (dinner), Dave described it as interesting and enjoyable. During the conversation, Dave gestured towards the stage and mentioned that I was a singer. With that, the boisterous, burly man lifted me from the bench, slung me over his shoulder without ceremony, and carried me to the stage. He handed me a guitar and declared, “You sing for your dinner!” Oh brother, I hate when that happens! The first song that popped into my head was “Dona, Dona” from a Joan Baez folk songbook. In hindsight, it was quite fitting.
Dona, Dona
On a wagon, bound for market,
there’s a calf with a mournful eye.
High above him there’s a swallow,
winging swiftly through he sky.
How the winds are laughing.
They laugh with all their might.
Laugh and laugh the whole day through
and half the summer’s night.
Dona, dona, dona, dona ...don.
“Stop complaining,” said the farmer.
“Who told you a calf to be?”
“Why don’t you have wings to fly with,
like the swallow so proud and free!”
Dona, dona, dona ...don.
On a wagon, bound for market,
there’s a calf with a mournful eye.
High above him there’s a swallow,
winging swiftly through he sky.
How the winds are laughing.
They laugh with all their might.
Laugh and laugh the whole day through
and half the summer’s night.
Dona, dona, dona, dona ...don.
“Stop complaining,” said the farmer.
“Who told you a calf to be?”
“Why don’t you have wings to fly with,
like the swallow so proud and free!”
Dona, dona, dona ...don.
The restaurant customers, along with the Russian proprietor, clapped and shouted their encouragement. It turned out to be a lot of fun.
On to Scotland
Because I had obvious Scottish features—a long, narrow face with a ruddy complexion, and dark auburn hair—I was amazed to see so many of what looked like, my cousins in Scotland. Every direction I turned, there was another kin looking back at me.
The trip was packed with adventures and endless touring, but the absolute highlight was heading to Prestwick Airport in Scotland to fly the "Bulldog." Dave really put it through its paces with snap rolls, barrel rolls, 8-pointers, and loops. Wow! Then, he handed the controls over to me and guided me through some basic maneuvers. Let me explain some of them.
A snap roll essentially induces a stall on one wing while maintaining a slight angle of attack on the other. One wing has lift, the other doesn't, creating a crisp and dynamic roll. Mastering it takes a lot of practice and muscle memory.
The barrel roll is a slow, horizontal 360-degree roll.
The 8-point rolls involve eight precision stops during a roll. Watching them synchronized with two planes is absolutely mesmerizing.
The loop is a vertical 360-degree circle.
There are so many thrilling maneuvers. I could go on, but, hey, watch an airshow and you'll get your own thrills!
We flew over the purple heather-laden countryside and along the stark ruggedness of the coastline. There was something about it that, oddly, felt like home. The brogue was extremely easy for me to pick up. (Sidebar: That was an interesting word to look up: it may derive from the Irish bróg ("shoe"), the type of shoe traditionally worn by the people of Ireland and the Scottish Highlands, and hence possibly originally meant "the speech of those who call a shoe a 'brogue.)
Old songs my mother taught me as a child were emerging in my mind, like "Danny Boy," "Toora-Loora-Looral," and "When Irish Eyes Are Smiling."
On my mom's side, the family geneology had our family coming to America from the clans of the O'Beets, clans also known as the "red Irish," because of the copper redheads. My dad's family were the McBruns of Scotland, who were also know as the "black Irish" because of their thick black hair. They were from just north of the English borders. My name growing up was Katy LaVerne Brown. My middle name was a gift honoring my beautiful and always gentile aunt, Doris Laverne.
All On Board
As we regrouped back at Heathrow Airport our hearts were full of good memories, fine people, and new experiences.
It was a non-eventful seven hour flight on Alia Airlines to the Queen Alia International Airport in Jordan. Uneventful, but with one exception ...the armed military on the flight.
In September 1970, hijackers who were members of the Popular Front for the Liberation of Palestine (PFL), hijacked four airliners. Jordan was involved when the hijackers landed at a remote airstrip in Jordan. In truth, we were not aware of many things that were happening in the Middle East. For instance, I was dull to the fact that Jordan was currently under martial law since the Six-Day War of 1967. Jordan lost the West Bank in the war when Israel took control. Times were tense when thousands of refugees fled to the east banks of the Jordan.
Later on, it was odd to look out the window of Alia Airlines and see soldiers strolling in pairs with their M16s.
Amman, Jordan
We were completely exhausted when we arrived in Amman. We gathered our luggage and headed for the InterContinental Amman Hotel where His Majesty had his people book our reservations.
Gazing from our window at the Intercontinental Hotel in Amman, Jordan, I was greeted by a cloudless, blue topaz sky. I could feel the warmth of the new day as the bright sun shot golden rays across the desert landscape. Early morning shadows, like long luxurious lashes, lifted to reveal the deep soulful eyes of the ageless city.
In my hand, I held the first of many treasures, the smooth opalescent beauty of a finely crafted mother-of-pearl jewelry box—a welcoming gift from His Majesty King Hussein of the Hashemite Kingdom of Jordan. All these years later, it has become an Arabian Aladin's Lamp to me, and contains many precious memories. If you open the lid, it is likely that the exhuberance of an amazingly beautiful new culture would be the first to delight you. Happy and joyful would be my adjectives concerning them.
Dawn had just arrived and the call to waken the Islamic faithful rang out over loudspeakers from many ancient mosaic-tiled mosques. Joining the call was the myriad sound of cars, horns, and waking humanity. In all, a grand symphony began to trumpet through the streets of Amman.
I took a deep breath as if to inhale the beginning of an adventure that was just moments away. It was like a silent pause one takes before stepping into a magical movie screen where make-believe becomes reality. Over the following two weeks, we were invited to explore the vibrant depths of His Majesty’s country, and we were ready!
Our visit centered in Amman, Jordan’s largest and most modern city. It's a place where modern technology made an overnight attack on a land where the nomads of a not so distant past could hear the soft blowing whispers of the desert.
Now the constant cacophony of honking horns added their staccato to each moment of time, rising and falling with the surges of the day. A lively chorus of colorful people enhanced the raucous symphony with their animated clackety chatter. In all, it was the exuberant sound of people spinning wheels in time to the contrapuntal rhythms of life.
Considering Our Options
On this preliminary visit, we would explore our options and decide if we would enjoy dancing the dance with the people of the Middle East for a two-year tenure. If Dave accepted the commission of setting up a goodwill flying team to represent Jordan, then Amman would be our home base. How exciting! I could already tell that I was going to love the melody of this new song.
Amman, we soon discovered, was emerging from a long and fascinating past. It’s a cosmopolitan city where bright pocket lights lure the inhabitants away from ancient traditions, beckoning them to get in step with the rapid spin of the twentieth century. Many of the country’s traditionalists want to continue to savor life as they’ve always known it, content with the warmth and slow pace of the desert. Others, the twentieth century leaders—the Western-educated—want to get online and launch into the future with the rest of the racing world.
Touring
We were eager to launch out on our own adventure and explore the wonderful world of Jordan—the sights, the sounds, the tastes, and the many varied textures of an exciting and ancient culture. Tired as we were from traveling halfway around the world, we could not help rising to the adventure-seeking adrenaline within us. We quickly changed our clothes and hit the streets running, as they say. First, we rented a car and made our way out to one of the many historic landmarks secluded in a withered oasis.
In the desert, stark and bare, we explored the ruins of a Roman bathhouse once acclaimed for its cool mosaic-tiled pools. The watercolor frescos on the walls offered the faded hint of a luxuriant spa. Though cracked and pale, the once vibrant, colorful plaster dramatized scantily draped attendants sauntering along attending to the needs of the patronus. They carried plump and luscious fruit on silver platters—garnet jeweled pomegranates, purple grapes ripe to the point of bursting against their tight little scarlet membranes, sun dried sweet palm dates, and honey-filled fig cakes, all offerings to soothe the battle weary legionnaires.
My mind’s eye quickly scripted a movie scene, featuring heat-exhausted legionnaires glistening with sweat as they rode through the hot desert air. Catching scent of the cool, clear waters of the oasis, they reined in their thirst-driven horses until both horse and rider could gratify themselves with the abundance of fresh water. Stretching my mind a bit further, as through a veil of fine sand, I could see their chariots glinting of gold and brass embellishments.
As scene after scene advanced before the screenplay of my mind, I began creating a mental mirage, starring an action character from the late night movies. From a more practical political perspective, I considered that the great baths were symbols of Rome's prosperity. Whoever controlled the precious springs of water controlled life in the desert. Battles over ancient wells were common. Even today wells are staked out as one would stake out a gold claim, and misery would be the only profit for any infringing claim jumper.
As we left the bathhouse, a sharp whistling wind kicked up stinging shards of sand that stung us like angry hornets and then whistled away across the desert. Disheveled and covered with a gritty coat of sand, we got in the car and kicked up our own dust as we sped back to Amman.
On to Scotland
Because I had obvious Scottish features—a long, narrow face with a ruddy complexion, and dark auburn hair—I was amazed to see so many of what looked like, my cousins in Scotland. Every direction I turned, there was another kin looking back at me.
The trip was packed with adventures and endless touring, but the absolute highlight was heading to Prestwick Airport in Scotland to fly the "Bulldog." Dave really put it through its paces with snap rolls, barrel rolls, 8-pointers, and loops. Wow! Then, he handed the controls over to me and guided me through some basic maneuvers. Let me explain some of them.
A snap roll essentially induces a stall on one wing while maintaining a slight angle of attack on the other. One wing has lift, the other doesn't, creating a crisp and dynamic roll. Mastering it takes a lot of practice and muscle memory.
The barrel roll is a slow, horizontal 360-degree roll.
The 8-point rolls involve eight precision stops during a roll. Watching them synchronized with two planes is absolutely mesmerizing.
The loop is a vertical 360-degree circle.
There are so many thrilling maneuvers. I could go on, but, hey, watch an airshow and you'll get your own thrills!
We flew over the purple heather-laden countryside and along the stark ruggedness of the coastline. There was something about it that, oddly, felt like home. The brogue was extremely easy for me to pick up. (Sidebar: That was an interesting word to look up: it may derive from the Irish bróg ("shoe"), the type of shoe traditionally worn by the people of Ireland and the Scottish Highlands, and hence possibly originally meant "the speech of those who call a shoe a 'brogue.)
Old songs my mother taught me as a child were emerging in my mind, like "Danny Boy," "Toora-Loora-Looral," and "When Irish Eyes Are Smiling."
On my mom's side, the family geneology had our family coming to America from the clans of the O'Beets, clans also known as the "red Irish," because of the copper redheads. My dad's family were the McBruns of Scotland, who were also know as the "black Irish" because of their thick black hair. They were from just north of the English borders. My name growing up was Katy LaVerne Brown. My middle name was a gift honoring my beautiful and always gentile aunt, Doris Laverne.
All On Board
As we regrouped back at Heathrow Airport our hearts were full of good memories, fine people, and new experiences.
It was a non-eventful seven hour flight on Alia Airlines to the Queen Alia International Airport in Jordan. Uneventful, but with one exception ...the armed military on the flight.
In September 1970, hijackers who were members of the Popular Front for the Liberation of Palestine (PFL), hijacked four airliners. Jordan was involved when the hijackers landed at a remote airstrip in Jordan. In truth, we were not aware of many things that were happening in the Middle East. For instance, I was dull to the fact that Jordan was currently under martial law since the Six-Day War of 1967. Jordan lost the West Bank in the war when Israel took control. Times were tense when thousands of refugees fled to the east banks of the Jordan.
Later on, it was odd to look out the window of Alia Airlines and see soldiers strolling in pairs with their M16s.
Amman, Jordan
We were completely exhausted when we arrived in Amman. We gathered our luggage and headed for the InterContinental Amman Hotel where His Majesty had his people book our reservations.
Gazing from our window at the Intercontinental Hotel in Amman, Jordan, I was greeted by a cloudless, blue topaz sky. I could feel the warmth of the new day as the bright sun shot golden rays across the desert landscape. Early morning shadows, like long luxurious lashes, lifted to reveal the deep soulful eyes of the ageless city.
In my hand, I held the first of many treasures, the smooth opalescent beauty of a finely crafted mother-of-pearl jewelry box—a welcoming gift from His Majesty King Hussein of the Hashemite Kingdom of Jordan. All these years later, it has become an Arabian Aladin's Lamp to me, and contains many precious memories. If you open the lid, it is likely that the exhuberance of an amazingly beautiful new culture would be the first to delight you. Happy and joyful would be my adjectives concerning them.
Dawn had just arrived and the call to waken the Islamic faithful rang out over loudspeakers from many ancient mosaic-tiled mosques. Joining the call was the myriad sound of cars, horns, and waking humanity. In all, a grand symphony began to trumpet through the streets of Amman.
I took a deep breath as if to inhale the beginning of an adventure that was just moments away. It was like a silent pause one takes before stepping into a magical movie screen where make-believe becomes reality. Over the following two weeks, we were invited to explore the vibrant depths of His Majesty’s country, and we were ready!
Our visit centered in Amman, Jordan’s largest and most modern city. It's a place where modern technology made an overnight attack on a land where the nomads of a not so distant past could hear the soft blowing whispers of the desert.
Now the constant cacophony of honking horns added their staccato to each moment of time, rising and falling with the surges of the day. A lively chorus of colorful people enhanced the raucous symphony with their animated clackety chatter. In all, it was the exuberant sound of people spinning wheels in time to the contrapuntal rhythms of life.
Considering Our Options
On this preliminary visit, we would explore our options and decide if we would enjoy dancing the dance with the people of the Middle East for a two-year tenure. If Dave accepted the commission of setting up a goodwill flying team to represent Jordan, then Amman would be our home base. How exciting! I could already tell that I was going to love the melody of this new song.
Amman, we soon discovered, was emerging from a long and fascinating past. It’s a cosmopolitan city where bright pocket lights lure the inhabitants away from ancient traditions, beckoning them to get in step with the rapid spin of the twentieth century. Many of the country’s traditionalists want to continue to savor life as they’ve always known it, content with the warmth and slow pace of the desert. Others, the twentieth century leaders—the Western-educated—want to get online and launch into the future with the rest of the racing world.
Touring
We were eager to launch out on our own adventure and explore the wonderful world of Jordan—the sights, the sounds, the tastes, and the many varied textures of an exciting and ancient culture. Tired as we were from traveling halfway around the world, we could not help rising to the adventure-seeking adrenaline within us. We quickly changed our clothes and hit the streets running, as they say. First, we rented a car and made our way out to one of the many historic landmarks secluded in a withered oasis.
In the desert, stark and bare, we explored the ruins of a Roman bathhouse once acclaimed for its cool mosaic-tiled pools. The watercolor frescos on the walls offered the faded hint of a luxuriant spa. Though cracked and pale, the once vibrant, colorful plaster dramatized scantily draped attendants sauntering along attending to the needs of the patronus. They carried plump and luscious fruit on silver platters—garnet jeweled pomegranates, purple grapes ripe to the point of bursting against their tight little scarlet membranes, sun dried sweet palm dates, and honey-filled fig cakes, all offerings to soothe the battle weary legionnaires.
My mind’s eye quickly scripted a movie scene, featuring heat-exhausted legionnaires glistening with sweat as they rode through the hot desert air. Catching scent of the cool, clear waters of the oasis, they reined in their thirst-driven horses until both horse and rider could gratify themselves with the abundance of fresh water. Stretching my mind a bit further, as through a veil of fine sand, I could see their chariots glinting of gold and brass embellishments.
As scene after scene advanced before the screenplay of my mind, I began creating a mental mirage, starring an action character from the late night movies. From a more practical political perspective, I considered that the great baths were symbols of Rome's prosperity. Whoever controlled the precious springs of water controlled life in the desert. Battles over ancient wells were common. Even today wells are staked out as one would stake out a gold claim, and misery would be the only profit for any infringing claim jumper.
As we left the bathhouse, a sharp whistling wind kicked up stinging shards of sand that stung us like angry hornets and then whistled away across the desert. Disheveled and covered with a gritty coat of sand, we got in the car and kicked up our own dust as we sped back to Amman.
Gift from His Majesty King Ali Hussein of Jordan - Hand-Carved Mother-of-Pearl Jewelry Box
