June 29th, 2009

My desk and the floor around my desk is covered with research papers and books about Elizabeth Custer. She was a fascinating woman. From almost the moment she met George to the time she passed away at 91 she sang his praises. They were wed in 1864 and he was killed 12 years later. She never remarried and she died in 1933. She was hopelessly devoted to George. I want to do more research on Libbie and the General, but I’ll have to go to Monroe, Michigan where she was born to get it done. I’ve just returned from a long trip and am not anxious to get on another plane. Flying has turned into an amazingly arduous process, especially boarding the plane, which has now become this tedious Bataan death march with American Tourister overnight bags. The last trip I took I was stuck behind one guy who took forever to get situated. He clogged the aisle like a piece of human cholesterol. He folded his sport jacket like he was in the color guard at Arlington National Cemetery. I’m a nervous flyer I guess. I’m suspicious of those masks that drop down in the event of decompression. The flimsy apparatus looks like a Parkay margarine cup on the end of an enema bag. The airlines always have these bizarre instructions to start the flow of oxygen. “Tug down lightly on the cord.” Yeah, you know when I’m shoulder-rolling at seven hundred miles per hour, lightly just isn’t in my vocabulary. In comparison to the mode of transportation Elizabeth Custer used to get to the military posts where George was located, flying is still the easiest and fastest way to get from one point to another. With that in mind, I’m off to book another flight.