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Somewhere east of Pierre, SD, looking East. |
There’s a moniker growing-around that’s becoming rather popular: History Geek.
If the reader is tempted to think of History Geek(ishness) as an academic, intellectual pursuit of the quantifiable (i.e. names, dates, places), you’re incorrect. Instead, those who scour history’s record with the scrupulosity of a 19th Century Counting House clerk are something altogether different than a History Geek.
Now. These NON-History Geek people are not bad people. In fact, they play a terrific role in providing the rest — History Geeks — with the framework, navigation points and scale to thrive on this strange blue ball. Indeed, a History Geek is one who’s learned to not merely collect data but to then assemble it into … well… expressions of something greater.
“Greater? Like what?”
Well, here’s where things get challenging because the human story is far bigger than can be contained in a meme. “Columbus sailed the ocean blue in 1492,” tells us very little. But when a History Geek digs in to the moment and starts to wonder, “Why?” “What were the outcomes?” “Was the price worth the gain?” “What would I have done in Columbus’ spot?” the rewards reveal themselves in the ways that define the best of us: wisdom, inspiration, excellence…
(Sigh)
Maybe what I’m trying to say is that there are people who “know the cost of everything and the value of nothing.” And there are people who know the value of everything and the cost of (doing) nothing.
I’m a History Geek. Probably, you are too.
So was Paul Ehlen.
I’ll be brief. About a month ago, 27 June to be precise, Paul died in a crash of a Curtiss P-40E fighter plane. He’d just taken off from Ravalli County Airport in Western Montana when… well, the data wonks are sorting that out. And thank gawd they are because the data is important to the Aviation community in improving the quality, safety and performance of all-things-airplanes. And yeah, the irreparable damage to a rare airplane was palpable...
Those are facts.
But. Facts alone do not satisfy. And they never satisfy.
Later that day, I received a text from one of Paul’s dearest Warbird colleagues who stated it simply, “This is the most unpleasant way to lose a friend.”
Though the words appeared on a silent screen, the writer's profound pain was felt, the sound of sobs were heard. Such is the depth and breadth of such news; it transcends the mere facts of the matter, reaching into the soul.
As a fringe-member of the “aviation community,” I knew Paul better than most but certainly not as well as others. Indeed, Paul’s name was brilliantly known in the Warbird Aviation Community. He’d backed the restoration of two beautiful P-51 Mustangs and made it possible for many more to be shared with the rest (like me).
I first met Paul years ago when he’d coordinated a commemorative flyover of Waldron Bridge, Fort Pierre, South Dakota.
It was really a cool moment. Two P-51s, a TBM, an FM-2 (Wildcat) and a straight-tail Bonanza camera plane, formed up to do a simple flyover of the community for no other reason than to salute a man who’d died doing his job, leaving behind an unsung legacy of Herculean heroism.
The community was gobsmacked by Paul’s leadership… after all, weren’t those airplanes expensive?! And didn’t the pilots have better things to do? And FREE? Certainly not FREE! They have to want SOMEthing, right?!
Nope. The cost of the event — to Paul and his cadre — had been paid on 4 June, 1942. The quantities of time, energy and money were irrelevant in comparison to the immense qualities of courage, integrity and duty that the moment represented.
I told him I couldn’t find an appropriate way to thank him for what he’d done. His reply was quick, firm and told with a smile...
“No thanks are needed or wanted. I do what I do. You do what you do. We both are doing the same thing.”
The words of a History Geek, indeed.
Blue Skies, Paul.
And I'll keep doing the same thing, too... thank you for the inspiration. :(
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Paul and his EAA Grand Champion P-51, "Sierra Sue." |
