How I earned, lost and regained my pilots license

And developed a life long love of stacking wood.

Growing up, they're all there was always a right way and a wrong way of doing things. This was especially true when it came to the organisation of things. My father, a firefighter, had a saying: Everything comes off of the truck quickly so it goes on to the truck slowly. Precision, order and uniformity was expected of stored items.

Which is likely how I fell in love with stacking firewood.

It started with the swing of a bat, a shatter of glass that filled me with both awe and terror and ended with me recieving, losing and again attaining my pilots license.

It began when I was in the fifth grade. My parents were out. We had a babysitter. I was excited I was determined to hit a baseball over my house. I wouldn’t dare try this if my folks were home. That night I attempted. That night I failed. Twice. The first attempt caromed off the gutter above the big picture window. Seven inches higher and I might have just skimmed it over the roof. That’s how I was thinking. The next attempt wasn’t so …