Until I came to be appointed to the post the Inspector- General of Cavalry had always carried out his duties in a gentlemanly way. He sent due warning months before- hand to each Regiment to tell it the date on which he would make his annual inspection of it, giving the full programme of what he would see each Squadron do, and directing that every officer must be present for the inspection. In this way everybody knew what was expected of him, and each Squadron set to work to practise up the particular item of military duty in which it was to be examined. In fact the thing became a sort of game. The Squadron had to be perfect in its subject and the I.G. had to find a fault in it. If he succeeded he won — if he didn’t the Regiment won.

Well, when I was a Captain I had realised this point and also found that it was tactful to let the LG. win ; so, having been warned that my stables would be inspected, I had everything spic and span, straw plaits down, horses filled up with water a few minutes before the General came round (in order to fill up hollow flanks), etc., etc. Everything that spit and polish could do was done ; the betting looked in favour of the Squadron winning.

But I took care that it shouldn’t. One stable lantern was left, hanging cobwebbed, dirty, and uncleaned. The LG. went round, nosing for faults but finding none, and getting more and more on edge as he saw his chances of winning were growing less, every officer and man on tip-toe with anxiety. He had almost passed through the stable when his eye fell on the lantern. Then came the explosion. “ Good —, what’s that? ———, man” — and so on. Then under a good flood of acerbity his rage gradually gave way under the realisation that he had won, and his tone altered to that of the large-minded winner.

‘‘It’s a pity, my dear boy, that there should have been that blot on what I am bound to say was otherwise a most creditable stable ; your horses were good, your men were good, your forage was good, and so on, but really that lantern — ^well — you’ll see to it, won’t you?”

And the great one strutted out fully satisfied with him- self and his win, while a great surge of relief came over every jack man in the stable, for we felt that neither had we lost. Yes — I am inclined to think that tact rather than merit won the day with some inspectors. It was much the same story as school exams, over again ; a general’s inspection was not a real test of the efficiency of a Regiment

-Robert Baden-Powell, Lessons from the Varsity of Life

Flying west prolongs the sunset.
Amber clouds twisting across the landscape
and delaying the inevitable night.
When he died, the darkness came.
A long bright light suddenly fading into darkness.
Leaving the world more grey, uncertain, alone.

He would have liked the airplane.
Admired the rivets holding it fast,
and naming the engine’s roar.
Telling story after story of other planes,
each folding into the next,
contrails floating across the sky.

He lived full of wonder.
With awe for clever artistry,
and more for engineers.
His love of classical music was so intimate,
that he spoke as though he knew them;
Beethoven, Mozart, and Chopin

Los Angeles was always his home.
Where his mom played the piano,
and he cruised the streets in youth.
He took generations of descendants
to the beaches and the auto shows.
And best of all, walks down to the park

Sixty years he led the family.
With personal guidance, or acceptance;
and never shy to share his thoughts,
whether he was tired, or hungry, or bored.
And also when he was proud of you,
and missed you, and loved you

Still flying with us is grandma,
refined by sixty-seven years of caring for him
and being cared for, by him.
For she, he honored and adored.
88 years never stood so quickly
as when she called his name.

Their six children are now left to lead
with the wisdom of their own grey hairs,
and 19 grandchildren are now bereft
of that eternal joyful chuckle.
The 27 and counting great grandchildren,
carry on his name, his love, his faith.

In the darkness of this void,
we find the roles he piloted before us
and we each move up a seat.
The grandchildren must become the parents,
of children in need of new grandparents.
Each new birth another light.

The world isn’t consigned to darkness.
The dawn still comes again,
and that long-delayed final sunset,
with it’s snuffing of his light,
is just the adding of today into yesterday
Which happens when tomorrow meets today

We will build anew each sunrise.
We each will go our way,
and we too will run out of sunsets,
when it’s our turn to fly away.
And there that long-remembered chuckle,
will again welcome us to stay.