NOC, LOC, CROCS

Yesterday I was talking to a colleague of mine. During the course of the conversation, we mentioned NOC (Teleglobe days) Network Operating Center based in Toronto, CANADA.

My kid and her friends taught me about CROCS, their favorite footwear.

Then this morning, I learned a new, scarry acronym: LOC (Loss Of Crew).

It brought to mind a scene in Gravity, where George Clooney character cut himself of from Mother Ship so the other can live.

He drifted away (by default, becoming Icarus with back toward the Sun) into Infinity as we call it.

LOC. Loss of crew. Lost in space, at sea (recent submersible deaths) and on the streets (Amber Alert).

Each day, we face a new set of challenges. It’s hard enough to deal with inflation, interest rates and fluctuation in moods as we interact with new challenges.

It’s how we compose ourselves, grace under pressure and courage under fire.

Lt Murphy of Penn State drew fires away from his crew (getting satellite signals), Todd Beamer of Wheaton said “Let’s roll” before tackling the UA-93 terrorists.

Those alumni of mine did me proud. Not unlike Stallone in Rocky (shown during my time on campus) “Cut me” (so he can see the raging punches coming at him).

Life. Lots of challenges: buying CROCS for kids, visiting NOC’s for a tour of Teleglobe HQ, and even NASA LOC. I recently visited my cousin’s grave. Her husband was an MIA of 50 years. Now her kids were discussing having two pictures on the marker, in so doing, joining them in death, since it hadn’t been possible in life.

Greater than no man who gave his life for his fellow (generic) man (in Gravity, it’s Sandra B, and her grateful thousand yards longing eyes, started out with the Net, or abandoned to drive the bus in Speed).

We all have to let go at some point. Progress rides on these losses. Earhart and Markham, Apollo and Armstrong.

I will never forget getting in line to have my first glimpse of that exhibited piece of a Moon rock.

You believe what you see. Then this process emboldens you to venture into the unknown, seeing the unseen. What lies beneath the surface, the tip of the iceberg.

We have a boat load of thankfulness to pioneers and pathfinders before us (transatlantic flights), and now, transpacific crossing. From the emigrant to the immigrant, Mayflower to Boat People.

Those who survived and arrived built this Nation of Nations on the sweat of their eyebrows. One brick at a time. One English word, one chip soldering shift at a time, day-old bread and left-over packed lunches.

America the Beautiful (and the dammed). We don’t talk about the later, since they didn’t make it here in the first place. History books often edited out the bad and the ugly, foolishness and feverish rush to Gold digging. We buried Ponzi and celebrated Pelosi.

America, its past all buried (dead or alive), but always with a promise of a brighter future for all who gamed and came. Sometimes, it works out. Sometimes it doesn’t.

Can someone put on the Net’s soundtrack “the whiter shade of pale ” as we reluctantly part with the blinking cursor on the screen. Goodbyes are never desirable, since it is synonymous at times, with farewells. Those who love experience loss. Those who don’t don’t. Life is constituted with both the seen and the unseen. Mind you, it’s the later that affects us more with hollowness to see and scar to show. NOC, LOC, CROCS.