About HL Peace

After twenty-five years of flying a helicopter in support of the oilfield industry, I quit and moved to France to study art. I loved flying, but flying is an art that the wind immediately blows away. No matter how good the approach or landing, only the pilot knew how good it was. Pilots are relegated to sunglasses and the cock of the hat, as a testament to their abilities. The possibility of making a piece of art from the contents of my being was something that intrigued me. The results were always pleasing because the pursuit of art appeals to our “Better Angels”.
It is also permanent and something that can be revisited.

That is an “On a Good Day” statement. The reality of it is that it becomes a struggle to view your work with a fresh eye. Like bobbing for apples in a cold tub filled with my own inadequacies. The artist’s prayer: “God grant that I may scratch this caul from my eyes.” best sums up the artist’s plight. Just to see a little deeper so I can correct my mistakes is all I wanted. That little deeper becomes a chasm deep and wide enough to house: suicides, the cutting off of ears, absinthes, Sirens, and madness. Watch your step. I got my desire for art from my Father, he loved it and was quite good. My Mother was an English teacher. Her passion was English Literature. She was a compulsive reader. When I got old enough to pour milk on cereal and then make sandwiches, that freed up the time she needed to read. Once, she found me making sandwiches with nothing but Kraft’s Miracle Whip on bread. My brother was munching away and I was quite happy with the meal. She looks around, shrugs, and goes back to the sofa and her book. She did cook great meals for us in the evening though. She had learned some rudimentary tap dance moves as a girl. Moves she used to travel around the kitchen. Sink to the stove and anywhere else she needed to be to find something while cooking. Her just tapping away is how I’ll always see my Momma. I remember looking up at her while she was stirring something in a pot. She paused, looked down at me, and said, “You know Butch, there will always be an England.” Random, but a lot of her missives were. I had no idea what she was talking about, but I knew if you ever needed to look for England, it was gonna be there. While driving past a library I remember her saying to me, “Butch, that is where the smartest people in the world live. They want to talk to you.” I learned the written word and the well-turned phrase made you a happy person. Art was like my Father, a stern taskmaster that was hard to please but if you can please him the satisfaction is sublime. I am an old man now. I am familiar with about 150 years of history, through what I have lived and first-person narratives I’ve been told. Having flown all over the world and attending art school in France has given me lots of experiences that I don’t want to die with me. That is the purpose of this book blog. That’s “Flyover Country” is about a lot of people and things I have seen. With a heavy dose of “What If?” thrown in. With respect to the personal heroism I have witnessed from people that were thrust into situations that were not of their making. Humor that is used cope with the business of living. I need folks to read and comment on what I have going on with this endeavor. Ideas, suggestions, and comments are what I crave.