That Old Stick

That Old Stick(Michael D. Warner) THAT OLD STICK by Michael D. Warner

Copyright 2005 by Michael D.Warner. All rights reserved.



The sit-in demonstrations of the 1960's began in February in Greensboro, North Carolina. Its movement swept across the stubborn tier of the South in a hot wave. In the middle of that month an arctic cold front spread across the state even faster, plunging temperatures in Central Alabama into the twenties. In its wake were rapidly clearing skies, gusty winds and blustery tempers.

It was on such a Sunday afternoon that our group of local pilots were sprawled about the pilot lounge in the old administration building. Most were engaged in small talk, the telling of stories, and the spreading of gossip ..hangar-flying, we used to call it.

On Sundays the men pretty much dressed alike, wearing Bible-Belt-Sunday costumery: Black suit, black tie, black hat, and the ritual black shoes. One could expect to see this ensemble at most formal events: Weddings, funerals, American Legion functions, court appearances, high school plays and of course at Governor "Big Jim" Folsom's parties held at the antebellum mansion in Montgomery.

That's how the crowd looked, excepting myself and my friend, Jack B. and of course, Martha Kay, the only lady present. She was the wife/ business-partner of our local pharmacist. Both held private pilot licenses.

Martha Kay, a petite woman in her early thirties, wore a sober, gray tweed suit whose skirt extended below the knee. Women's hair styles were short, rarely extending to just short of the shoulder, which is about where Martha Kay's auburn tresses hung. Her soft round face mirrored perpetual innocence. Looking businesslike in her tweed suit, Martha Kay conformed.

Glancing around the large room, I could tell how long a person had been there by how close he stood to the pot-bellied stove up front near the counter. When the lights were out at night you could see the red glow from its middle. My faded Air Force nylon flight jacket had spots melted into it by the heat of that coal-burner from a distance of about two feet. Under that jacket, I was in my usual ex-Air Force khakis.

My friend Jack B., a good natured large fellow and recently discharged Navy veteran in his early twenties, wore jeans, a checkered flannel shirt and brown boots. His corduroy hunting coat lay across the back of the cane-bottomed chair upon which he sat cynically observing the crowd. He stood up and moved toward the stove.

The gathering generally confined itself to the subject of airplane flying in deference to the lone female, studiously avoiding topics even remotely sexual in nature. Sexual equality did not exist then in more ways than it does not exist now, and all society seemed suddenly aware of its differences. Many entrenched institutions were facing change in 1960 America.

Upon completing his four-year U.S. Navy hitch Jack B. had returned to Bussellville. Glancing up, I saw the big fellow standing there rubbing enormous hands close to the black stove. When our eyes met, the corners of his wide mouth bent in disdain for the pomposity exhibited by the black-suited men. His thoughts struck harmonic chords with my own and I shot him a quick wink as we listened to an occasional inane comment coming from one of the others.

As I bent to stoke three more lumps of coal into the pot-belly, I overheard: "..four of 'em, an' they wouldn't leave the lunch counter, either." And, I heard: "..black eating with white! What is this country coming to, anyway?" And, I heard: "...and it's only a matter of time..."

The conversation returned to flying, I blinked gritty eyes and began paying attention. My world was being discussed and I usually had the urge to toss in my two-cents worth. Like many of the others, my contribution was usually worth just about that.

A man was speaking, Doctor Morgan, a dark haired well proportioned man in his mid fifties. He removed the briar pipe from his mouth and regarded us through the upper half of his bifocals. The doctor's voice was strong and expressed equally strong views. He said:

"Wal, as far as I'm concerned, you can see a whole lot better out of a high wing airplane than out of a low wing airplane."

I assured myself the good doctor would never find himself flying a Bonanza, Mooney, Swift, PT-19, nor an F-51. Across the room the verbal gauntlet was seized by Slim Dixon, whose scarecrow figure seemed even thinner standing there in its black suit.

“Well, of course, Doc?" he boomed in a surprisingly deep voice. "Have you ever tried to see straight down when yo're flyin' a lo-wing ?"

The doctor removed his glasses and began polishing them with a white linen handkerchief. Blinking owlishly, he turned his large head, following Slim, who had ambled over to lean on the counter, mindless of the fine layer of dust coating its surface. I attributed the slight tremor in Slim's hands to an overdose of my malicious coffee.

"Ninety-nine percent of the time," the doctor began, "the pilot is looking down, not up. He's following a railroad or a highway, or he’s looking for a landmark, or he's..."

"...lost," whispered my friend Jack B.

I averted my eyes.

By the time all views had been expressed, every important difference between high wing and low wing craft had been covered.

"A low wing is a lot easier to check fuel quantity."

"Yeah, but it's harder to crawl under when draining the sumps."

"A high wing gives you cover from the rain and makes shade from the sun while you're loading and unloading people and their stuff."

"Yeah, but it's harder to check your fuel caps. How many pilots carry a ladder around with them?"

Few subjects will evoke more spirited argument in a pilot’s lounge, but the following one will: "A tail-wheel airplane is better than a tricycle gear airplane."

Slim Dixon flew a tail-wheel Cessna 180, supervising his pulpwood timber cutting crews, sometimes landing on the nearest stretch of straight dirt road. Cessna had recently introduced the Cessna 182, a tricycled gear model of the Cessna 180. But, Slim loved his ship, the safer ground-handling features of the tricycle gear newcomer notwithstanding. Most pilots will admit to this day that anyone can land a tricycle gear ship, but it takes a pilot to land a tail-wheel ship.

The drugist couple had participated off and on asking serious questions of the other pilots and also offering observations. To me they seemed more like a pair of identical twins, both standing about five-foot-four, totally self possessed, calm. They were airplane renters but everyone knew they planned to become airplane owners. I knew they could well afford their own plane, because the chemist had once confided in me that his rule of thumb at the store was that whenever he had used up a box of baking soda, he knew he had just netted about fifteen-hundred dollars.

"How much of that stuff do you'all use in a month, Doc?" I asked. Smiling faintly, he replied, "We use a lot of it."

The argument died out on tailwheel-vs-tricycle gear. Then, the predictable argument between sticks and control wheels began. A stick or a control wheel is what the pilot grasps to control his elevator and ailerons. The room seemed more crowded because the talkers had moved closer to the stove. A man who had flown WW-II fighters swore by the stick as a flight control.

"It's much more natural to lean pressure," he said, "in the direction you wish to bank your ship." Having been an ex-Air Force fighter pilot, this man’s opinons commanded respect. He looked at everyone in turn, then shrugged in agreement with himself and moved back.

Having begun my own flying career in a Piper Super-Cub, I felt comfortable flying a tail-wheel with a stick. This seemed natural in single seat aircraft, which is what most stick-and-rag aircraft were back then. However, I felt that a control wheel was a better arrangement in a ship having side-by-side seating, like the brand new (1960) Cessna 172 which I frequently got to fly.

Of course, every pilot in the room had a personal preference. The air was full of voices. The doctor spoke up: "Wal, you drive a car with a wheel," he cited between heady puffs on his old pipe. "What's the difference if it's a wheel in a plane?" he asked no one in particular.

The room fell silent as the only woman present began to speak. Those who may have felt interrupted turned to look, then smiled politely at her. Down the hall I heard loose panes of glass rattling in the cold wind. In the background a couple of throats were cleared and a few noses sniffed.

Martha Kay's voice lifted. "Personally," she announced, "I always liked the feel of that ol' stick between my legs."

Me and Jack B. absorbed Martha's confession quickly. We collided at the door on the way out.

-- The End --

Copyright 2005 by Michael D.Warner. All rights reserved.