Takeoff: Career Adventures in General Aviation and the Faa

By John R. Hull

These are MEMOIRS OF A GREAT AVIATION CAREER presented as a life flight adventure. Each chapter is a series of interesting, informative, and easy reading, short stories. Many are airborne adventures from which pilots may learn from the authors mistakes as well as his many achievements.

The Author

John Hull is a depression reared, color-blind, high school dropout who beat the odds by diligently pursuing a career as a pilot and mechanic. He worked concurrently as an A&P mechanic with inspection authorization, a shop foreman, a flight instructor, air taxi pilot and chief pilot. He was an FAA Designated Pilot Examiner and Designated Aircraft maintenance Inspector. John became the general manager of an FAA approved flight school before reaching his goal as a General Aviation Fixed Base Operator.

He then worked as an FAA Airworthiness Inspector and climbed the FAA career ladder of success to become a highly awarded San Diego FAA Flight Standards District Office Manager.

John is now successfully pursuing a career as a Freelance Aviation Writer. Many of his adventures have been published in AOPA PILOT, CUSTOM PLANES, FLYING, PRIVATE PILOT, AND WOMAN PILOT Magazines, and PACIFIC FLYER Aviation News.

Here are sample excerpts from the book PREFACE and TWO STORIES.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Oct 13, 2000
• ISBN: 9781462827725

John R. Hull

John Hull is a depression reared, color-blind, high school dropout who beat the odds by diligently pursuing a career as an aircraft mechanic and pilot. He worked concurrently as an A&P mechanic with inspection authorization, a shop foreman, a flight instructor, chief flight instructor, air taxi pilot, and chief pilot. He was an FAA Designated Aircraft Maintenance Inspector and Designated Pilot Examiner. John became the general manager of an FAA approved flight school before reaching his goal as a General Aviation Fixed Base Operator. He then worked as an FAA Airworthiness Inspector and climbed the FAA career ladder of success to become a highly awarded FAA Flight Standards District Office Manager. John is now successfully pursuing a career as a Freelance Aviation Writer. Many of his adventures have been published in AOPA PILOT, CUSTOM PLANES, FLYING, PRIVATE PILOT, and WOMAN PILOT Magazines, and PACIFIC FLYER Aviation News.

Book preview

Copyright © 2000 by John R. Hull.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

Warning—Disclaimer

The purpose of this book is to educate and entertain. The author and publisher shall have neither liability nor responsibility to any person or entity with respect to any loss or damage caused, or alleged to be caused, directly or indirectly by the information contained in this book.

To order additional copies of this book, contact:

Xlibris Corporation

1-888-7-XLIBRIS

www.Xlibris.com

[e-mail]

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Contents

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

PREFACE

PART I

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

PART II

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

APPENDIX

APPENDIX A.

APPENDIX B.

APPENDIX C.

APPENDIX D.

This book is dedicated to all aircraft pilots and mechanics, FAA inspectors and managers, and all others who would like to be.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I thank the following people who substantially contributed to my success in aviation and in the writing of this book:

My parents, for their wholehearted support of my burning desire to become a pilot.

Mr. Leonard Lundquist, who gave me my first job in aviation as a mechanic’s helper.

My brother, Ira Hull, who loaned me the money to enroll in Cal Aero Technical Institute.

Mr. John E. (Jack) Robinson, for teaching me to fly right, and giving me my first big break as an aircraft mechanic and flight instructor.

FAA District Office Chief Olin K. Haley, for encouraging me to apply for an inspector position with the FAA.

Mr. Emerson Carpenter, my first FAA General Aviation District Office Chief, and Mr. Bud Winder, my Regional Branch Chief, who showed me how to properly supervise people and manage an office.

Pearl Silvernale, my creative writing instructor, who helped me change from an FAA technical writer to a self-employed creative freelance writer. Some of that credit also goes to members of her San Diego Community College Writer’s Workshop.

Shirley Vicars, my former FAA Administrative Officer, and the most productive secretary I ever had. She kindly and graciously reviewed and edited my manuscripts in her ‘spare’ time. Her fastidious professional assistance has been a real godsend.

Don Smith, a former FAA Inspector who voluntarily proofread all my manuscripts for technical accuracy and readability.

Don was a multi talented and triple qualified avionics, operations, and maintenance inspector.

Bill Matson, a former FAA Operations Inspector, Accident Prevention Specialist, Operations Unit Supervisor, and Flight Standards District Office Manager, who did the final proofreading and editing of the book. Bill is a prolific writer and the most diligent, honest, and trustworthy person I ever worked with.

Betty, my wife and helpmate, who has never ceased to encourage and inspire me in my pursuit of success in aviation. The early years were tough but she willingly made every move necessary to further my career. Betty made our house a home and reared our five children almost single handedly, while I flew all over the country or worked late nights to get a customer’s airplane back in the air. In her ‘spare’ time, Betty helped me rebuild airplanes in the shop. She has also helped jog my memory about a lot of the details in these memoirs . . . and has complained very little about my writing affair with this computer.

Last, but foremost, I thank God for forgiving my many mistakes and delivering me safely from them all. He saved my life many times. Sometimes in mysterious and miraculous ways.

PREFACE

Two of the worst places for a single engine aircraft to have engine failure are right after takeoff, or over the center of a large metropolitan area. Most pilots fly a lifetime without experiencing either type of failure. I encountered them both, within an hour, in the same airplane.

The cause was a surprisingly simple, but deadly serious, little aircraft design defect on the fuel selector valve. The next day when I reported it to the FAA, they were already processing an Airworthiness Directive to correct the problem. (The rest of the story, Right On Was Dead Wrong, is in Chapter Seven)

After this story was published in the September 1996 PRIVATE PILOT MAGAZINE, I caught a lot of flack from two readers, in the letters to the editor Air Mail column. Here are the letters:

In the article Right On Was Dead Wrong, "I was astonished by the lack of judgment and adequate post-incident checkout that John Hull and the Catlin mechanic conducted after the first engine-out incident occurred.

It is unthinkable to me that Mr. Hull would have considered taking his passengers up for a second flight (let alone over a heavily populated area such as Oklahoma City) without first flying the airplane without passengers to ensure that the undiagnosed problem would not recur. I trust that in addition to working at the FAA Academy, Mr. Hull is also enrolled in one of their courses on common sense safety practices."

J. S., Houston, Texas

I read with utter amazement and disgust the story Right On Was Dead Wrong" by John R. Hull. Moreover, I am amazed that someone would take up two pages of rhetoric illustrating his technical incompetence. Mr. Hull is the perfect example of a segment of technically insensitive pilots who should stay out of the sky altogether.

I cannot perceive that any technically literate pilot would line up the cartoons of a fuel selector’s position and go about his merry way knowing full well that the vibration of the engine has the potential to move that selector. I would further argue that any technically literate pilot would always look for the detent of a fuel selector’s position, regardless of the aircraft or the fuel system. Here we have another example why airplanes cannot be made idiot proof."

P. S. R., Madison Heights, Michigan

Three readers responded to the above chastisements in another Air Mail column:

"As I read the November 1996issue [of] Air Mail, I could not help but wonder what mistakes Mr. J. S. And Mr. P. R. had made in their past. It is obvious they would never admit to anything. Are they picture perfect? I don’t think any pilot has gone unscathed [in] some sort of incident, no matter how slight.

I applaud Mr. John Hull and the many like him who are willing to swallow their pride and endure embarrassment from fellow pilots in order to educate us new pilots. I read with enthusiasm mistakes made by others. Let’s face it. . . I would rather read and learn from someone else, than to have not read and make the mistake myself.

We need more pilots willing to step up to the plate and admit their personal accounts in order to understand all aspects about flying. It is obvious these guys need a bigger plane to fit their egos."

B. G. B., Lancaster, California

"There is no excuse for (Mr.) HR. s recent bombastic letter (PRIVATEPILOT, November 1996). Others of us could have ended up in John Hull’s shoes. Anyway, the Cessna 152’s that I have flown have on/off fuel selector petcocks without detents.

Would P. R. therefore accuse me of being a complete idiot on each and every flight? I have to assume so, from both the tone and the content of his letter. Mr. R. should take his ax and grind it elsewhere.

Thank you, Mr. Hull, for sharing your story. «

S. B., Corvallis, Oregon

I was amazed at how egotistical Messrs, S. and R. came across in their response to the article Right On Was Dead Wrong. " There is no denying that Mr. Hull made some decisions that may not have been the best, but he tried to do the best he could with the available information.

We have all made mistakes. Some, the really dumb ones, will only be told to the dog, the horse, or maybe the car during the drive home. Hopefully, each mistake is looked upon as a learning experience. Not as an excuse for a flogging.

Mr. Hull’s story is an example of how easy it is to get into trouble. It also shows how something simple can force us to call upon the emergency procedure skills that we so laboriously practiced in our early training. As pilots, we are called upon to make many quick decisions. Our decisions may not always be the best. Hopefully our actions will not escalate into something more dangerous.

Mr. Hull will probably never fall into the same trap again. Hopefully, by reflecting on his story, none of us will either. We should learn from Mr. Hull’s misfortune rather than mock him.. Those of us without the technical competence of Mr. R. or as well versed in Mr. S. s school of common sense safety need all the help we can get

For if we were all gurus in what we do, there would be no Titanics, Challengers or Mr. Hulls. «

H. C., Port Arthur, TX

These letters explain perfectly one of the primary purposes of this book. I’ve made more than my share of mistakes throughout my flying career. But other than taking some dangerous calculated risks while ferrying damaged airplanes, I don’t think I’m any more careless or reckless than the average pilot. I just made a lot of inadvertent mistakes and got caught in a lot of unforeseen precarious situations.

Many of the close calls terrified me at the time, but after living to tell about them, they became exciting and thrilling adventures. Each of them was also a living learning experience. I told my students about them as a flight instructor and later discussed them in seminars and aircraft accident prevention meetings in the Federal Aviation Administration (FAA). Perhaps that’s why I made so many mistakes . . . so I could share them with others. Nobody can live long enough to make all the mistakes, so why not learn and live from mine?

These stories are the memoirs of a depression reared, colorblind, high school dropout who successfully pursued a career as an aircraft mechanic and pilot to eventually become a fixed Base Operator in the General Aviation Industry. I then went to work with the FAA as a General Aviation Airworthiness Inspector and eventually became the Manager of three different Flight Standards District Offices.

This book should be especially interesting to all pilots and mechanics, FAA inspectors and managers, and anyone who wants to pursue a career in aviation. It should be essential reading for FAA Flight Standards employees who want to excel. If you’ve wondered about what goes on behind the scenes in the FAA, you should enjoy this book.

These stories are true to the best of my recollection and research. Dialog is used for realism and interest to keep the story moving. The dialog may not be precise, but it conveys the gist of what was said.

The stories openly show the good, the bad, the ugly, and the beauty of my life and career in aviation. Names of some persons have been changed or omitted to protect their privacy. I have no intention to offend or defame anyone. Profanity and common four letter words of the street are seldom used, and only as appropriate. Important events of my private and family life bind all the stories together in a natural sequence to provide human interest.

My diversified aviation career spans more than sixty years and at least twenty different progressive positions. Chapter titles broadly define most of the positions. A list of the individual job titles, and the chapter(s) in which you will find me enjoying that work, is in the Appendix.

I’ve tried to show and tell the stories of my life in aviation in such a way that you can experience them with me. In accepting story #61, Foolhardy Ferry Flight, for publication, Mr. Wayman Dunlap, the editor and publisher of the PACIFIC FLYER AVIATION NEWS wrote, I enjoyed your story and sympathized with your plight. Come, as he did, and vicariously join me in the cockpit. . . . And in the hangar, my FAA offices, and home.

I hope you enjoy my life’s flight. Any comments on the book will be appreciated.

Email: [e-mail]

John R. Hull

Freelance Aviation Writing

3631 Pine Valley Drive

Pearland, Texas 77581-8826

PART I

GENERAL AVIATION INDUSTRY

missing image file

Top: Aeronica C-3 Forced Landing Bottom: New Standard First Airplane Ride

CHAPTER ONE

THE PREFLIGHT YEARS

1. WHAT DO YOU WANT TO BE?

What do you want to be when you grow up? That’s one of the first questions a child is asked. Their answer is probably based on their favorite toy, or whoever their hero is at the time. What they really want to become may not evolve until they’re in high school. Some go all the way through college and still don’t know what they want to be when they grow up. That’s hard for me to understand because I knew precisely what I wanted to be before starting grade school . . . I wanted to be an aviator.

One of my earliest memories is how the folks got stirred up about a fellow named Charles Lindbergh. He had just become famous by flying his airplane solo from New York to Paris. I wasn’t three years old yet, but that was the beginning of my ambition to fly. From then on, aviation progressively became my highest interest and motivation in life.

Ira, my eldest teenage brother, was already smitten by the flying bug. He helped maintain my interest by buying Popular Aviation Magazines. When he finished reading them, I cut out the airplane pictures and pasted them in a scrapbook. Ira and Lindy were my heroes. I sorely missed my big brother when he joined the Navy to become an aviation cadet.

I grew to love airplanes more than anything in the world. If one flew over while I was in the house, I ran outside and watched it until it was nothing but a disappearing speck on the distant horizon. My folks said, Johnny, you’re airplane crazy. I took that as a compliment.

Like most children, I had a vivid imagination. My fantasies were of flying. John Allen, my first friend and playmate, lived next door. We were about the same age. One year both of us got similar tricycles for Christmas. We peddled the wheels off those little trikes riding them around and around our houses. John’s tricycle was a motorcycle to him. Mine was an airplane.

After the depression started in 1929, my parents couldn’t afford to replace the flying tricycle. But they always managed to buy me at least one nice, but inexpensive, toy for Christmas. One year they gave me a train I could wind up, and watch run around a small oval track. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t imagine that train being any kind of a flying machine. The thrill of being a railroad engineer wore off fast.

The toy that thrilled me the most and lasted the longest was a metal replica of the Pan American China Clipper. I even took it to bed with me. I’d arrange the bed covers to make mountains around a smooth, flat, sea of bed sheets. I lulled away hours flying that China Clipper over those mountains of bed covers . . . And, slipping it down and around the slopes to land gently on the sea of white.

The only car my parents ever owned was a Model T Ford. They must have sold it when the depression hit. I can’t even remember riding in it. The only thrill of riding in a car was sticking my hand out the window and flying it in the wind.

The only time I showed any interest in cars was when I was playing with other kids. When playing alone, I flew airplanes. If no airplane was available, I’d simply flatten my hand and fly it through half rolls, loops, and spins, before making a landing on any convenient surface with the palm of my hand.

I got my first chance to sit at the steering wheel of a car when I was about seven or eight years old. But I wasn’t driving a car. I was flying a plane. Steering wheels on some cars had control knobs in the early nineteen-thirties. Drivers could grab the knob and spin the steering wheel with one hand. I was afraid to move the wheel, but pretended the knob was an airplane trim control. By adjusting the knob, I could fly my auto-airplane without moving the steering wheel. Don’t know where I got the idea, but it was probably from a movie. I always managed to get a dime to see every aviation movie that came to town.

When assigned a book report in school, I always chose an aviation book, because I’d read everything in the library that had anything to do with flying.

I whittled my first model airplane out of soft pinewood from an apple crate. It was a low-wing racer with a four-inch wingspan. I didn’t get my first store-bought model airplane until I earned my own spending money. Daddy let me gather corn from the garden and sell it to neighbors for ten cents a dozen. When the corn ran out, I got a newspaper route. Later, I sold Collier Magazines and worked as a produce clerk and grocery bagger at a supermarket to buy model planes.

The first model I bought was a balsa wood, paper covered, E-2 Taylor Cub. Then I built a Curtis Robin and a Mr. Mulligan Racer. All were rubber-band powered. Gas engines cost too much. Even the Aeronca ‘K’ with the five-foot wingspan flew pretty well for a few minutes on multi rubber-band power. A big triangular shaped open field in front of our house made a perfect airport for my models when nobody was playing ball. The field was bordered by the cotton mill and two rows of company owned mill houses. I planned on landing a real airplane in there some day. But, by the time I learned to fly, the field had shrunk considerably.

My airplane oriented, one track mind, bothered my playmates. When I saw an airplane land at the seldom used grass airport, I’d take off in a run to get a close look at it. One day we were playing ‘follow the leader’ through the trees in the woods. A little yellow airplane flew over with a popping and sputtering engine. It landed behind some houses about a mile away. I took off toward it in a run. Before getting out of earshot, I heard one of the guys yell from a treetop. There goes Takeoff. Some of the others chimed in, Go get ‘em, Takeoff.

When I got to the airplane, the pilot was looking over the engine. After chatting a few minutes, he asked, Will you watch my airplane while I find a telephone? I need to call the Charlotte Airport and get a mechanic over here.

I had never felt so important in all my life. A real pilot had left me in charge of a real airplane. I told everyone who stopped by, Look, but please don’t touch the airplane. I’d never seen an Aeronca C-3 before. The belly was so low to the ground, it looked like a bathtub. In fact, the mechanics working on it called it a Razor-Back, Bathtub Aeronca . . . They called it some other names too, before they got it fixed and flying again.

The next day when I met my buddies, they deliberately called me Takeoff every time they spoke to me. The nickname Takeoff stuck. Though they meant it to be a put-down, I thought it was great. Now I had a flying nickname like Tailspin Tommy, and Smilin’ Jack. All of my peers and some grownups called me Takeoff from that moment on.

With my undying love for airplanes and disdain for automobiles it should come as no surprise that I learned to fly LONG before learning to drive a car! In fact, I was 26 years old, had a wife and two children, had earned my aircraft mechanic and pilot certificates and ratings, and was working as a flight instructor and aircraft mechanic before I learned to drive.

My childhood fantasies had become an exciting, diversified aviation career.

What do you want to be? There has never been a better time to pursue a career in aviation. You can takeoff and become what you want to be.

2. THE ROOTS OF MY RAISING RUN DEEP

Why must I always have something to do and strive for until it’s done? Why can’t I just sit back, relax, take it easy, and enjoy the quiet life of a retiree? To better understand my work ethics, labor/management relations, and other values throughout my career, we need to go back to the roots of my raising.

I was born in the cold predawn hours of the second day of January 1925, just a few hours late for New Years Day. We lived in a small, company owned, house in a cotton mill village in Gastonia, North Carolina. My folks were about as poor as everyone else in the village. While still very young, I can remember someone teasing Mama and Daddy about almost having a New Years baby. It was a custom for parents of babies born on New Years Day to receive gifts from the community. I felt bad about being born a day too late for Mama and Daddy to receive those gifts . . . I think I’ve been a day late and a dollar short ever since.

My Mama was quiet, gentle, and soft spoken. When her soft and gentle words failed to persuade me, she used a keen little hickory switch to get my attention. She was born and reared way back in the mountains of western North Carolina, in what is now known as the Great Smoky Mountain National Park. Her name was Elsie Mae Welch before she moved to Gastonia and married Daddy. Mama’s long, shiny, jet black hair, and high cheek bones, revealed a smidgen of Cherokee Indian ancestry.

Though she had an agreeable disposition, Mama didn’t socialize much. She couldn’t breathe well in a crowd. So she avoided groups and tight places whenever possible. Except for an occasional visit with relatives and neighbors, she stayed home most of the time. She worked hard at keeping house, cooking, sewing, gardening, and caring for my sister Mary and I. My half sister, Althea, and half brothers’ Ira and Heywood were several years older. Daddy’s first wife died in childbirth while delivering twins. The twins also died a short time later.

The dirtiest word I ever heard Mama say was s-h-i-t. She always lowered her voice and covered her mouth to show an element of surprise and apology as she said it. She used the word only when extremely frustrated or angry. Or, as she would have said, When she was madder than an old wet hen.

To my knowledge, Mama had only one bad habit . . . She dipped snuff. However, you’d never know it. Her mouth was never stained with tobacco juice. She was the cleanest snuff dipper I ever saw. I don’t know whether she swallowed the stuff or just held it for hours. Dipping snuff, or her uncanny ability to hide it, probably caused the colon cancer that took her life.

Daddy was also a quiet and gentle person. He was born and reared on a farm in Lincoln County, North Carolina, in the foothills of the mountains where Mama came from. He was the eldest child of a very large family. His father was a traveling man. So, Daddy had to work and help support the family from the time he was eight years old. His formal education ended in the second grade.

Daddy moved to Gastonia when he was eleven years old and went to work in the cotton mill. He was an exceptionally hard worker. When he wasn’t working in the mill earning a living, he was working in one of two large vegetable gardens or on a project at home. Those gardens assured us of having plenty to eat, even during the worst days of the depression. Dad didn’t own or rent the garden space. The owners just let him use it.

We turned the ground with a hand plow. I played the mule and pulled the plow. Sometimes the entire family had to work in the garden. During drought conditions, we hand carried water in pails and tubs from a small creek to water the plants.

We also had a cow, a couple of pigs, and some chickens to help us through the depression. All of them had to be fed and watered.

That was one of my chores as soon as I got big enough to carry a bucket of water.

Daddy could put two fingers to his mouth and produce the shrillest whistle I ever heard. When he finished his day’s work at the mill at three o’clock in the afternoon, he whistled for me to come help with the garden . . . Or whatever other project he was working on. I had to stop what I was doing and take off for home.

One time I asked him, Daddy, do you have to go to work today? His answer etched itself in my memory.

"Son, you should never ask if I have to go to work. You should say, do you get to go to work today."

Daddy always had a job, even in the depth of the depression. When the mill shut down, he crawled onto the back of a flat bed truck with other men and went to work in the fields. He always made enough money to give my sister and I a nickel on payday. I usually spent mine on a chocolate covered Full Moon Pie with marshmallow filling.

Dad took me for a walk when I was just a little tyke, that made a lasting impression. It also gave me a mind set about labor unions that affected me the rest of my life.

A strike was in progress at one of the cotton mills. Some violence had taken place. National Guard troops patrolled the grounds to keep the peace. A crowd had gathered in front of the mill and was quietly standing around. Daddy lifted me up on his shoulders so I could see over their heads. Soldiers were crouched behind machine guns and sand bags on the roof of the mill. The barrels of their guns pointed directly at us. The scene imprinted itself in my mind as permanently as if engraved in stone. That, and the other constant labor/management disputes of the thirties convinced me at a very early age . . . I wanted nothing to do with labor unions.

I had never heard Daddy curse or use God’s name in vain. But, one day, while tearing down a fence, he had trouble getting one of the fence posts out of the ground. He pushed and pulled on it with all his might to loosen the dirt, so he could lift it out of the hole. Suddenly the post broke at ground level. As he fell back wards with the post on top of him, he blurted out, Good God Almighty! His words astonished him as much as they did me. As soon as I knew he wasn’t hurt, we both had a good laugh.

Daddy’s knowledge of the Bible was exceptional for a person with a second grade education. He could hold his own in biblical discussions with any minister, but never belonged to any church organization until a year or so before he died. I remember Dad saying, There is only one true church, and none of them are meeting around here. But, he attended services at several churches and often took me with him.

While I was little, my parents encouraged me to go to Sunday School. But later, I either stayed home or attended the church of my choice. They taught me the values of good moral character and the right principles of living from the Ten Commandments. Then, they backed it up by setting the example in their daily lives.

Daddy sincerely believed in the proverb, Spare the rod, and spoil the child. He sometimes swatted me with a razor strap to back up his belief. But, he never whipped me in anger, and only when I deserved it. He made a believer out of me.

Dad also taught me the biblical work ethic by word and practice. Whatever your hand finds to do, do it with all your might. That’s why I always have something to do and strive for excellence in getting it done. These basic principles of living set the course for success in my life and aviation career.

3. FROM AGONY TO ECSTASY ON MY FIRST AIRPLANE RIDE

My heart sunk when I found out my folks had gone to the airport without me. I’d never been so disappointed. The tears flowed as I ran home to find a place to hide my sorrow, anger, and frustration. It was more than my sensitive nine-year-old emotions could take.

This was the day I had looked forward to, and dreamed about, all my life. While playing with toy airplanes, I’d visualized how wonderful it would be to fly like a bird. Now, those dreams were as shattered as my delicate feelings.

The Goodwill Flyers, a group of barnstormers, were in town on their annual circuit. They were carrying passengers out of the field on Linwood Road in a New Standard biplane and a Ford Trimotor. My brother, Ira, was home on leave from the Navy. He had saved money and promised to take Daddy and me to the airport for our first airplane ride. The depression still had a grip on Daddy’s pocketbook, so he couldn’t afford the non essentials like airplane rides.

Sunday was the big day. And wouldn’t you know, every relative for miles around showed up at the Hull house. They had heard that Ira was home and came to see him.

I hoped they would leave after Sunday dinner, the noon meal. But everyone kept sitting around talking. I grew tired of the grown up talk and the disappointment of them intruding on my big day. So, I decided to go to the woods and play with some of my buddies. I knew Daddy would whistle for me as soon as all the company had gone home.

About mid afternoon, I was on my way back to the house when a cousin met me and said, Your Daddy and some of the others have gone to the airport to take an airplane ride.

That’s when my heart sunk and I ran for home to hide my grief. Daddy and Ira must have forgotten all about me because I didn’t hear Daddy whistle . . . And I always heard Dad’s whistle.

When I got home, Mama tried to console me. Your daddy whistled for you. She said. You just didn’t hear him. So, dry your tears. They’ll probably take you for a ride tomorrow.

The airport was just two miles away and I had walked it many times. So, I told Mama, I’m walking to the airport. Maybe I’ll get there before they leave.

No. She said. Stay here. They’ll probably be home before you get there.

So, I went to the woodshed to be alone and sulk. I was so upset that I took my hurt and frustrated feelings out on myself. Picking up a stick of stove wood, I knocked the spokes out of one of the wheels on my bicycle. Anger quickly turned to sorrow and regret. Now, I was even more depressed.

When the folks got home from the airport and found how disappointed I was, Ira said, Get in the car Johnny. The day’s not over and the Goodwill Flyers will be flying till dark.

As we arrived at the airport, a load of passengers was getting out of the bright and shiny red biplane. It was beautiful sitting there with the late afternoon sunlight glistening off its smooth fabric skin. The long upper wing and shorter, lower wing made the New Standard a very attractive airplane.

The ticket salesman helped me onto the wing and into the big, open cockpit up front. The pilot stayed seated in the rear cockpit as we loaded. I thought, ‘how great he looks in that black leather helmet with the goggles pushed up on his forehead.’ A white silk scarf around his neck accentuated his rugged face. Another passenger soon joined me up front and they strapped the safety belt across our laps. I could stretch against the belt and barely see over the edge of the cockpit.

The ticket seller yelled, Switch off and turned the propeller to where he wanted it. Then he yelled Contact and pulled down hard on the propeller. The engine coughed, then started in a cloud of blue smoke. The whirling propeller quickly became a flickering transparent disk with the sun shining through it.

We taxied to the north end of the field and the pilot opened the throttle as we turned into the wind. The airplane quickly picked up speed and in just a few seconds, the ground started falling away.

The loud roar of the engine quieted down a little as we leveled off. Then, as the plane picked up speed, I could hear the sound of the wind blowing through the wires and struts on the wings. I had seen pictures taken from airplanes before but was overwhelmed when I saw the small world below. Little houses, toy cars, tiny people, and the intricate green and brown patterns of cultivated fields absolutely fascinated me. We seemed to be standing still as the world moved slowly beneath us.

I couldn’t resist sticking my hand out into the slipstream. Whoosh. It instantly blew back into the cockpit.

After the shortest fifteen minutes of my life, the pilot closed the throttle and started his landing approach. With the engine idling, the sound of the wind whistling and moaning through the struts and wires was music to my ears . . . an aeronautical melody I’d never forget. The pilot slipped the airplane sideways and we quickly dropped toward the field. He straightened it out just before the wheels touched the grass in a smooth three-point landing.

I’ll never forget the sights, sounds, and feelings of flying that I experienced on that first airplane ride. I’ve had many emotional highs and lows since then . . . But I have never gone from such an agonizing low to an ecstatic high in such a short time as I did on that first airplane ride.

4. YOU’LL NEVER BE A PILOT

Although I had very little encouragement from anyone after Ira joined the navy, my interest, ambition, and enthusiasm in aviation grew stronger as I entered my teenage years. None of my peers were the least bit interested in me and my dreams of flying.

But eventually, I found a friend about five years older who would sit and listen and talk to me for hours on end about flying. His name was Grady Keller. Grady’s positive attitude and concern were extremely encouraging and inspirational. He worked in the mill and always wore the typical blue denim bib overalls of a mill hand. Grady became my counselor and confidant in bib overalls.

Grady’s father was his opposite in attitude. The old man was in his seventies and was about as negative and pessimistic as a man can be. He tried his best to destroy my ambitious dreams.

Grady and I were sitting on their front porch one balmy Sunday evening, discussing my flying fantasies, when the elder Mr. Keller rudely interrupted from his rickety old rocking chair. You’ll never be a pilot, Johnny. It’s above yore raisin’. You’ll grow up and go to work in the mill just like yore daddy and his daddy before him.

The old man didn’t say that just to be ornery. The comment was an accepted basic belief in the cotton mill communities of that day. Very few people born into a textile company world tried to get out of it, because they didn’t want to. They accepted it as their lot in life. Most kids went to school until they were sixteen years old. Then it was assumed they would quit school and go to work in the mill. They felt you should be satisfied with the status quo. It was simply a family tradition. To be otherwise was to be ‘above your raising,’ or ‘too big for your britches.’

This is not to say that these folks were any less intelligent than anyone else. It’s simply the way it was. My relatives, and all the other people I knew in North Carolina and throughout the south, were good, honest, smart, practical-minded, charitable, and loving people. They are proud of their heritage and so am I. I’m as proud to be a ‘Tar Heel’ from North Carolina as I am to be an American.

Wanting to get out of that environment wasn’t only my idea. It had become a Hull family tradition. My four older brothers and sisters set the example by leaving the mill village soon after finishing high school. They became successful in their chosen fields in different parts of the country. I looked forward to doing the same.

Of course, there were some local environmental obstacles we had to overcome. Like most folks who leave the southern textile communities, farms, and mountain homes, I was kidded unmercifully about my North Carolina accent and southern drawl. My distinctive way of pronouncing some words obviously sounded hilarious to others. They laughed and harassed me until I learned to pronounce most words correctly. It helped when I learned to laugh with them. Actually, I’m still learning and laughing.

Near the end of World War II, I got together with my brother Woody for the first time in several years. We were reminiscing about our North Carolina childhood and the funny colloquialisms. Woody left the environment years before I did, so he was actually checking my progress in learning to speak correctly. Our discussion took place at the famous Earl Carol’s Night Club in Hollywood. Though this was my first visit to a classy night club, I had as much fun reviewing our North Carolina English while waiting for the floor show to start, as watching the show.

Here are a few of the North Carolina expressions we were musing about.

The word FAR didn’t necessarily mean a great distance. It could mean fire as in, Git up close to the FAR and git warm. Hence, a FAR PLACE was used for heating, as in, I like to sit by an open FAR PLACE. A FAR BOARD was a mantel, the shelf above the FAR PLACE.

An ARN was used to press clothes. Of course, you know what an ARNIN’ board is. A CHEER wasn’t necessarily a yell but something you sit on.

CLUM was the past tense of climb, and a CRICK was a small stream or stiffness in the neck. A DOPE was a Coke or other soft drink.

A FUR PIECE didn’t come from an animal. It was a long distance. Like, It’s a FUR PIECE from home. FURDER was even farther than FUR.

To HAR was to employ someone and of course you know what it meant to FAR EM. PLUMB meant completely, as in, I’m plumb wore out. A POKE, . . . wasn’t what you’re thinking. It was a brown paper sack.

A TAR was what a car needs four of, but TARD meant «all tuckered out.» AIR is something more than what you breath or put in a TAR. It’s also a measure of time, as in, «I’ll be back in a AIR and a half.»

You’re probably plumb fed up with this nonsensical jargon and I’m tard of it too. So I’m gonna stop rite now.

Just because a person is born into an economically depressed environment and talks funny, is no reason to assume they are stuck with it for the rest of their life. All it takes is the will and initiative to change. Of course, it also helps to have inspiration and encouragement.

Although I had enough self determination and motivation from an early age to keep me inspired, I really appreciated the interest and encouragement from my old friend Grady Keller. I’m even grateful his dad said, «YOU’LL NEVER BE A PILOT JOHNNY, IT’S ABOVE YORE RASING.» It made me more determined than ever to reach my goal.

5. THE PRETTY PARTY CRASHER

The summer of 1940 was hot and humid in Gastonia, North Carolina. I was a restless fifteen-year-old at the threshold of becoming a man . . . Not old enough to hold down a real job, but too old to be loafing. So, I delivered papers and bagged groceries for spending money, did my chores around the house, hung out, and did odd jobs at the airport.

On Sundays, I sometimes went to all the morning and evening services at Victory Baptist Church, to get acquainted with girls and have something to do. The Baptist Training Union (BTU) Young People’s Class boosted my ego that summer by choosing me to be their class president. This was the first office of any kind I ever held. It felt good. Being in that minor leadership position is what set me up to become a knight in shining armor to the girl who eventually became my one and only.

The purpose of BTU was to study the Baptist Church Doctrine. However, fellowship and socializing were probably the main reason most of us were there. Therefore, we occasionally had a party at some member’s home to get better acquainted and have fun.

Since it was so hot and muggy, the vice president of the class, Lucille Yoder, suggested we have an ice cream party. Everyone thought it was a swell idea. Lucille and I were to work out the details and discuss it with the group the next Sunday.

Lucille was a pretty, slender, blond girl, about my age. Her most outstanding facial feature was the same as mine—a large nose. I walked her home from church a few times, but our relationship never went any further. Since working together in the BTU class, I was becoming more fond of her.

She accepted my offer to walk her home that night so we could discuss the ice cream social. However, my mind was on more than the social as we walked the mile or so to her house. I had never kissed a girl on the lips before and hers really looked inviting. We finished our discussion in her front yard. As we were saying goodbye, in the dark of the night, I picked up the nerve to lower my head and kiss her. I missed the mark and kissed her smack on the nose. Thoroughly embarrassed, I quickly turned and walked away, never to try again.

Our ice cream party was on Saturday night. All fifteen or sixteen members showed up. We made the ice cream the old fashioned way. Hand cranking the freezer was half the fun, especially with so many to share the chore and the friendly conversation.

Everyone was having a good time finishing off their cold, creamy, confection, when we heard someone giggling outside an open window. Checking on the mysterious giggles, we found two uninvited guests crashing our party. They were Elise Yoder, Lucille’s younger sister, and Betty Yoder, their first cousin. Elise said her parents paid for the ice cream ingredients and she had as much right to be there as anyone.

Betty Yoder was visiting with Elise. Although she didn’t want to crash the party, she went with Elise to spy on us. Their appearance broke up the party in the house and moved it outside where the air was cooler.

Betty immediately became the focal point of the party. One of the fellows already knew her and started kidding around and teasing her. I envied him, because she was one of the prettiest girls I had ever seen. She had long blond hair and a sparkling smile that lit up her beautiful white teeth and smooth, flawless face. The attractive light-blue dress she wore conformed beautifully to her well-proportioned figure.

Someone suggested we play Post Office or Spin the Bottle. When we got into the game some of the guys became unruly. Instead of waiting to earn a kiss in the game, they continued to pester and tease Betty. I could tell she was feeling very self conscious and ill at ease. After all, she wasn’t even supposed to be there. One of the guys tried to kiss her on the cheek and she moved away. Soon another was trying to kiss her. Doyle Harvey was especially becoming a nuisance, insisting that she kiss him.

I couldn’t take it any longer. I told the guys to leave her alone or go home. Then I moved over and sat beside her as to dare them to touch her. They didn’t bother her anymore. I don’t know whether it was because I was president of the BTU class or they were afraid I would punch them out.

Betty let me walk her home. It surprised me to learn she was only thirteen years old. She looked and acted more mature than any of the other girls at the party. I loved to talk with her because she was so easy to talk to. Talking was about all we did together for the next few months. Betty attended the Methodist Church. I went with her to church for a while, then she went with me to Victory Baptist. In a few months, she switched to the Baptist Church.

Betty started the eighth grade in Junior High that year. I was in the ninth in High School. She rode the school bus and I walked to school. After meeting her, I started walking in the opposite direction from school so I could ride the bus with her. The next year, when we were both in high school, we walked to school together.

Betty was 14 and I was 16 before we started dating. We didn’t go out on dates unless it was a church or school activity. We usually spent Saturday evenings together in her front porch swing or living room, talking and listening to country music.

Our courting days weren’t always smooth. After a year or so, I took it for granted that we would always attend church outings together. We were having a picnic at Rankin Lake one evening and it astonished me to see Betty arrive with another fellow who asked her to go with him. Disappointed and heart broken, I went to visit my cousin in Kings Mountain for a month to get over it. I didn’t take her for granted after that.

We split up a couple of times simply because we were too young to get more deeply involved. During one of those times, I even became engaged to another girl. When that didn’t work out, I somehow knew that the Pretty Party Crasher and I would get back together for good some day.

6. SCHOOL DAZE

I didn’t like school from grade one. The first time I held up my hand, to get permission to go to the restroom, my first grade teacher wouldn’t let me go. I had to, so I went anyway . . . right in my pants. I was humiliated . . . and the wet walk home to change clothes was cold.

My second grade teacher asked me to tell her what time it was by the clock she had drawn on the blackboard. I guessed wrong, so she smacked me hard across the face with her hand. She didn’t just hurt my face; she hurt my feelings. I didn’t try to learn anything else for the rest of the year. That’s why I flunked second grade.

The next year, I did it all over again . . . with the same teacher. This time, Mrs. Abernathy was as nice as she could be. Some of the kids called me the teacher’s pet. She even gave me a starring role in the Christmas play with her daughter, the prettiest girl in class. Her daughter Betty played Mary and I played Joseph. We got an award for our performance. I liked that and I liked her daughter. Everything went well that year, but I still didn’t like to study.

The principal called me into his office several times during grammar school to discuss my grades. He always compared me with my older brothers and sisters. Their grades were much better than mine. Instead of helping me, he made me feel like the black sheep of the family. So, that’s what I became.

I liked all kinds of sports but never played well enough to get off the bench very often. That is, if I got on the team. I got my nose busted playing football. My legs shook like Jell-O when I faced the pitcher playing baseball. And my short legs and stature were not built for the basketball court.

I hated nearly every subject not related to aviation and it showed in my grades. Algebra, biology, and English were my toughest classes in high school. I couldn’t see how they would help prepare me for a flying career. Though everyone told me I needed at least a high school education to make good in aviation, I was thinking seriously of dropping out of school and going to work at the airport. I had been an airport bum ever since I was a little kid. If I wasn’t sleeping, going to school, delivering papers, or doing chores at home, I was at the airport washing airplanes or sweeping floors for an occasional airplane ride.

When I entered the tenth grade in 1941, it thrilled me to learn of a new Diversified Education Program that offered an Aircraft & Engine Mechanic course. These were vocational courses where students spent most of each morning in class learning about whatever vocation they chose. After lunch, they went to work as an apprentice in their chosen occupation. English was the only other subject required. Each student was responsible for finding afternoon employment in his or her chosen field. The school then coordinated attendance and grading procedures with the employer.

This program was a godsend for me. It would keep me in school and provide on-the-job-training to launch my aviation career. I already knew Mr. Lundquist, the airport operator, and was positive he would put me to work at the student wage of ten cents an hour.

With joy I had never experienced at the beginning of any school year, I immediately signed up for the course and secured my part time job at the airport. But my joyful enthusiasm didn’t last long. During the first week of school the principal called me to his office and said, "I’M SORRY JOHN. YOU MUST HAVE A ‘B’ AVERAGE TO TAKE THE AVIATION COURSE.»

To say I was shocked by this discouraging, belated news of a ‘B’ average prerequisite is putting it mildly. I felt stunned and totally depressed.

«I’m only interested in the aviation course.» I said, trying desperately to convince the Principal. «If I can’t take it, I might as well quit school and go to work at the airport full time. It’s a waste of time for me to stay in school and continue taking subjects that have nothing to do with airplanes.»

«Why don’t you take some other courses that are more applicable to aviation, such as mechanical drawing?» He said. «Then, if you bring your grades up to a ‘B’ average the first semester, we might get you into the aviation course the second semester.»

My parents were almost as disappointed as I when they heard the news. I told them, «I’m thinking about quitting school and working at the airport full time.»

They understood and said, «We’ll support you in whatever decision