Memoirs of a Nobody: Reflections on a Suspect Life

By Mark L. Williams

Beginning with childhood games and antics, David Byxby's retrospectives includes his thirty-year career as a pilot, family man and curmudgeon. His memories include sketches of the people with whom he shares adventures: a British archeologist, a Danish military pilot, a Swiss adventurer (whom he marries), a Romanian eccentric of dubious anteceden

• Language: English
• Publisher: ReadersMagnet LLC
• Release date: Dec 27, 2022
• ISBN: 9781959165750

Mark L. Williams

Born in Ohio, Williams grew up in Oregon. After graduating from university, he served four years in the army before earning a MA in Iowa. He taught English and history for thirty years in the United States, Germany and Japan. He currently resides in Lake County, Oregon.

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MEMOIRS OF A NOBODY: Reflections on a Suspect Life

Copyright © 2022 by Mark L. Williams

Published in the United States of America

ISBN Paperback: 978-1-959165-74-3

ISBN eBook: 978-1-959165-75-0

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any way by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording or otherwise without the prior permission of the author except as provided by USA copyright law.

The opinions expressed by the author are not necessarily those of ReadersMagnet, LLC.

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I was seven or eight when our family of three moved into the Pioneer Motel. Aside from the Tara-like owner’s mansion, it consisted of eight, four room cottages aligned on the entry-way axis. Behind the owner’s spacious, two-story home was the garden of his foreign-born wife. Today, it would be labeled a small farm. In addition to corn, beans, cucumbers, strawberries, a veritable horticultural research station, Mrs. Brock grew pumpkins specifically for our Halloween amusements.

I do not employ the word our lightly. An Austrian farmer’s daughter, this war bride brought her family’s values and heritage to America. Her world revolved around her husband, her children and her children’s friends – of which, I happened to be one. To the delight of us kids, her attitude was remarkably laisse faire. She encouraged us to exercise our imagination. Make no mistake, she could scold and punish with the very best when safety or propriety were violated. Mostly, though, she was satisfied to keep an eagle eye on us while letting us have our heads.

It was an exciting life in the days before politically correct suffocation. There was only one social class in our world. One was expected to have a Davy Crocket, (imitation) coonskin hat or a cowboy hat, a cap pistol, or a bow and arrow. If a body had all of these, he (or she) was the envy of play world.

Vic Brock was ten years old, but that counted for nothing. His toy rifle and his real bow and arrow set made him our ipso facto leader. His arrows came with real wooden shafts, feather stabilizers, and sharp, metal heads. There were times when we all practiced with his equipment, but only under close, adult supervision. When we played cowboys and Indians, the arrows were kept inside and in a secure location.

Imagination

We relied on Vic and his imaginary arrows whenever we found ourselves in a desperate situation requiring silence. Vic never missed. For hunting game or defending ourselves at long range, Vic’s imaginary rifle bullets were as true as his arrows.

Gaby Brock, Vic’s eight-year-old sister, used a knife as her weapon when called upon for silent, close-range action in desperate situations. It looked menacing despite being made of rubber. It was seldom called upon, however. Gaby served as a schoolmarm, rancher’s daughter, frontier widow, or the woman in the last wagon having a baby. She refused to be a saloon girl for reasons she never explained. Mostly, however, she was our doctor.

Inevitably, during our battles, we’d acquire wounds. We’d crawl or be carried to Gaby’s impromptu surgery where she tended us. Head wounds, leg wounds, arm wounds – it made no difference; her skills were confined to waving her fingers over our torsos.

Fix, fix, fix; doctor, doctor, doctor; fix, fix, fix, she’d say while wiggling her fingers over us.

In a thrice, the patient returned to the battle in perfect, physical condition.

Trent was the colored boy who lived in a residential home just over a hedge from the Pioneer Motel property line. If anyone pondered (or noticed) Trent’s skin color, I was unaware. Trent’s dad worked for the railroad. This made him a god, or, more correctly, the descendent of a god.

Trent’s contribution to our group was his speed. At nine or ten, he could outrun any student in school. Whenever we needed speed, to get word to an army post or catching a horse, Trent was the man for the job. He didn’t have a cap pistol of his own, but Vic made certain that Trent got his extra gun; it was small, but Trent carried it stuck in his belt at the small of his back; we thought this was the coolest thing ever! Bad guys always picked on Trent because they didn’t know he was packing – not until it was too late.

The only other regular in our Wild-West Adventures was Dorey. Her real name was Doreen, but that was far too incongruous for our rough and tumble world. Dorey was tall and lithe and, as I recall, was six or seven days older than I. This fact was cemented in my memory as Mrs. Brock threw a joint birthday party for us in the same spacious basement where we bobbed for apples on Halloween, hunted Easter eggs and held our Christmas party (save for Mrs. B., it was always kids only). She always made treats and copious amounts of homemade cider for these occasions.

Dorey was our quick draw artist. We never faced one another in the street at high noon, but we did hold contests. Believe me, no one came close to Dorey’s lightning draw. She showed us a trick, she’d learned from the Lone Ranger: she would draw her gun, almost. Dorey, then, pressed back and down causing her pistol to twirl on her finger until she gripped it in firing position. This was not a quick draw; it was used merely as a persuasive maneuver, a reminder that a loaded gun was aimed at some recalcitrant bandito’s breakfast. Soon enough, we all mastered this skill, but no one could pull it off with the style and panache of Dorey.

Where did I fit? What skill did I bring to this juvenile, yee-haw, imaginary frontier? We rode stick horses – even Gaby in a play dress or skirt. I happened upon a highly polished, discarded pole. It shone in the sunlight and was the envy of everyone. Inevitably, one of my fellow cowpokes would borrow my mount. Ergo, I was the expert on horseflesh. It was my job to keep a sharp eye out for new and better animals. Whenever I spied a fresh mount, we suspended our scenario to catch and break a new steed. Then, we’d decide upon the new owner. Since my charger was the best and strongest, it always fell to someone else to retire Old Paint in favor of the younger, better, braver, stronger horse.

I had one other, important task. Whenever Dorey engaged in a showdown, it was my job to watch for back shooters. I am pleased to announce that Dorey was never shot from ambush while slapping leather.

Below the vast Brock garden stretched a shallow ditch beyond which stood a disused garage and a former workshop. Looking back, I judge that these were constructed during the Depression. The main house had long since burned or been pulled down. Similarly, both the access road and street had vanished with time.

The work shack had a convenient bar for our saloon. We spent a day gathering up bottles with which to stock it.

The local beer of choice, apparently, came in a brown, stubby bottle. The label featured a giant horseshoe and waterfall under an extremely ostentatious (for we pre-teens) name. We called it, simply, Horseshoe Beer. Those bottles devoid of labels were used as other alcoholic beverages. Normal sized beer bottles, with or without labels, constituted our whiskey supply.

We tried rinsing out select bottles and filling them with water, but the taste was always foul. After a short while, we agreed that our imagination tasted better than adulterated water, so we terminated the experiment.

Vic collected a veritable library of Indian lore. These were printed on dividers in boxes of shredded wheat biscuits. He must have consumed tons of breakfast cereal to complete his collection, but we agreed that it was worth it. Among other valuable assets, Vic could track horses and a variety of game. He could examine a set of prints, broken twigs or branches and identify our prey unerringly. Unfortunately, the only tracks we ever found were either ours or neighborhood pets. Nevertheless, if a wolf, bear or mountain lion ever trespassed on Brock property, Vic could identify its tracks instantly. Moreover, Vic learned basic Indian craft. He made a crude tomahawk which amazed us all, but he interrupted our quest for cattle thieves once to build an Indian lean-to. It took us most of a morning. We needed a hammer – a hefty one, at that.

Indians don’t use hammers, he pontificated. Dorey, find us a BDR.

(Big Dern Rock, for the uninitiated)

We never swore. Should Vic or Gaby try, and word got back to mater or pater, the butt blisters would hamper them for days. If Trent or Dorey or I let go, and if Mr. or Mrs. Brock learned of it, we’d be denied play privileges for a week – maybe, two. BDR was as spicy as we ever got.

Eventually, our lean-to was completed. It was a beaut. It stood for months. When the snow came, we all raced to enjoy laying on the bare, protected ground made possible by Vic’s genuine, shredded-wheat, Indian-lore shelter.

Alas, our wild-west adventures lasted less than eighteen months. Nevertheless, this proved a highly influential period.

Vic retired to a mansion in sunny, Southern California. He designed it himself. As a highly successful and influential architect, he amassed fortune enough to build twenty mansions, but he decided he needed only one.

Gaby, at last report, is still working. She is one of the leading thoracic surgeons in the western states, if not the nation. I doubt that she ever enters the O.R. in mask, gloves and gown to lean over a patient, wiggle her fingers and go fix, fix, fix; doctor, doctor, doctor; fix, fix, fix. Nevertheless, this imaginary scene never fails to fetch a hearty laugh – from me, at least.

Trent became an all-state football halfback, all-conference basketball guard, and state champ in the one-hundred and two-hundred-yard sprints. In college, he was an honorable-mention, All-America halfback. He played twelve years in the NFL as a defensive back (half of them as an all-pro).

So much for the success stories.

I was not on hand to witness the metamorphosis of Doreen. In junior high school, she busted out. She put away her trusty gun in exchange for hair styles and clothes to take best advantage of her curvaceous figure. She was a fashion plate in junior high and was on the high school homecoming court and a prom queen. Apparently, she sought her MRS degree early on. She married twice, had a child by each husband, and accepted the job as mother and housewife. There are whispers that she is not happy.

That leaves me.

I left town when my father got a promotion and reassignment. My expertise in stick horses and guarding against back shooters did not serve me one jot in my adult life. However, I was still young and impressionable. My future snuck up on me through other means.

Leaving behand the frequently soggy valley surrounding the town hosting the Pioneer Motel, I relocated to the high desert and a much smaller town in the former and legitimate wild west.

*

Hillview!

My childhood impressions of the little village in the great valley remain so pronounced that I frequently employ the exclamation point. Since leaving this provincial hamlet, I’ve made footprints on five continents and dozens of countries. Hillview remained lodged in my subconscious. When I contemplated retirement, thoughts of Hillview loomed ever larger until they overwhelmed me.

For most transients, and many residents, the mile-high town of under five thousand souls is backward and pedestrian. I first resided there for twenty months. My father worked for the highway department and surveyed a route from the Nevada border, providing residents of that landlocked state access to the Pacific.

After the Civil War, weary veterans, some with families, lusted to leave the crucible of war and carve out a life far removed from ashes and ruins. Used to Spartan bivouacs and sudden dispersals, these hardy people sought a hospitable home beyond the reach of marauding infantry. After a few years of struggle in north-central California, a discouraged few upped stakes and searched fortunes elsewhere. Hardly had they crossed the Oregon line before finding a mile-high valley ringed by protective hills. Not only was it lush, in high-desert terms, its geographic locale would discourage martial commanders, save Hannibal, from bringing the scourge of war thither.

In addition to seasonal lakes and ponds, the valley sits atop a substantial aquifer, supporting both ranching and farming. Further, the plentiful timber provided an immediate and profitable industry; the surrounding hills abounded in mineral wealth for those hardy enough to extract it. The town itself sprang up under the protective shadows of the eastern range.

As a young boy, I never left the house without paying tribute to the mightiest of the panoramic mounds, Black Top. This landmark, as with the adjacent topographical brethren, was thrust up out of the prehistoric desert via magma displacement. The would-be Vesuvius, however, managed only anemic ooze from its crown which, once cooled, gave it the feature for which it was named. Through the binoculars, one discovers the rock formation is more brown than black with large, clinging patches of lichen. Nevertheless, to the locals, it remains Black Top sitting round and proud like some protective Buddha over the town nestled at its base.

Somehow, I knew retirement would lead me back. I resented returning to a nation in decay and felt the allure of pioneering in places like the former East Germany, the Baltic States or Romania. It’s tempting to be part of a nation reborn rather than clinging to a dying one, but Hillview’s gravitational pull proved too strong. I bought a lot and commissioned a house on a whirlwind summer stopover before returning to Okinawa.

The house itself was built on a handshake – no lawyers, agents, or esoteric contracts. I met with the rancher-turned-contractor and sketched out a crude floor plan. Soon, I found my electronic mail stoked with a series of professionally crafted plans and elevations. I made clear my preference and sat down to the endless pile of red tape. A month later, I was sent pictures of the groundbreaking. Soon, a series of photos recording building progress came to me. Pleased, though nonplussed, I reminded my contractor that my loan application was not yet approved.

He built on his dime. He wanted the roof on before the snow came and refused to tarry. My loan, he was certain, would clear anon.

There are major disadvantages to small-town life, BUT major projects such as mine are undertaken with amazing informality. Of course, my contractor and instant friend recouped his out-of-pocket expenses, but his gesture was an unexpected and highly appreciated welcome home.

No longer under the tyranny of the clock, I rise early and stroll into town. Living, as I do, in the suburbs, it takes a quarter hour to reach the heart of commerce. During that time, I enjoy the sun peeking up over the shoulder of Black Top. Conversely, during my evening outing, I watch the shadows creep up the local landmark until the spotlight goes out on its Vulcan crown.

After months of this routine, enjoyment has not waned. I admit, however, that my enthusiasm for the gossamer veil cast over the valley by a nearby wildfire wasn’t to my liking. Nevertheless, Black Top and his companions refused to succumb either to ennui or disparagement.

My morale remains unscathed.

One late afternoon, as I turned toward home, I happened through one of the more fashionable neighborhoods to discover a body lying on a well-manicured lawn. I approached cautiously; aware that such a disturbing sight could not go unnoticed.

The body didn’t show the bone-chilling signs accompanying death, but abuse was clear. The hair was tangled, filthy and littered with organic material. The cheeks, though hollow, were sunburned and the nose peeled. The thin lips were chapped and cracked, and the left hand was bandaged; the singed sleeve of a tattered coat testifying to the cause.

Despite meeting only once, I recognized Amanda Maddie Garrison. She struck me as blowsy and only modestly attractive. She’s short, slight and very young. In a few days, she’d begin her senior year.

Shortly after settling into my house, I met Maddie, her brother and parents. It was a short, chatty encounter during which we forged mutual fondness.

Two months later, I sat in a chair to get my ears set out. On the facing wall, I confronted a myriad of photographs featuring horses, horsemen, and horsewomen. In Hillview everyone was a rancher, had worked on a ranch or, in some manner or form, had been on or around horses. Studying the photographic montage, I was drawn to a singular image.

She sat expertly upon a sleek, roan quarter horse. Her blouse was the gaudy Western style, and her jeans were decidedly not for work; they were tailored to slip readily over her fancy cowgirl boots. Her Stetson was dark blue, and a tiara slithered around the crown. She was turned toward the photographer and flashed a winning smile.

Isn’t that Maddie Garrison? I asked the barber.

It was a couple years ago, my shearer responded with a resonant baritone. She was a rodeo princess.

Hmmm

She’d never get a Hollywood screen test, but the photo did her considerably more justice than her battle-scared appearance on the lawn.

Maddie?

Her eyes opened.

Mr. Byxbe, she croaked.

Dave, I reminded.

She heard me. True to local etiquette, however, she’d never honor my preference.

What are you doing?

Resting.

You’d be more comfortable inside.

Mom won’t let me with these filthy clothes.

A quick inspection produced sympathy with the verdict. One needn’t hire a detective to realize that Maddie had been battling the blaze. Some regional agency offered three hundred a day for volunteer fire fighters. I’d been tempted, but my fire-line days were decades behind me.

3And . . .?

Mr. Connors let his cattle out when the fire got close. I promised to help him round them up. The guys will be by in a bit to pick me up.

You’ll have a time getting cattle out of those trees, I warned.

The longer we wait, the harder it gets, she replied.

Typical Hillview: a friend in need, etc.

She struck me as too frail, light and fatigued to tangle with tons of beef. Regardless, she was an accomplished rider and, as her appearance testified, she didn’t shy from hard work. She kept a saddle in the garage after the family ranch was sold and they moved into town. Maddie kept a horse (or two) pastured on a local farm.

You look like Hell.

My bluntness didn’t faze her. Considering the conversation ended, she reclosed her eyes.

Did the fire burn out Connors?

We managed to save everything except the machine shed, she acknowledged, keeping her lids over her smoke-stung, bloodshot eyes. Mr. Connors moved the equipment and hitches early on, so they’re okay.

It was time to let her rest.

Good luck, I said, and be careful.

Taken as read, Mr. Byxbe.

*

My father was an adventurous spirit trapped in engineering. He’d turn down a side road and follow it for miles just to see where it led. He grew discontented with his technical education. At math and applied engineering, he was a master, but he realized that was the sum of his knowledge. He joined a great-books club and read classic literature. In Hillview, he compiled a library large enough to justify building a bookcase. As a child, I admired the covers of the Hornblower books though I was too indolent to begin one (an inexcusable oversight since corrected).

Hillview was like red meat to a ravenous dog. My father loved field work and the Oregon desert became his playground.

After a week of surveying, recording and drafting, he spent most of his weekend outside. Our family trips included drag racing across dry lakebeds and a picnic on an alkali flat where my friend’s baby brother had his picture taken while he stuck his head in a pot of Mother’s dish water.

More often, Dad would take me hunting jack rabbits. Neither of us were marksmen, but we enjoyed popping off rounds with our .22 rifle. One day, I hit a particularly ugly jack rabbit in the head. I recall feeling shame while examining the body. Killing him was pure luck. Of course, I wanted to hit what I aimed at, but I wished I hadn’t. Normally, we’d fire off seven-round clips at discarded cans and bottles littering the arid wilderness.

Hunting rabbits was an excuse. We looked for obsidian chips. The indigenous people imported the shiny, black volcanic rock and used it to make tools. We accumulated quite a collection of arrow and spearheads. Most were factory-rejects, those that were broken or botched during manufacture. We did, however, find a perfect bird arrowhead and a grindstone.

We weren’t in Hillview long before my father decided we’d assault Black Top. We borrowed a canteen and a ruck sack, packed ourselves a lunch and drove to the base of the hill. We ran out of water before we made it halfway, so we retreated to a small store where we bought a couple sodas and ate our sack lunch.

Some days later, my father came home to inform us that he’d been on Black Top via a service road. I was curious to know what he saw and was sorely disappointed when he told me there was nothing but a couple antennas and a repeater station. Hellfire! I could tell as much by looking out our window. I thirsted for news that he’d discovered traces of an old Indian encampment or a bison skull. Alas, scores of people drove to the summit every month.

I was raised on TV Westerns and Disney movies. I expected to discover the remains of a seventeenth-century ocean-going vessel in the middle of the desert or, perhaps, the rusted remnant of a cavalry pistol dropped during a desperate battle. Of course, the Lost Dutchman Mine was still lost; it must be discovered by someone. Why not me? If anyone conjured frontier fiction, I, like Heinrich Schliemann, was convinced that there was truth behind it. When my father told of the airport viewed from Black Top, I snorted. Bat Masterson never flew and there was no recorded shoot-out at the Hill County Airport.

Early one summer morning, I grabbed my trusty pump-action BB gun, mounted my trusty single-gear bike and set off to discover something momentous. I peddled through town, invisible to the locals with adult concerns. For no reason I rode past the swimming pool and up into the canyon which separated Black Top from the chain of hills to the south. It was there that I discovered a shack perched on a tiny shoulder.

Hope springs eternal. I entertained the conceit that the men who created the one-lane gravel road were too busy to look up from their work. There was a chance, however slim, that I’d be the first person to discover an outlaw hideout. What else could it be?

I concealed my bike and, rifle at the ready, clawed my way up the slope. To my great disappointment, the shack contained rusty mining machinery and two, new, beer bottles.

So much for discovering a hideout. If Jessie James or Billy the Kid used this deserted structure, they were seriously remiss in not carving their names into the wooden walls.

As I was on Black Top, the least I could do was head up and over the next rise to get a closer look.

Hey, stupid! a boyish voice came from the canyon below. What are you doing on our hill? Get your trespassing ass down here! Now!

I looked down upon three boys in jeans and t-shirts. They appeared innocuous from my vantage point, but the vocal leader of the bully band was exceedingly angry. As I saw no flashing badges, I refused to respond.

Get down here, damn it!

Such language! If I ever talked like that, I’d not sit for a month.

My inaction infuriated the Apoplexy Kid.

’Worthless shit! he snarled, picking up a rock.

He threw it at me, but the missile landed harmlessly against the slope. This made him angrier. He reached for another rock and hurled it with the same result. His goons decided to join in the action, but they were smarter than El Diablo. They picked up small stones from the roadbed. They got much better distance, but I remained out of range. They continued the barrage as their leader filled the air with locker-room language.

I decided that shelter was prudent; I stepped around the shack to place it between me and the artillery. Once there, I unzipped my pants and enjoyed a refreshing pause. Concluding business, I carried out my mission.

I paused long enough to look back when the vocal tirade ceased. There was the flabby bully puffing and groaning just a few yards down the slope. I saw him only from the knees up, but it was enough. He had a rock in his hand. He’d charged after me. His yelling ceased; he couldn’t fill his lungs and shout at the same time.

His head low, he gasped for breath. I pointed my gun from the hip. He’d have to get much closer to feel the power of my shot. It wouldn’t stop him, but it would sting like blazes. I could give him several stings before he reached me. He could, of course, throw the rock, but from the distance separating us, it would be child’s play to avoid it.

The showdown never came. He never saw me. He’d over-exerted himself in the thin, mile-high air. He continued his labored breathing before throwing the rock down at his feet and turning back.

Periodically casting a wary eye over my shoulder, I climbed. By the time my objective came into view, I was alone.

I found myself on a spine rising gently toward the summit. There was a serious slope ahead, but the goal appeared obtainable. I had no water, but I thought it best to tarry a while before venturing back into the canyon.

I picked at the soil and selected a small pebble. I spat on it and rubbed it over my shirt before popping it in my mouth. According to a Gene Autry adventure, keeping a pebble in the mouth would maintain spit production and stave off thirst. There was no way I could confirm it without testing, but, if it is good enough for Gene, it was good enough for Dave.

The climb was slow and tedious but not difficult. It would take me over a month to become acclimated to the thin air. To maintain my motivation, I paused, periodically, to look at my objective. Each time I paused, the brownish-green volcanic cork was appreciatively nearer than it was before.

Navigation was simple; all I had to do was travel up slope. There are many rattle snakes in the high desert, but I gave them no thought. My experience with the venomous reptiles was markedly benign. They don’t care for humans and slithered away whenever one approached. The five rattlers I’d encountered in my life were unanimous in their efforts to avoid me. My father was equally aware of the non-predatory nature of rattle snakes vis-à-vis the human animal. He did, however, provide me with an excellent maxim which has served me well: Never put a hand or a foot any place you cannot see.

If a rattler is startled, it will strike at a Sherman tank.

Undoubtedly, I enjoyed impunity in snake habitat. I was very smug.

A sage hen, however, does not give ground. Unlike a rattle snake, it remains as still and inconspicuous as possible up to the last moment.

Not twenty inches ahead of my step, a sage hen exploded into flight amid the wild flapping of its wings and the blood-curdling caw of rage. Instinctively, I cocked and fired my weapon. A harmless BB arched into the azure sky before falling onto the slope.

As quickly as it bolted, the bird blended comfortably back into the brown grass. Meanwhile, I swallowed my heart and, nearly, my spit pebble. When my blood thawed, I was ashamed of my cowardliness and settled into a rage. If I could find that bird, I’d beat it into a smear with the stock of my rifle. Of course, it would never come to that. Doubtless, it would explode into the air and frighten the stuffing out of me a second time.

When my knees stopped quaking, I resumed my quest far less complacent than before. My fear of rattle snakes remained at an ebb, but my wariness of a non-lethal bird waxed mightily.

At last, I climbed the final forty feet or so of the lichen encrusted rock to the very top. Though I ignored the antennas and the repeater equipment, there was no ignoring the view of the town below. I watched silently creeping traffic on two merging highways. I couldn’t see individual people, but the town was hardly a bustling pedestrian community. Far beyond Hillview’s sprawl was the unmistakable triangle of the municipal airport.

Half a century later, I stood on the airport tarmac and looked upon the majesty of Black Top, reliving my youthful exploit. The sage hens and I had long since made peace.

I waited for Jake Garrison, a husky young sophomore who, like his sister, managed horses expertly. Unlike his sister, however, he was a vaunted athlete. He could bat and field, was a fair hoopster and his speed carried the track coach’s hopes. He played football and was more than good enough to be on the varsity. Varsity coaches, however, were adamant that a player who missed a practice would not play that Friday. The junior varsity’s policy was more lenient; therefore, at his own request, Jake played on the JV team.

Jake sacrificed one practice a week to be with me. In my retirement, I offered flying lessons. Jakey was my first post-civil-service student. We started a few days prior to the county fair. We would alternate Wednesdays between flying and ground school.

Jake was relaxed and comfortable in the left seat. One of the first maneuvers for any student was to recover from a stall. Normally, a neophyte pilot changes color several times when the aircraft begins falling out of the sky. Not so Jake. He gently pushed the nose over and added power. When we again had airspeed, he pulled back gently on the yoke and banked easily onto our initial compass heading.

Are you sure you’ve never flown before? I shouted over the engine’s roar.

Why? he shouted back. I did what you told me, didn’t I?

It wasn’t his following of directions which prompted my question, but his casual, just-another-day-at-the-office attitude.

Jake’s impressive performance was not limited to recovering from a stall. Indeed, for only the third time in my flying career, I allowed Jake the opportunity to land the plane on his first lesson. He showed no signs of nervousness; he followed my instructions impeccably and kept his eye on the runway during the downwind leg. He had a good feel for the plane. If