Dear Garrett..

Chapter 1

Dear Garrett

My story of becoming an Aviator is incredible. It happened fast and miraculously. I am amazed when I look back on how it all happened.

Do you remember how often I mentioned that dreams come in big packages so that you can grow into them? Becoming an Aviator is a very big dream. And it was one that I unexpectedly grew into very quickly! This story will tell you and other readers too, how it all happened.

My decision to become an Aviator was made when I was age 17. I began flying at age 18, and acquired my first airport job when I was age 19. At age 20, I began working as a Company and Prisoner Transportation Pilot. At age 21, I became a FAA Certificated Flight Instructor. Later that year I entered the military to become an Army Aviator in Vietnam.

The amazing part is how it was done – – without a dad – – in a bankrupt family – – and having spent my High School years in a place that felt like hell to me, East (not West) Palo Alto, California. The neighborhood where I lived and attended High School eventually became known as The Murder Capitol of the United States.

I first sensed the inspiration to become an Aviator at the San Francisco, California Airport (SFO). It was 1964, I was age 17 in my senior year of high school. I was standing in a concourse, it was night. I saw lots of lights around – – blue, white, yellow, green and white lights. I didn’t know what all the different light colors meant then. There were people all around when an airplane pulled up to a gate to disembark its passengers.

It was a United Airlines Boeing 727. It was beautiful. Looking into the cockpit from the concourse, I could see the pilots moving switches and levers taking care of business at the end of their flight. Passengers were leaving the aircraft and entering the concourse. There was a pretty girl. I noticed her only briefly as my playboy pharmacist roommate Larry greeted her and introduced us. Though cute with dark hair cut smartly above her shoulders and brown eyes, she was more of a distraction to me at that moment. She was one of Larry’s girlfriends and was the reason we were at the airport. Had it not been for the airplane and airport I found so captivating, I would have paid more attention to her.

They say that what gets your attention gets you. At the moment, it was the airplane, the pilots and the airport that were getting my attention. In an instant I was filled with the awareness that I could become an Aviator. The awareness came as a welcome relief to me and as a sense of accomplishment although I hadn’t done anything except go to the airport, stand in front of an airplane and watch in awe the aircraft and the pilots.

As we left the airplane and began walking through the airport on our way back to the car, I felt a sense of comfort and excitement I’d never felt before. An important matter calmly settled in my mind. What was I going to do with my life for a career?

Departing the terminal, I could feel that a decision had been made in a powerful place within me – – my heart. And it was rapidly spreading throughout my body. Some of it was conscious, more of it probably unconscious. Immediately, I could feel my body changing. Chemicals were flowing that had never flowed before. I felt an unfamiliar feeling – – it was HOPE. There was another new feeling – – CONFIDENCE – – and PRIDE too. I wasn’t even a pilot yet but I already felt a sense of pride that I was going to be one. Inspiration told me that I could and would become an Aviator though I didn’t know how or even considered how I would accomplish it. I only knew.

Leaving the SFO Airport it was back to everyday life which since the age of twelve consisted of basic survival. I still had another semester to go to complete High School. I didn’t really attend High School to learn anything — I attended simply to  complete it and get a diploma.

Following my Dad’s passing, when I was twelve, a radically new course had been set in motion for my family. Within a few months, it became apparent that my family had become a ship without a rudder. The events that followed were too incredible to be real. But they were real.

My Dad was an engineer for the Michigan Bell Telephone Company. Dad was from Canada. His parents were from England. Dad was a proper man with well developed British manners. He was well-respected professionally and personally. He  provided well for our family. I was the oldest of his five children with my Mom. He had a daughter, my half-sister, Janet, from a previous marriage.

Dad moved ventured out on his own from Canada to Detroit, Michigan when he was 16. His first job in the United States was with the Detroit Free Press Newspaper. Dad did not finish High School. He got his second job in Detroit working on the frame at Michigan Bell. The frame was an entry-level job at the phone company. Michigan Bell subsequently sent my Dad to engineering school which became his job for most of the 29 years he worked there.

Dad had Rheumatic Fever as a child which damaged his heart. He passed in 1960 leaving us five kids and Mom to figure out how to live without him. Immediately following his passing, everyone told me that I was now the man of the family and that it was my job to take care of my sister, brothers and my Mom. When they’d tell me this, I’d just listened never  answering back. At age 12 and didn’t know how to answer to the charges pronounced onto me. I thoroughly believed, though, what I was being told. So, beginning at twelve years of age, I became the patriarch of my family.

Little did anyone know at that time what all the commotion would involve but we would find out soon. If that vulnerable period could have been measured physically with a seismograph the pre earthquake tremors would have been significant indicating a very rough ride and time ahead. The Earthquake that was about to transpire in our family under our new leadership would be off the Richter Scale.

The week Dad had his fifth and final heart attack, I spent most of my time skating around on my hockey rink on the canal behind my house shooting my hockey puck up against the seawall. I wondered what life would be like without a Dad. I felt lost and bewildered.

Had Dad lived, I feel I may have become a physician, maybe an Internal Medicine Doctor. Without my Dad now, I had no direction whatsoever regarding a career. When Dad passed, basic survival for the next several years became what mattered.

In less than a year, life had become off the scale exciting, diverse and dangerous. Within two years three different men, with my Mom’s help, would bankrupt our family.

I’ll save the explicit details of my years between the ages of 12 and 18 for another place in this story. But very briefly, I ended up in East Palo Alto following a departure from Michigan and a sweep through Louisiana and Texas and then on to California; thus the location at the time of the arrival of my dream to become an Aviator at the SFO Airport in California.

So now I had my dream to fulfill. It was a financially expensive dream with no money and no parents in sight to fund said dream. It was only a dream but as I was to find out the dream was all I would need to get started. Then it would be up to

the THOUGHTS, WORDS and ACTIONS to follow which would eventually make the dream a reality.

When I returned to High School, I now had an answer when asked, “What are you going to do after High School?” Now I could relax and say, “I’m going to be an Aviator.” Nobody I replied to ever said what they thought about my idea. I’d just get a blank look. Either they didn’t know much about what an Aviator was or they didn’t believe I could become one? If they were judging my ability to succeed at something from my High School GPA, they might have felt correct in that assumption. It just took me finding something worth studying to apply myself — that didn’t happen in High School like it did later.

There are not very many Aviators in the world relatively speaking — last I heard less than two tenths of one percent. And even though the world population continues to increase, the pilot population has been on the decline for a few decades now. If anybody reading this is thinking about becoming an Aviator, now is a good time.

I managed to make it through High School good enough to graduate. Following my epiphany at the SFO Airport, I would have to relocate my living quarters three more times while completing my senior year.

Someone decided I shouldn’t live with Larry, the playboy pharmacist who gave me a place to live for a couple of months. Larry and I worked at the same pharmacy, Baneth’s Pharmacy in Menlo Park, California. I had actually worked there my last two years of school from 1pm to 10 pm. I was in a work program at school which allowed me to leave early and get work experience and school credit too. I loved my job there. I was the delivery boy, a stock boy and a checker. School, a sixty hour work week and sleep kept me from getting into any trouble. I started at the pharmacy at $1.25 an hour and worked my way up to $1.45 per hour, obviously not enough to save up for any flying lessons but I was happy with how I was managing to get by.

My next domicile was with my boss, Mr. Baneth. He and his family lived in a million dollar mansion in Menlo Atherton. Maybe they thought that living with them would be a healthier environment than living with a playboy pharmacist? Or maybe Larry needed more privacy at home and worked out a deal with Mr. Baneth? No one ever told me why, they just said I was moving.

Mrs. Baneth was a pretty blond mom of two boys who worked in real estate. I never felt comfortable living with the Baneth’s. It felt strictly like a business arrangement. I was only there two or three months. I lived alone upstairs is this huge mansion. The family lived downstairs. After awhile, Mr. Baneth told me that Mrs. Baneth expected me to do chores at the house when I wasn’t working my 60 hour work week and attending school. I did do a little bit of garden maintenance before going to work a couple of Saturday’s which was not enough to satisfy Mrs. Baneth. I worked at the pharmacy from 1pm to 10pm on Saturday also which gave me some time in the morning before work to either rest up from the week at school and work — or to do chores to keep Mrs. Baneth happy. Shortly after I did do the garden work, I was told that I needed to leave.

At that time, I probably had another two to three months to complete High School. Leaving the Baneth’s, I packed everything I owned into my 1962 gray Volkswagen Beetle and drove away. It would take a while for me to find another place to live so I slept in my car in parks on the safe side of Palo Alto, the West side. Nobody ever bothered me in the parks. Although cramped, I was able to sleep some in my Beetle. I would get up in the morning like everyone else, get fixed up and head to school.

I remember being late only once for school during that period. I had accidentally locked myself out of my VW Beetle with the engine running while I went to get something to wear out of my trunk. I spent the next hour trying to figure out how to get back into my car. I was concerned about the engine running and how I was going to get to school on time. After an hour of walking around downtown in Palo Alto looking for a coat hanger or something to get into the car, I went back to the car and broke out what I estimated to be the cheapest window to replace. The most embarrassing thing about that event was walking around Palo Alto without any shoes on which were locked inside the car. I had to decide whether to walk around in my socks or barefooted. After a bit I pulled off my socks and went barefooted. It was early in the morning still with hardly any people around to wonder what I was up to.

If I was going to be an Aviator, it was important to make it at least through High School. That’s a good size task for anyone. Like anything, it can be easier for some than others. I obviously chose the more difficult path probably for the extra strength I would need later when I did become an Aviator.

From the completion of my junior year to the completion of my senior year, I attended three different High Schools in three different cities and lived in nine different places. Nonetheless, I had graduated. My course through High School was heavily buffeted by multiple obstacles but none of them deterred me from accomplishing my goal in the least way. Five years from my High School graduation and five years into my career as an Aviator, I would encounter the toughest buffeting of my life. My experience of living and attending High School in what I perceived as the hell of East Palo Alto was minor compared to the hell that awaited me as an Army Pilot in Vietnam.

I received two graduation gifts when I graduated from High School. The first gift came from my girlfriend when she told me she didn’t want us to go together anymore. My second graduation gift came from my employer, Mr. Baneth, when he told me he was terminating my employment at his pharmacy. Mr. Baneth told me that there was no future for me at Baneth’s Pharmacy and that I would have to move on. That unexpected news hit me hard because I liked my job at the pharmacy and it had been the most stable part of my life during my last two years of High School. Losing my girlfriend hit me hard too.

When Mr. Baneth gave me the news of my job termination, I remembered all of my Dad’s friends telling me, at his funeral, that I was now the man of the family. They also told me that if I ever needed a job when I was older to let them know. Well, that was in reference to a work opportunity with the telephone company in Michigan. But now I was in California.

I figured that one phone company is as good as another phone company so I applied for a job with the California phone company. I thought that since my Dad was an Engineer at one phone company it should count for something at another phone company. Not knowing much about life yet, I was surprised to hear that I would have to take a test for them to determine if the phone company could hire me. I fantasized about what a phone company job would be like, hooking up phones for nice people and climbing poles, etc. I could see where I could be a pretty important person having such a great job.

My hope’s were quickly dashed when I showed up at the phone company and began my attempt to take the test. The test was all electronics diagrams, questions and situations, nothing at all that I could recognize. The test may as well have been written in Greek! I could guess and bluff my way through a High School exam but I received no inspiration whatsoever on how to handle this phone company test. Nothing I had taken in High School remotely resembled anything I saw on this test.

In High School, I had managed to scrape by in math, geography and history, etc. Most of what I remember in my language class were my French teachers legs and how to say a few simple phrases in French like, “Do you listen to records?” and “How are you?” and “I am fine, thank you.” I did do better in English, Wood Shop, PE and surprisingly Bio Chemistry. Not only did I make a “A” in Bio Chemistry but I fell in love with my Bio Chemistry teacher too, Miss Cutler, a pretty blond.

Okay, so now my job at the pharmacy had ended and I failed the test for the phone company. A job at the phone company was the one ace I thought I held in my back pocket being placed there when I was age 12 while being told by my Dad’s friends to let them know if I ever needed a job. But now my Dad’s friends weren’t there to help me because I was in California and they were in Michigan.

For a while, it felt like there was no place to turn and no place to go. I remember feeling lost. At this point, I did not feel hopeless, only lost for a while. Later in Army Flight School, I remember an instructor telling us in a class on navigation, “Remember, you never get lost, only temporarily disoriented.” That’s what I felt like when I failed the phone company test, lost the pharmacy job and lost my girlfriend. At that time, I did feel that something would work out. I just didn’t know what that might be.

Still operating in a basic survival mode, it was imperative that I secure another job following my dismissal from Baneth’s Pharmacy. My dream to become an Aviator was still in my mind though it had been heavily obscured by said need of basic survival. Finding another job now would be my immediate priority.

Over the next few months, I worked in a BBQ restaurant down the street from the pharmacy. It was owned by Mr. and Mrs. Ginsburg from Peoria, Illinois. I delivered BBQ for our customers and worked in the kitchen. The Ginsburg’s let me live with them. Though it was a lonesome time, I had a quiet bedroom and was able also to sleep.

Larry had also left Baneth’s Pharmacy shortly after I did to become the pharmacist at the Woodside Apothecary in Woodside, California. Larry invited me to work with him and handle the deliveries, stocking and checking. I left the BBQ job, accepting Larry’s job offer.

Woodside was a very affluent area. The countryside around the small town of Woodside was beautiful which I liked a lot! It felt a lot safer and friendlier than delivering prescriptions for Baneth’s Pharmacy in the East Palo Alto and East Menlo Park areas where virtually everything I delivered was signed for by welfare recipients. There were no welfare deliveries in Woodside. Some residents of the Woodside area were Tennessee Ernie Ford, Shirley Temple Black and Mrs. Folgers.

Running the Woodside Apothecary deliveries in Larry’s new Ford Galaxy 500 was enjoyable also. The Ford had a 390 cubic inch powerful engine with a four-speed shifter on the floor. I liked driving it a lot. I frequently delivered prescriptions in the Woodside area like a moonshine runner delivering white lightning! Working with Larry meant I got to live with him again. We had a nice apartment in Redwood City. When I wasn’t running deliveries, stocking or checking, Larry had me painting the pharmacy.

Shortly after completing the Woodside Apothecary painting assignment, I quit working at the Apothecary with Larry and moved in temporarily with my family living in a dismal duplex at 36 Clausen Road in Watsonville, California. Still feeling lost but not hopeless, I acquired a job at a Mobil Oil gas station in Watsonville. My pay was $1.45 per hour. Gas was 23 cents per gallon then.

While working at the Mobil station, I earned enough money to take my first flying lesson. The date of my first flight lesson was December 11, 1965. I drove to the Monterey Airport and found two flight schools based at the airport. Monarch Aviation was the Piper aircraft school and Del Monte Aviation was the Cessna aircraft school. I chose Del Monte Aviation for my initial pilot training. Del Monte Aviation had a Cessna 150 for $12 per hour. The instructor fee was an additional $8 per hour.

My first take-off was on runway 28L. Runway 28L was the longer of the two parallel runways heading west approximately 280 degrees sending departing pilots out over the Monterey Bay soon after lifting off the runway.

Once airborne, my life completely changed. As we gained altitude above Earth’s surface I felt the hell I had lived in for several years fall away like a butterfly emerging out of its cocoon . A miraculous shift began to occur in life during my first pilot training flight!

Until now, nothing had entered my life that was strong enough to lift me out of the grip of hell that daily life held for me the past several years. Now I had found something different from what I had ever experienced. It was something good and healthy. It felt great.

The effect of my first flight in an aircraft was powerful enough to capture and hold the thoughts of my mind, giving me something healthy and fun to think about and look forward to. Flying gave me something to smile about. Learning to fly provided my ascent out of hell.

My life could change now. I had found something beyond basic survival to occupy my thoughts and look forward to. I tried flying just one time and it worked for me. Flying was more exciting and wonderful than I could have imagined.

Having flown now I couldn’t imagine anything I would rather do for a profession. I immediately became empowered to move forward toward this new found goal. Prior to flying I had no goal in mind for a career.

The fact that I had no money, especially the amount of money it takes for flight training, did not concern me. I was determined to fly, I saw nothing that could stand in my way.

Shortly after completing High School, I drove to the SFO Airport to speak with United Airlines about working for them as a pilot. They instructed me to acquire my Commercial Pilot Certificate and then apply with them for a position as a pilot and that they would hire me as one of their airline pilots. They suggested that I check into the pilot training program at the nearby San Mateo Junior College which I promptly did. I took the entrance exams.

To attend college in San Mateo, I would need a new place to live. My step dad’s brother, Willie, lived in San Francisco, a little to the north of San Mateo. Willie said I could live with him while I attended college.

Everything was set to attend San Mateo JC. My future was looking bright! Then my 1962 VW broke down. Turned out my car needed a complete engine overhaul. Attending college in San Mateo would not work for me now. Without much money, a simple transportation problem was a big problem to me. So for now I would stay with my family in Watsonville until I could get my transportation problem handled.

Now that I had flown my first flight and ended up in Watsonville instead of San Mateo, I would need a new plan to become an Aviator.

In Watsonville, I made a new friend, Lynn Dawson. Lynn was and is a really cool dude. Lynn had a VW dune buggy we ran around in together. Girls liked our dune buggy too!

Lynn’s Dad was a commercial fisherman in the Pacific Ocean. Lynn was missing his middle finger from birth thus we called him “The Crip,” short for cripple. Having a missing finger did not seem to bother Lynn. If you said anything about it he would tell you what you could do with yourself while simultaneously signaling you with his missing middle finger the same way he would have signaled if he had his middle finger.

Lynn liked aviation like I did. While running around together, we worked on planning our aviation careers. There were two colleges with aviation curriculums near Watsonville, Monterey Peninsula College (MPC) in Monterey and Gavilan College in Hollister. Lynn and I made plans to attend Gavilan College together.

Gavilan had an aviation maintenance program. MPC had a flight program. Although I wanted to fly, I thought becoming a mechanic would be cool too. And learning at the same school with my friend Dawson would be extra nice.

Lynn and I visited Gavilan College together. We met with the Aviation Maintenance Program Director, Mr. Humason. We received a comprehensive briefing covering the Gavilan College program.

Normally, I would not remember a person like Mr. Humason but I remember him. I was surprised to learn that Mr. Humason was the uncle of one of my best friends in High School, Brian Humason.

Brian was one of those extra smart kids in High School. Brian’s Mom was a piano teacher and his grandmother lived on the 17 Mile Drive at Pebble Beach where Brian and I spent time together doing things like riding his motorcycle on the golf courses at Pebble Beach if you can believe that! I wonder what the statute of limitations is on leaving motorcycle tire streaks on the fairways at Pebble Beach? At least we stayed off the greens! Brian had a very cool Triumph 650 Bonneville motorcycle.

Brian and I did other things together for fun too. I felt real special having this special access to the guarded and stunningly beautiful 17 Mile Drive simply by being Brian’s friend. When visiting Brian, I simply informed the gate attendant that I am a guest of his grandmother and was instantly admitted. It made me feel incredibly different from what I was accustomed to feeling about myself in my East Palo Alto environment. I had forgotten what it felt like to feel special by simply living in a beautiful neighborhood like we did on Lake St. Clair in Michigan while my Dad was alive. My time in East Palo Alto had redefined my life, how I felt about myself and how life looked. Something would have to come along for me to feel better about myself and about life. That something did when I learned to fly.

My friend, Brian, showed me my first view of an airplane up close. Though we were the same age, Brian was way ahead of me when it came to academics, airplanes and airports. He was sharp in math, electronics, physics and pretty much everything else. Comparing our intelligence levels made it obvious that my development educationally had been severely limited. For several years, intense and continuous chaotic living was the order of the day. Education wasn’t.

I had already decided to become an Aviator when I got my first look inside an airplane. Brian took me out to the Palo Alto Airport and we walked around airplanes for awhile. Brian found an airplane with the door unlocked and began showing me the instrument panel. As I scanned the clocks, dials, instruments and switches a sense of bewilderment and dismay hit me. I told Brian that I didn’t know how anyone could ever learn to work all of those instruments and switches. As I continued to scan the instruments, I began to wonder if my decision to fly was a mistake. If I did become a pilot, would I have to know how to use everything I was looking at. There was so much inside the airplane, none of which I had even seen before. It looked like there was too much to know. I wondered how I could possibly learn it all?

Though seeing inside that first airplane with Brian stirred a brief doubt about my ability to ever learn all that’s involved in becoming a pilot, the strength of my dream itself was strong enough to override those doubts when they did arise. Brian was smart. He already knew so many things I had never seen or even heard of. “In time,” I thought, “maybe I could learn them too.”

We were at Brian’s grandmother’s house on the 17 Mile Drive one day when Brian came out of the house onto a beautiful porch holding something in his hand I had never seen. It looked complicated. It was an E6-B Flight Computer. Brian said it was used for flying. Once again, I thought and said, “How would I ever learn to use this?” It had so many scales and numbers in different places. It had two sides with a lot of different things on each side. Different parts of it moved in various directions. Not knowing anything about it and having never seen it before, learning to use it simply looked and felt overwhelming.

While continuing to work at the Mobil Station in Watsonville, I began taking more flying lessons at the Monterey Airport. I was assigned an instructor, his name was Tom. Tom was a retired Naval Aviator. He was an excellent Aviator I was sure but he didn’t talk a lot. It seemed like he just mostly sat there in the airplane with me. He would say something once in a while. It seemed as if he would speak when he had to say something to keep us on track in the airplane. Otherwise he would remain quiet, almost as if he was asleep with his eyes open. It felt like he was mostly in a deep dazed resting mode while we were flying together. It seemed that he was either very relaxed with what we were doing, or simply too bored to fully engage with what we were doing. It felt like he was there maybe because there was nothing better to do except making a few extra bucks on top of his military retirement pay? Maybe flying a Cessna 150 with me wasn’t stimulating enough to excite him like some of the more sophisticated and faster aircraft he flew in the Navy? It certainly wasn’t as easy to get hurt in our Cessna 150 which demanded much less attentiveness and ability than Tom was accustomed to in a high performing military aircraft.

Following my first flight, I continued working at Roley’s Mobil on Third Street in Watsonville. I liked a girl who worked across the street at the Rexall Drug Store. Her name was Carol.

Carol’s Dad was a prominent Watsonville business man. He owned a nice bar and restaurant across from the bowling alley. When Carol’s Dad found out that Carol liked me, he forbade her to see me. He liked me at first, then didn’t when he found out about my negro stepdad. We still saw each other but had to keep it a secret. Carol would bring me delicious steak sandwiches from her Dad’s restaurant for me to eat during my lunch break while working at the Mobil Gas Station.

Six months after my first flying lesson, I began taking the regular lessons with Tom. A month later I was ready to solo. As it turned out, with Tom’s much appreciated help, I did learn to fly an airplane well enough to fly alone.

I felt surprised when Tom got out of the airplane and told me to do some takeoffs and landings by myself. I thought, “Are you sure about this? I guess it’s okay if my instructor thinks so. He supposedly knows what he’s doing.” Tom had already flown with me for 1.4 hours that day after putting me up for a 15 minute Progress Check with the Chief Instructor. After receiving brief instructions from Tom, I headed out for my first flight without my Instructor on board to make sure everything was okay!

I taxied out to runway 28L at Monterey, California, did my runup and checklist, called the tower and was cleared for takeoff. It felt amazing rolling down the runway all alone in the Cessna 150, N6981F. The feeling was exhilarating beyond anything I had ever experienced. Rolling down the runway was one thing. Lifting off the runway and climbing higher and higher above the Earth’s surface was another! A part of my mind was saying, ”Okay you’ve done it – – now you’re in a critical situation – – and you are the only person who can get you out of it! You are the only person who can get you safely back on the ground!” From there I simply did what I was trained to do by Tom and everything worked out just fine.

I felt excited and nervous in a good way. It was a new feeling I had never experienced before. My hands were sweating and my heart was beating faster and harder than usual. But I felt okay and managed to keep everything under control. I also felt freer than I had ever felt before. These feelings were all new to me. I wasn’t used to doing anything this incredible and sophisticated. I liked flying solo a lot. Flying solo showed me that I could trust myself on a higher level than I had ever known.

Following my first solo flight, I had flown seven more solo flights when my instructor said, “It’s time to begin your cross-country flight training. Where would you like to go on your first cross country?” I had been so busy and engrossed in flying my solo flights that flying cross country hadn’t even crossed my mind. Tom’s notice came as a surprise to me.

With very little reflection, I told Tom that I wanted to make my first cross-country to the San Francisco Airport (SFO). Tom was visibly shaken when I told him SFO. It was the most animated I ever saw Tom respond to anything we had experienced together! His immediate response was, “We can’t fly to the SFO Airport.” When I asked why, with a puzzled look on his face, Tom said, “It wouldn’t be an appropriate choice for your first cross country training flight.” I told Tom that SFO was the only place I wanted to fly and that I really wanted to fly there. Following a few minutes of seemingly awkward and strained deliberation in his mind Tom said, “Okay, we’ll fly to SFO.”

As I look back on my request and Tom’s subsequent agreement to fly to SFO for my first cross country training flight, I realized that Tom was plenty stout hearted to grant such a request. SFO was one of the busiest and most sophisticated airports in the world. Any instructor less than stout hearted would not have been willing to take on such a mission for a student’s first cross-country training flight. Not only would Tom have his hands full training this young student pilot everything there is to know about cross country flying but he would have to know how to simultaneously handle the sophistication of the SFO Airport.

We departed Monterey July 9, 1966 making our first stop at the Santa Cruz Skypark Airport. The Santa Cruz Airport had a short 2300′ strip with a cliff at one end. Departing Santa Cruz, we then headed to SFO. The flight to SFO was great. It went without a hitch, though we had a lot of extra radio work to handle. We landed on runway 28 Right at SFO and taxied to Butler Aviation for a break and briefing.

Preparing for departure at SFO, we were cleared into position on runway 1 Left. At the same time a Lear Jet was cleared into position on 1 Right. The tower cleared the Lear for take off and then immediately cleared us for takeoff shortly afterwards. Obviously the tower wasn’t worried about us overtaking the Lear in our Cessna 150. The picture of us departing simultaneously with a Lear at SFO was a pretty and memorable sight! Tom did a great job training me on this exceptional first cross country flight!

Seven days after my cross-country flight to SFO, I flew my second dual cross country flight with Tom from Monterey to Santa Barbara (SBA) and return to MRY. On the way to SBA Tom failed our Cessna 150 100 horsepower Continental engine for a practice emergency landing at the King City Airport located in the Salinas valley. On the return flight to MRY Tom failed the engine again for another practice emergency landing at the Carmel Valley Airport.

In the logbook endorsement for my second dual cross-country Tom wrote, “Very good cross-country” which surprised me. It wasn’t like Tom to be expressive with such a high compliment. It must have been okay because seven days following my second dual cross-country I was sent off on my first solo cross-country.

Five days prior to beginning my solo cross country flights, Tom and I flew my first night training flight. The flight lasted 2.1 hours. Night flying felt much different to me than flying in daylight. Movement through the air at night felt motionless. Distances were more difficult to judge both horizontally and vertically. The night air was calm. Increased reliance on the flight instruments was more important. The Earth looks less populated at night. I liked flying at night.

As the reality of that extra bad day settled in and I arrived at my dismal and temporary home, the spinning in my head began to slowly transition into resolve. The resolve that devloped was, “I need to get another job.” As the day progressed, I settled into regrouping and adapting to my new unexpected set of life circumstances.

My first order of business was figuring out how to go about getting another job. I didn’t yet know what to do about the failed attempt to earn my pilot’s license. I still owed the flight school for the past few lessons – – was out of a job – – had no money – – and had no transportation other than hitching rides with my mom and step dad.

Mentioning to my family that I needed to get another job produced a suggestion that I call a family friend named Tommy Stout. I knew Mr. Stout from the church we attended in the Las Lomas suburb of Watsonville. I liked Mr. Stout. He was from Oklahoma. He was a tall thin cowboy. He had what appeared to be a nice family. Mr. Stout lived on a ranch and was well connected with ranching operations in the Watsonville area. Often when I had visited with Mr. Stout and it came time to part, he would tell me with his Oklahoma accent, “Keep on the right trail.” I always liked it when he told me that. I’d feel a surge of encouragement and resolve when I heard those words. The words seemed extra special coming from him – – like maybe he was saying the words to remind himself as well?

Mr. Stout told me that he had heard the Kaydell Angus Farm might be looking for “A hand”. He said he would check and let me know. Within hours, I heard back from Mr. Stout. Yes, Kaydell was looking for another ranch hand. I promptly applied for the job and was hired on the spot.

I was hired as a herdsman. I instantly fell in love with my new job and adapted to it quickly. The ranch manager was Walt Davies. There was a senior herdsman named Red. I was the junior herdsman. The ranch owner was Charles Kring. Mr. Kring was one of the engineers who worked on the Golden Gate Bridge.

We worked hard and steady all day long running the ranch six days a week. On Sundays we only fed the livestock in the morning and late afternoon taking off the rest of the day barring any emergencies which arose from time to time. We had Registered Angus Cattle on 300 acres of beautiful California rolling hills in the Monterey Bay area. The year I worked there we won the Best Ten Head Award at the Cow Palace in San Francisco.

Though the development of my flying career was on hold, it was not forgotten. During the past year, I had been falling deeper in love with flying. The other love in my life was farming and ranching.

As the reality of that extra bad day settled in and I arrived at my dismal and temporary home, the spinning in my head began to slowly transition into resolve. The resolve that devloped was, “I need to get another job.” As the day progressed, I settled into regrouping and adapting to my new unexpected set of life circumstances.

My first order of business was figuring out how to go about getting another job. I didn’t yet know what to do about the failed attempt to earn my pilot’s license. I still owed the flight school for the past few lessons – – was out of a job – – had no money – – and had no transportation other than hitching rides with my mom and step dad.

Mentioning to my family that I needed to get another job produced a suggestion that I call a family friend named Tommy Stout. I knew Mr. Stout from the church we attended in the Las Lomas suburb of Watsonville. I liked Mr. Stout. He was from Oklahoma. He was a tall thin cowboy. He had what appeared to be a nice family. Mr. Stout lived on a ranch and was well connected with ranching operations in the Watsonville area. Often when I had visited with Mr. Stout and it came time to part, he would tell me with his Oklahoma accent, “Keep on the right trail.” I always liked it when he told me that. I’d feel a surge of encouragement and resolve when I heard those words. The words seemed extra special coming from him – – like maybe he was saying the words to remind himself as well?

Mr. Stout told me that he had heard the Kaydell Angus Farm might be looking for “A hand”. He said he would check and let me know. Within hours, I heard back from Mr. Stout. Yes, Kaydell was looking for another ranch hand. I promptly applied for the job and was hired on the spot.

I was hired as a herdsman. I instantly fell in love with my new job and adapted to it quickly. The ranch manager was Walt Davies. There was a senior herdsman named Red. I was the junior herdsman. The ranch owner was Charles Kring. Mr. Kring was one of the engineers who worked on the Golden Gate Bridge.

We worked hard and steady all day long running the ranch six days a week. On Sundays we only fed the livestock in the morning and late afternoon taking off the rest of the day barring any emergencies which arose from time to time. We had Registered Angus Cattle on 300 acres of beautiful California rolling hills in the Monterey Bay area. The year I worked there we won the Best Ten Head Award at the Cow Palace in San Francisco.

Though the development of my flying career was on hold, it was not forgotten. During the past year, I had been falling deeper in love with flying. The other love in my life was farming and ranching.

Kaydell Angus Farm was not my first experience with farming and ranching. After beginning my eighth grade year of school in Michigan, we moved to Lake Bistineau near Shreveport, Louisiana. Shortly after arriving in Louisiana, I found a job working on a dairy in Ringgold. I was hired as a hand on the Jersey Gold Dairy. My mom drove me to the dairy to help with milking before and after school each day and on weekends. I liked my job on the dairy a lot.

My dairy job lasted only a few months. Shortly after Thanksgiving, Mom met us one day when we arrived home from school and told us that we had to immediately move out of the trailer park (Julia’s Camp) where we had our 8 x 35 foot custom built trailer parked. We were not informed why we had to move out – – just that we had to move out immediately. Mom was not telling us what was placing our family in this obvious state of peril that required we move so urgently.

It had been raining a lot. After quickly hooking up our new 1960 Pontiac Station Wagon to our trailer home, we found the car could not make it up the slippery hill that led out of the camp with the trailer connected. In a scramble, Mom located a large commercial truck with a winch that was able to tow our car and trailer up the muddy hill and out of the camp. The truck just happened to be at the camp on that particular day. Mom said it was a miracle.

Later that day, we moved the trailer house into a large warehouse in Shreveport where we lived in hiding for a week. During that week, we would sneak out of the warehouse in the daytime to eat and get out, etc. During that week we (us kids) still did not know what the problem was that necessitated our sudden need to move. We did not check out of school or say goodbye to any one. We just disappeared from Julia’s Camp.

A week later, we found out what the problem was when a negro man named, Willie Wilson (no relation), showed up at the warehouse around midnight. Unbeknownst to me and my siblings, our Mom had become involved with the negro man I was working with at the dairy. It being 1960 in Louisiana was a problem for a negro man to be involved with a white woman. Mom was so scared we ended up having to go into hiding until we could sneak out of Louisiana with Willie.

We left my Jersey calf behind at the camp with a neighbor to care for. Willie and I would sneak back into the camp a couple of months later and pick up my beloved calf. I had named her, “Morning Glory”. She was the love of my life at the time.

We drove all night when we left Shreveport. I remember passing through Waco, Texas at dawn that morning. I remember thinking, “So this is Waco, Texas – – how cool.” I remembered hearing about Waco, Texas in cowboy films on television.

We drove until we reached Sinton, Texas where we found a place to park our trailer house for the time being. I guess Mom and Willie felt where we were in Texas was far enough away from Ringgold, Louisiana to be out of harms way. Actually, I don’t think Willie ever felt like he was out of harms way while he was hanging around with our family. I don’t think Texas was a whole lot safer than Louisiana for a negro man to be living with a white family in 1960. I think Willie was a nervous wreck the entire time he and my Mom lived together with us five kids.

I liked being in Texas a lot. Sinton was a small agriculture town not too far north of Corpus Christi and the Gulf of Mexico. I got a haircut in Sinton for 50 cents. I remember how amazed I was to get a haircut that cheap. The people there seemed friendly and curious. Mom and Willie were having to figure out how to begin living together under their special circumstances. As time passed and people saw Willie with our family, it seemed like they may have simply presumed that perhaps Willie might be our family chauffeur? It seemed like Willie and Mom played along with this idea which at the time was the safest scenario we could get by with, given our special circumstances.

Even though I had been pronounced the patriarch of our family with the responsibility to care for and keep my Mom and siblings safe following my Dad’s passing, Mom did not consult with me regarding what she had in mind by bringing Willie into our family.

When we left Michigan three months previously, we were told, “We are going to Louisiana to help the poor people.” Now that we had vacated Louisiana having violated its law of the land at that time with a cohabitation arrangement with a negro man and a white family, we couldn’t return there to help the poor people we had originally gone there to help so we were told. Our plans for life in Louisiana had ended. We were certainly exiled from Louisiana so now what?

After a few days of getting settled into our temporary residing place in Sinton, we all got into our Pontiac station wagon without the trailer house and started driving. The next thing I remember was looking at a 122 acre farm in Seguin, another small Texas town just east of San Antonio. Willie had farming experience. Again, unbeknownst to me, Mom and Willie had decided to buy a farm. Their plan was for Willie to farm the 122 acres and for us to live there safe and sound out in the country.

I loved our new farm in Texas. The 122 acres came equipped so all we had to do was start farming. We had a Ford tractor with all the implements. We had a tractor barn, a hay barn, a chicken house, a smoke house, and a grain storage building. And we had a house to live in.

Our house had two bedrooms and one bath. There was no air conditioning and only a wood stove for heating. We had our own water well with a concrete water tank next to the windmill for watering the cattle – – and where my brothers and I would be baptized by Mom in a few months. Mom baptized Laura in the house bathtub because she was a girl.

Willie and I farmed the acreage until Willie became scared enough to leave our farm, our family and Texas. While he was with us, Willie taught me enough about farming to handle the farming myself when he left.

Our family situation became even more complicated and dangerous when Mom became pregnant by Willie. Once the community figured out what was going on, Mom told us she was given a warning by the Guadalupe County Sheriff. The sheriff told Mom, “Don’t have that baby in Guadalupe County.”

I cried when we drove Willie to the bus station in Seguin. I had worked with him on two farms. He never said much when we were working together. Always keeping his thoughts to himself, I never knew what he thought about anything. I later realized Willie had a lot more on his mind than I was ever aware of. I enjoyed being with him while we did our work regardless of his habit of remaining silent.

We never saw or heard from Willie after we dropped him off at the Seguin bus depot. Mom told us Willie was taking the bus to Los Angeles. Returning to Louisiana was not an option. My brother, Harvey, told me later he learned that Willie was released from prison on a work parole program when he acquired his job at the dairy in Ringgold. When he left there with us, he had a parole violation to worry about plus the problem of having taken up living with my Mom and us kids. And Mom’s pregnancy with Willie made things all the more dangerous.

I ran the farm myself after Willie left. Whenever it came to handling something new to me, our neighbor, Johnny Hurley would come over and help get me pointed in the right direction – – like how to plant or cultivate the corn, etc. After a couple of rows of training, I was off and running on my own.

We grew corn and water melons. We leased out some acreage to some negro folks to raise peanuts. I enjoyed seeing them in our fields chopping around the peanut plants by hand.

I mowed some of the pastures to keep them healthy. Some of our acreage was covered with mesquite. I hunted in the wooded areas of our farm a lot. I chopped a lot of mesquite wood for our wood stove to heat our home in the winter.

We killed snakes on and around our farm – – rattlesnakes, water moccasins and chicken snakes or what some people referred to as bull snakes. When I wanted to relax, I would drive the Ford tractor down to a stock tank and turn the engine off. I would place my single shot 22 rifle on the tractor steering wheel and wait for a moccasin to raise its head to the surface of the water. I rarely missed a shot. I’d watch a snake twist and splash on the water after I shot it. After relaxing for a bit with my snake hunting, I would head back up to the house to see what chores needed doing next.

I was 14 when it came time for Mom to have the baby. I drove Mom to the Seguin hospital even though she had been warned not to have the baby in Guadalupe County. When we dropped Mom off at the hospital, my siblings and I were placed in a home. My brother, Harvey, reminded me that it was the doctor’s home who was delivering the baby. About ten hours after leaving Mom at the hospital, we were informed that the baby had been born. Then a few hours later we were informed that the baby had died. I asked how the baby died. Someone told us that it’s lungs filled up with fluid. Mom had named the baby girl Zion Wilson. The baby’s body was placed in an unmarked grave for the indigent in Seguin which I was able to verify with records at the Seguin courthouse several years ago.

Years later, I was discussing the event with a woman named Rosie Turner in Seguin who knew my Mom very well. When I shared my recollection of the events regarding the baby’s birth and death, Rosie said, “That’s not how the baby died. The sheriff had that baby killed.” I still wonder what really happened to the baby.

Shortly following the birth and passing of the baby, we met another black man. Life had become unstable following my Dad’s passing. With the arrival of this new black man in our family, life was to become even more unstable. His name was Jimmie. He looked like a big man to me. His 6′ 2″ stature seemed to tower over my much smaller fourteen year old frame.

It was night-time when I first laid eyes on this new stranger. He was standing on a vacant lot in what felt like a creepy and dangerous neighborhood in Seguin, Texas. As I came closer to him, I could see he appeared to look both mean and drunk. Then shockingly, my Mom introduced me to him like she already knew him. He seemed to barely notice me if he noticed me at all. I wondered, why is my Mom introducing me to this man? She said he was Rosie’s brother. I wondered how she had come to know him. In the weeks to come, this man would be seen more and more around our family. Within a month or two he was living with us on our farm. Within a year he would become my step-dad.