It’s amazing how quickly time passes. When I started flying in the mid-seventies, my steed was a well worn 1938 J-3, long victimized by a past history of windstorms and neglect and scarred by numerous spar splices and welded repairs. But we were a team, exploring every small community airfield and farm strip that we could find within an afternoon’s radius of flying, almost all of which were grass strips.
Paul’s words bring back a flood of memories because the airport lounge at nearly every field we visited was always worthy of a visit. Even now I can still remember the musty smell of old airplane magazines and moisture soaked wood and dusty over-sized lounge cushions guarded by a few dead flies. Like as not, the airport lounge at such fields was usually quiet for the day, almost abandoned, except for the wind whistling through the screen door or the distant popping of, what is now, an elderly John Deere. There was even one grass strip, about 50 miles distant, where you pumped your own gas and left your check in the lounge on the manager’s desk because he trusted everyone. At the same dirt strip, just outside the office, a row of red and silver J-3s stood on their noses, their tails hanging from the rafters. And I’ll never forget the good friends I made in those lounges.
Thanks for the memories, Paul!