Life of Crime? Hmmm. Decisions, decisions.

My Feeble Venture into Criminality

In 1957, I befriended a junior high school kid that had been in reform school. He seemed interesting, looked cool (especially his hair), and he had apparently done some things that were far more exciting than anything I had ever done.

Once during a late night walk around Electra, he thought we should get in somebody's car and talk. We did. The car--probably a '37 Ford--was parked at the curb and belonged to some elderly (old) ladies. Suddenly, he said, "Scram!" He disappeared immediately but I didn't know where to go or what to do. I heard some older women talking outside so I ducked down inside the car--underneath the passenger dash. I've never been so small.

The voices got closer--it was two women at the driver's door. My heart was pounding. Should I show my face? Should I start apologizing? Were they going to shoot that black leather jacket hiding under the dash? I was too scared to move. I could tell that a flashlight was raking the inside of the car and I was trying to think what I would say to them, to the police and to my dad when they saw me.

After 121 years, 7 days, 6 hours and 28 minutes--give or take a century--those two old--elderly--ladies finally agreed that there was nothing untoward inside their car, so, they turned with their trusty flashlight and went back into the house. I stayed crouched under the dash--probably for an hour, until I was absolutely sure that no one was watching--then, I uncrouched, opened the passenger door, sneaked out, walked a block looking only straight ahead and then ran the shortest way home.

I un-friended my reform school friend then and there. I never again made any effort to be in his presence. Because of him, I had experienced the biggest scare of my life. If I hadn't already been a perfect human being, that night time car stunt would have scared me straight for sure! (I remain in awe of people who periodically thumb their noses at law enforcement and say catch me if you can--they must have nerves of steel. Or, maybe it gets easier the more you do it. Hmm--should I break into more cars and see if I'm less scared every time? Naaah.

Aviation - Flying - Pilot Ratings - A Lifelong Hobby

Flying History

I caught the flying bug when I was 9 years old. I began reading about airplanes and asking adult friends to clip and save airplane pictures. During my early teens, I joined the Civil Air Patrol and the Air Scouts. At age 15, Frank K Smith's book called “Weekend Pilot” boosted my flying interest tenfold. At 16, I started taking flying lessons, at 17 I soloed (on December 17, 1961), and, at 19, I completed my Private Pilot check ride while serving in the US Air Force (Viet Nam Era).

During the following years—while developing computer software across the US, earning multiple degrees from multiple universities and traveling the world for business and pleasure—I earned additional FAA ratings, flew at every opportunity, owned 4 different aircraft, flew hundreds of glider tows and parachute jump runs, served in numerous air and ground positions in the Civil Air Patrol and, intentionally or unintentionally, led many people to into aviation.

Fifty plus years of flying experience

• First flight – Nov 6, 1960 - Electra, TX - pilot Mrs. Jimmie Culp - Cessna 195
• First flying lesson – Nov 6, 1960 - Wichita Falls, TX - CFI J A Cornish - Piper J-3 Cub
• First solo – Dec 17, 1961 - Chattanooga, OK - CFI Dalton Watts - Cessna 150
• Private Pilot License – ASEL rating - Sep 21, 1963 - Wichita, KS - CFI Bob Uhlenhopp - Cessna 172
• Commercial Pilot License – Oct 13, 1968 - Dallas, TX - CFI Hal Edwards - Cessna 140
• Instrument Rating – January 25, 1972 - Lubbock, TX - Mooney Ranger
• Multi-Engine Land Rating – Nov 10, 1973 - El Paso, TX - Piper Seneca
• Glider Rating – Jan 10, 1992 - Odessa, TX - CFI Randy Auburg - Schweitzer 2-22

Great piloting memories include

• hearing “Welcome to Oshkosh” over my headset;
• soaring flight levels above the mountains of New Mexico;
• flying home after midnight at 10,500 feet on a smooth, moonless, cloudless, star-rich night with the panel lights dim and three snoring passengers missing indescribable beauty;
• answering questions after aviation presentations to school-age children;
• hearing soaring pilot Jim Crisp wondering out loud “what all those miserable souls are doing down on planet earth today;” and
• taxiing at sunrise through prop mist and wet grass on an emerald dew drop morning.

Aircraft Flown

Aero Commander 100

Aero Commander 180

Alarus CH-2000

Beech A36 Bonanza

Beech V35 Bonanza

Beech E33 Debonair

Beech F33A Bonanza

Beech C23 Sundowner

Bellanca Super Viking 300

Blanik L13

Cessna 140

Cessna 152

Cessna 172

Cessna 172XP

Cessna 177

Cessna 177 RG

Cessna 182

Cessna 182 RG

Cessna 205

Cessna 206

Cessna 210

Cessna 310C

Cherokee 140

Cherokee 180

Citabria

Grob 103

Grumman American TR2

Jantar Standard 1

Libelle 201B

Mooney Executive 21

North American P-51D Mustang

TS-11 Iskra (jet trainer)

Favorite Aircraft

See above "Aircraft Flown"

SCUBA - from my first Pacific Ocean dive to my last Gulf of Mexico dive

My SCUBA diving experience began with my first dive in Acapulco, Mexico in 1965 and ended with my backyard pool dives with Little Brother Jonathan in 2005. Many diving adventures, many friends made and many sights seen. This is a draft written on 18 August 2013--I'll add more detail later.

Summary

1965 - Acapulco - one dive in the Pacific Ocean - (see another post that describes this trip)

1979 - SCUBA Course at the Amarillo YMCA

1970s and 1980s - SCUBA diving with local divers in local lakes and, on Friday nights, in the Texas A&M Canyon aquatic Center approx 100 dives

1995 February/May - many dives with 14-year-old Little Brother while earning Advanced diver certification for both of us. approx 25 dives

I told James' mom that if James would pay for his diving trip (air, hotel, SCUBA equipment rental) to Cozumel, Mexico, I would pay to get him SCUBA certified. James got his first job, earned his money and did so well on the SCUBA course that we both got our Advanced ratings before our trip to Cozumel.

1995 May/June - week long diving trip with James Meadow to Cozumel Mexico (date confirmed) 15 dives

Richard and James on Cozumel street.

James and Richard about to explore a reef near Cozumel, Mexico.

Richard and James doing what two island kind o' guys do on their way to the reef.

We enjoyed a great diving adventure in Mexico and dove together often after that. James said we were, "Two island kind o' guys."

On the last day of our trip, rain started falling while we were packing our bags, rain fell harder as we rode the taxi to the airport, rain fell steadily while we boarded the plane and took off for Dallas Fort Worth Airport, and within 24 hours, Cozumel was swamped by Hurricane Allison--the first hurricane of the season. We got out of Cozumel just in time. Great trip!

1996 - week long diving trip with Bill Sticksel and local Amarillo divers to Guanaja Island, Honduras. 15 dives

We flew to Tegucigalpa, Honduras, then to Guanaja Island, then took a boat to the mountainside hotel. On Guanaja Island, our guide collected dollars from the divers to tip the bag boys who had moved our bags from plane to boat. He called the boys over, told them as they stood in front of him that he was going to split the tip four ways, but, then, threw all the bills back over his head into the Gulf of Mexico. After about 30 seconds of scrambling, diving and yelling, four very wet boys climbed out of the water waving hands full of equally wet dollars.

1997 July - week long diving trip trip to Cozumel with step-daughter Jessica (date confirmed) 12 dives

Jessica SCUBA diving near Cozumel. (Photographer's rules: hold your breath while I'm taking your photo or the bubbles may cover your face.)

We told Jessica that if she would keep her grades up at the Albuquerque Job Corp, we would pay to get her SCUBA certified and then take her to Cozumel, Mexico for a week of SCUBA diving. That worked. Jessica and I enjoyed some great SCUBA diving and we celebrated her 21st birthday at Carlos and Charlies coastal restaurant and bar in Cozumel. A sign on the wall at Carlos and Charlies said, "Notice to cruise chip Captains - please leave your keys with the cashier. If your ship blocks our view, we'll move it."

1998 - One day dive near Roatan Island, Honduras during Gulf of Mexico cruise 2 dives

Cindy spent the day on the beach at a resort on Roatan Island. I went SCUBA diving. Later, our SCUBA boat docked at the Roatan Beach for lunch, so, I surprised Cindy, we shared lunch on the beach and then I went back with the dive group.

1999 - one week diving trip to Cozumel with nephew Michael Mitchell (date confirmed) 10 dives

Cindy's nephew Michael learned to dive and his folks paid for weeklong SCUBA trip. We had fun, but, on two dives, Michael overlooked his air gauge reading and ran out of air. Not acceptable! Divemaster told me to punish Michael by making him miss the next dive. I chose, instead, to try verbal communications. That failed. He just didn't get it. Michael should probably stay away from SCUBA diving, skydiving and bungee jumping.

2005 - numerous backyard swimming pool dives while teaching Jonathan Chesser to dive 10 dives

Jonathan had an above-ground pool in his backyard. I floated the SCUBA tank and BC in the center of the pool, let the two regulators hang down in the pool, wore my weight belt to hold me on the bottom of the pool, outfitted Jonathan with a rented weight belt that would fit around his 16-inch waist, and taught him how to do many of the things that a SCUBA diver needed to know, such as, buddy breathing, removing-replacing-clearing mask underwater, breathing underwater without a face mask, checking air pressure, inflating and deflating the BC. Jonathan may have been able to pass a SCUBA course, but, we never tried to do so and we never went open water diving.

2008 - following CABG (Coronary Artery Bypass Graft) in January of 2008, Dr Agostini recommended no more SCUBA diving. I gave all of my SCUBA gear to Jessica.

It's cool--plane just ran over me, but, I'm okay

Early one December morning in 1961, about an hour before sunrise, I left my home in Electra, Texas and drove my mom's green Ford Falcon east about 25 miles to the Wichita Falls Municipal Airport that shared runways with Sheppard Air Force Base. I--a seventeen year old high school senior--was about to make my fourth solo flight as a budding young pilot.

My flight instructor was not coming to the airport that day so, I planned to just walk into the flight school office, sign for the plane, taxi out among the jet bombers and air-to-air refueling tankers to the active runway, practice takeoffs and landings for an hour, taxi back to the flight school hangar, check the plane in and drive back to Electra where I worked in the produce department of a local grocery story. A pretty exciting adventure for small town kid.

The airport on this December morning was cold, dark, empty and still asleep. I walked into the half-lit flight school office and told the line boy (who was playing solitaire with a deck of cards), "I reserved the Cessna 150. I'll be gone for about an hour." He already knew it, and I knew he knew it--my reservation was on the schedule--but I just had to say those words, after all, I had already practiced saying that a dozen times during my drive over this morning.

The line boy handed me the airplane keys and I was on my way. I headed for the hangar where I held the green "Open" button down and walked slowly beside the huge hangar doors as they moved aside revealing a lighted world of beautiful multi-colored single and multi-engined aircraft. My Cessna 150 N7987E was right in front.

This 1959 Cessna 150 N7856E
is very similar to the 1959 Cessna 150 N7987E
that I flew in this story.

After completing my pre-flight check in the warm lighted hangar, I donned my gloves so that I could grab the prop near the hub and pull the Cessna 150 (that was like a puppy to me) out of the hangar and onto the tarmac. I slowly pulled the plane toward the door, but, that 6-inch high ridge of snow and ice that ran the length of the hangar door stopped the airplane dead. No joy. So, I pushed the airplane backward 5 to 10 feet and so that I could get some momentum and jump the icy ridge. Still no joy. Should I go get the line boy to help me or should I try again? One more try I thought.

After pushing the little two-seater airplane back about 10 to 15 feet, I looked behind me toward the door to make sure that all was clear, put both hands on the prop near the hub and started walking backward pulling the plane as fast as I could. Success! The plane jumped the icy ridge and exited the hangar!

But, I didn't. I slipped and stumbled on the ice, crashed flat on my butt and felt the nose wheel of that Cessna 150 roll up between my legs, crawl up my crotch, continue up my abdomen and stop dead on my stomach.

I grabbed the nose wheel, pushed the plane backwards, wriggled out from underneath this dangerous killing machine and stood up. While standing up, even before I was steady on two feet, I thoroughly scanned the hangars left and right hoping desperately that no one had seen this unique and probably rare way to extricate a plane from a hangar. Nobody, nobody was in sight! I checked again. Nobody! Whew!

Brushing the snow and ice from my coat, I whistled like I thought a really cool and confident corporate pilot would whistle as I held red "Close" button and walked slowly by the closing hangar doors. Then, I boarded the aircraft and did what I came to do.

The rest of the flight was uneventful. The sun came up as I taxied to the end of runway. I owned the airport that day--not a single plane interfered with my early morning practice flight, and, upon leaving, I told the line boy that I left the plane outside the hangar just in case somebody else wanted to fly it today.

My secret was safe forever. Until you read this story.

Suffered Ill Effects From Smoking? Blame me.

During the summer of 1958, when I was fourteen, I worked at Earle Jones Sheet Metal Shop in Electra, Texas. Earle (pronounced: ur-lee) manufactured custom made ductwork for home and commercial heating and air condition systems and he usually had one or two helpers working with him in the shop. Earle was a very good friend of my family and and may have employed me as a favor to my dad. Earle also told great stories.

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Please let me insert a quick unrelated story about Earle. One day when I was 8 or 9 years old, I was sitting with nothing to do on a stool at the front of my dad's cafe in Electra. Earle, sitting on some stool further down the counter, completed his morning cup of coffee and stopped at the front cash register on his way out. Earle leaned over and whispered to me, "Hey, Richard, watch your dad's face when he hears this nickel hit the counter."

I looked intently toward my dad who was preparing breakfasts at the grill. Earle slapped the nickel onto the counter and slid it toward the cash register. Continuing his efforts without pause at the grill, my dad's face changed to big grin. Open mouthed, I looked at Earle who nodded knowingly and said. "See?" Earle walked out the door and this little boy sat there amazed.

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Back to the story at hand.

I learned a lot about sheet metal, hand tools, air conditioning and life from Earle. He was a really great guy.

Often, while I was with Earle, he had to stop working and cough; he coughed, gagged, spit, lit another cigarette and went back to work. But, regardless of the coughing interruptions, he was always at work when I arrived in the morning, and, I could tell that he had worked many hours since I left his shop the evening before. Earle feared not hard work.

One day, Earle told me that, while in his teens, he had a motorcycle accident and went tumbling with his motorcycle down a gravel road ripping gashes in his back, legs, arms and head. He said he was lucky to be alive. He told me that, for years after the accident, his wife Lola would come across bumps on his back, and, using a small knife, would dig out tiny pieces of gravel--souvenirs of his long ago near death experience on a motorcycle.

One day, Earle had an especially bad experience with coughing and had to sit down. He coughed and gagged for minutes. I stopped what I was doing, wondered out loud if I could help and saw tears coming out of his eyes. I asked him if I should go get Lola--their house was right next door to the shop. He shook his head no and said he'd be all right.

After he stopped coughing and had a minute to regain his composure, he lit up another cigarette and told me to sit down. I did. He looked directly at me and said, "Richard, listen to me. Promise me you'll never start smoking."

"I won't," I promised. (What else could I say?)

Then he said, "Richard, if you never start smoking, you'll never have to quit. And, I can't quit."

"Yeah," I muttered not knowing what else to say.

Then he looked at the smoke drifting up from his cigarette, held the smoking white specimen in front of me and said, "They don't call 'em coffin nails and cancer sticks for nothin'."

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The lesson I learned

I kept my promise to Earle, and, probably should have gone back to Electra years later and told him that I had listened to what he said. He would have been happy that I took his advice. And, I probably saved $20,000 over my lifetime by not smoking. Thanks Earle.

The mistake I made

I guess that Earle Jones--a small town businessman, in a small west Texas town, in 1958--was the only person in the world who knew that cigarettes would kill you. And, he told me. If I had just shared that little bit of information with the rest world, billions of people would have stopped smoking, billions of young people would never have started smoking and billions of people all over the world would have lived longer and healthier lives.

So, if you or anyone you know has suffered from smoking related illness during the past fifty years, blame me. In 1958, Earle Jones and I knew that cigarettes killed people. We just should have shared that information with the rest of the world. So, to anyone suffering from smoking-related diseases, it's all my fault and I'm sorry I didn't get the word out.

He landed on a road! - night formation flight

One late afternoon on October 14, 1991, after completing the conversion of a Seagraves, Texas bank from one computer system to another, the president of the bank took Robert, Jerry, Mark and me to the local airport. Preparing for our one hour nighttime flight to Dimmitt, Texas, Robert performed the preflight check on his borrowed Cherokee 180 and I completed the preflight check on my employer's excellent Cherokee 180, registration number N8311W. Robert's plane would not start so he got a boost from a nice fellow from the airport's FBO.

Minutes later, just before dark, Mark and I took off for Dimmitt agreeing that we would climb to 7500 feet and fly a few hundred feet off of Robert and Jerry's right wing. We communicated on 122.8 because we heard nobody else on that frequency. Level at 7500 feet, Mark and I could see the nav lights of Robert and Jerry's Cherokee off to our left as the very last of the sun rays disappeared and we were flying in a beautiful pitch black sky.

Suddenly Mark asked, "Where'd they go?" I looked left, front, back, down--everywhere that I could see, but, I could see no plane. They had disappeared. I told Mark to keep an eagle out in every direction--I did not want to experience one of those mid air collisions that can ruin your whole day! Or, night. I tried to contact Robert on the radio but no joy.

I flew straight and level, confirmed that all of our nav lights were on so that Robert could see us from wherever he was, and continued on to Dimmitt. It was one of the prettiest, blackest, starlit skies I had ever seen.

We landed in Dimmitt, put the plane in the hanger, stood out by the taxiway looking at the stars and whispered comments to each other as if we thought loud voices might destroy the beauty of the night. Or, maybe we whispered because we were listening for Robert's plane to arrive somewhere over Dimmitt.

A black Suburban came around the corner of a hanger and pulled up to where we were standing. Robert's wife rolled the window down and said that Robert and Jerry had landed on a road near Earth, Texas and they wanted us to come pick them up. So, we got into Mark's car, drove to Earth, from the Earth police dispatcher got directions regarding where the plane was, and, a few minutes later, found a crowd of people standing around a Cherokee 180 parked beside the highway in someone's driveway. Shee!

Robert said the airplane's panel lights went out, the radio quit working and he and Jerry began wondering if the next thing to quit would be the engine! Jerry (not a pilot) wondered out loud, "If the engine quits, don't you want to be pretty close to the ground so that you don't fall so far?" At this point, with Robert's very limited flying experience, Robert decided that Jerry's concerns made sense, so, they promptly headed down, positioned themselves over a line of car headlights and taillights, touched down on a highway leading north out of Dimmitt and got some surprised people to help them push the plane into somebody's driveway.

Note.

Robert made some mistakes here. A more experienced pilot probably would have first checked the circuit breakers, noticed that the generator switch had popped out--maybe during the boost start--pressed the popped circuit breaker switch back in, said, "Stupid me! I should've completed the checklist before I took off," watched the lights and radio come back and, then, continued merrily on to Dimmit.

 Also, a more experienced pilot would have known that, when the battery goes down, the engine does not quit. The engine needs a battery to start but does not need a battery to continue running.

And, a more experienced pilot would probably have climbed to a higher altitude, not descended to a lower altitude; if the engine does quit, the higher you are, the further you can glide--maybe to a nice, safe airport! (Ask Google to tell you all it can about the "Gimli glider.") As the pilot climbed to higher altitude, while using a flashlight to see the control panel, the right seat passenger would be using another flashlight to check the charts and find the closest airport. Then, and only then, would the more experienced pilot begin his or her descent.

The next morning, Mark and I took Robert and the Cherokee 180 owner (an ag--crop duster--pilot ) back to the town of Earth. They pressed the popped generator circuit breaker back in, boost started the airplane, and, while a highway patrolman blocked the south part of the highway, Mark and I blocked the north part. The ag pilot and Robert started their takeoff roll, took off, flew under three power lines, pulled up before the fourth power line and headed back to Dimmitt. Mark and I drove back to Dimmitt. Wow! A story for my grandkids.

Sidenote

Oh, yeah, a few months later, Robert borrowed the same Cherokee 180 from the same crop duster, and, while buzzing a cattle feedyard near Friona, Texas one bright sunny day, caught a power line and ripped a piece of the vertical stabilizer off the airplane. Upon landing back in Dimmitt, he closed the hanger door hoping that no one would  see the damaged plane and inform the owner before Robert did. If Robert wishes to continue flying, he should probably repeat ground school and spend some quality time with a certified flight instructor.

Big Brother Big Sister - James

Before my wife and I married, we decided that we would spend our married years working with children that had part-time or no-time parents. So, for the first 20 years of our marriage, as emergency foster care parents, we received an uncounted number of 2 to 10 year old children, one to three at a time, typically with 30 minutes notice of their arrival, at all hours of the night and day--mostly at night--and kept our charges for periods of time ranging from one day to two weeks.

However, in 1991, after a dear nephew died of cancer, and, after I heard just one more TV advertisement for Big Brother Big Sister, we cranked down the foster parent program and I enrolled in the BBBS program and completed the training and certification process.

Early in December of 1991, BBBS called me in for the selection and assignment process. Two women sat in a conference room and explained what would take place next. Before I arrived, they said, they had narrowed the matching process down to two boys. Now, I would sit alone in this conference room, watch the two videos they had selected and then pick one of the two boys for my Little Brother. BBBS would then set up a date and time for the matched Big and Little Brothers to meet.

I complemented the two ladies on BBBS' selection process but politely refused to participate. I explained that I had joined BBBS to do what I could for some child, not for some child to do something for me. I ask them if they would please tap into their experience at BBBS and create a match that they they believed would work best for all concerned. They agreed, left the room and, in five minutes, returned with an offer. They had selected a 12-year old boy and now they would arrange with his mother to meet me here at the earliest possible date.

On December 18, 1991, I met my 12-year old Little Brother James. What a joy! We began our acquaintance that day with a quick lunch at a sandwich shop, and, then, during the next 6 years, we did more  fun things than you can imagine. Besides having meals together, attending movies, playing games at his house or mine, hiking, swimming, talking, etc, we also participated in wonderful and exciting adventures, such as:

• camped out in New Mexico and attended cross country horse races;
• attended James' school functions;
• attended James' his cross country track meets held in cities and towns throughout the area;

• went SCUBA diving in Cozumel Mexico (When James was 14, I offered to pay for his SCUBA certification and take him SCUBA diving at near Cozumel in the Caribbean if he would earn sufficient money to pay for his part of the trip. James got his first job and, within, 3 months, bought a ticket to Cozumel. We enjoyed a great trip SCUBA diving for a week around Cozumel. James said we were, "two island kind o' guys.");
• James rode with me often when I piloted the skydiver jump plane;
• James rode with me often when I piloted the glider tow plane;
• James rode with me often in the soaring club's two seat glider in the Texas Panhandle and during a weekend of high and fast high-performance glider soaring in the wide open skies over Hobbs, New Mexico;

• James and I appeared in a BBBS TV commercial flying a glider in formation with the glider tow plane; and
• more...

James--who, at the time of this writing, is serving as a Postdoctoral Research Associate in the University of Oregon's Institute of Ecology and Evolution--is a very special guy, as will be James' and Robin's first child expected to arrive around Thanksgiving 2013.

Having James as a Little Brother--'officially' from 1991 through 1997 and unofficially forever--is one of those shining experiences that will always make me smile. For 22 years now, our telephone conversations have ended, "Love you bro." Neat kid!