A Christmas Tale Sometimes, when I’m sailing down the road in the 32 I think about a lot of things, but one of the best is an old, but very short story a retired 747 pilot p***ed on to me. Like a lot of good stories, a kernel of truth within, but this particular one, completely true. Fitting I think, this time of year with cold weather in most places, good feeling toward man in most other places and simply . . . just folks looking forward to Christmas, family and friends. The pilot used to be one of the highest seniority guys on the LA to Hawaii route for a major airline. He told some riveting and sometimes funny tales about flying the Pacific, putting in at some of the fields large and small that had some more than interesting approaches. This tale is quite simple and in a way parallels part of my own life. We’ll just call him Rick here, not really his name, but it’ll do. Like most pilots he’d danced all the dances the FAA laid out for him, studied hard, went to more than a few company schools and eventually got into the big jets and flew routes from one coast to the other with more than a few stops in between. One hot summer day, Rick was flying over Kentucky and thought about his life as a young man and also the growing up bit of barefoot boy with cheek of tan and all the stuff that goes with it. Since the copilot was doing the flying and he was monitoring a most peaceful flight, his mind drifted back to his 11<SUP>th</SUP> summer and fishing on one of the creeks near the farm he grew up on. The scene was quite clear and he could remember the cool waters of the spring fed creek and the good fishing to be found there most times. He was doing ok, but needed a few more panfish before he had enough for the evening meal when he heard the sound of a four engine airplane. It was easy to identify as a DC-6 Constellation with its somewhat drooped nose, four radial engines and triple rudders. When the planes came over the ridge area where he lived they only had about 3000' or so of al***ude. Actual al***ude, above the ground, none of this above average sea level stuff like real pilots used, but a good estimate from the ground by a kid who was very good in estimating distances. The big planes were fairly common in his area, but what drew his attention was the sound from the unsynchronized engines. Sounded like just one was off, but that old familiar beat note was there and most times he wondered why the pilots didn’t get it squared away. The answer was probably that they were on the approach and one engine singing a little bit off key was a little way down on the list of important things to take care of. Anyway, for some reason he had one of those life changing little flashes of inspiration that happen to all of us. Right there he wished to God he could be a pilot and be up there flying the big Connie as well as seeing the world from the ****pit of a great airplane. Funny part was, later on in his life he found himself flying over the same area he grew up in, sitting in the warm sunshine of the Captains chair, looking down and wishing to God that he was 11 years old, fishing in the creek near the old farm and wondering where he’d go in life. One thing I’d learned from this brilliant man, who was actually a cl***mate of mine in high school, was the same thing my dad had taught me early in life. It went along with the mans word is his bond stuff and it had to do simply with sharing. Rick was good about sharing and usually brought something back from some far away place on every trip he did. He never really said anything about it, he’d just do it and you’d hear about it in a roundabout way when the recipient told you about it. Taking a note from Ricks personal life, about the sharing and all, I did what I could along the way. I’m not trying to take credit, make myself look good or anything like that. This little tale is just relating things that sometimes happened in my life. Many years later, somewhere in the early 90's, a few days short of Christmas, I found myself in the 32, ******* at the time, rumble lid sitting open and 7-8 lugs of really good naval oranges in the no-got-cushions rumble trunk and cranking off an honest 65 mph on Hwy 198 which ran between Hwy 99 and Sequoia National Park as well as cutting right through Visalia. Made for quite a scene. I was in my early 50's at the time, had my usual winter beard which was longer than normal and like you’d think, almost a pure gray. I’d bought the lugs of oranges from a small and somewhat famous citrus ranch near Exeter, California which is about ten miles east of Visalia. It does sound strange to hear that there are orange groves in Central California. I was a SoCal boy and used to driving through miles and miles of orange groves to get from one town to the other whether near Santa Barbara and south or inland to La Habra and eventually Brea, California where my grandparents lived and dad and his brothers along with one sister grew up in an oil field company house in Carbon Canyon. Learning about a belt of orange and lemon groves up against the Sierra from Bakersfield and running past Fresno a ways was a new one on me. I’d dropped off some oranges, a lug at a time at a couple of places and was spinning down Hwy 198 for Visalia airport to do the same at the flight school, the rebuild shop and the gas line office in an effort to say thanks to all for the extra mile they were always going for me. This, whether during flight training or just looking for airplane stuff that would work on the roadster during the build. Listening to the smooth running 462" dual quad, big cam Buick spinning out it’s music on a quiet and partly foggy day I realized that the way I was dressed, red sweatshirt, red knit cap, gl***es, gray beard and all, I probably looked a bit like Santa Claus. The bright orange colored oranges sitting in the rumble with its lid open and the black 32 roadster probably made for quite a sight. Got more than a few looks and waves. At the time, Hwy 198 didn’t have too much traffic during the mid-day. I got to thinking, just like Rick did when he flew over his old Kentucky home and did a bit of reminiscing my own self. I’ve related before about the black highboy 32 with white top and mildly built flathead that a teacher drove to work at the high school when I was a sophomore and that was the car that got me interested in roadsters. I used to sneak out of gym cl*** touch football and walk up to the upper El Jardin parking lot just so I could sit on the guardrail, look at the little roadster, think about things and mutter that one word . . . someday. It was a bit of a stunner when I realized that today, right now, cruising 198 was the someday I’d promised myself long ago. Now cruising the 100 miles from Ventura to grandma’s house in Brea we’d get lucky and see a hot rod or custom and if we were really lucky we’d see a roadster. The one I remember best was a simple dark blue 32 highboy with the sweetest sounding engine I’d ever heard when he went sliding by dad’s 50 Ford sedan. It didn’t look as good as the Santa Barbara teachers 32, but it had the sounds. A hard runner too, it pulled around the sedan which was right at the 55 mph speed limit and sailed off into the dusk. If the roadster owner saw me he didn’t bat an eye. Even at 14 years old, quite sophisticated and knowledgeable about cars in general and hot rods in particular, my thoughts anyway, I didn’t have any problems pressing my goggle eyed self up against the rear window. More than likely the roadster owner had seen it before and it was nothing new. A lot of that came to mind when a Soccer Mom van slid alongside, she in the left lane and me in the right and started pacing the roadster. Looking over I saw three little kids with their faces pressed up against the window. I don’t know what they thought, but I was pretty sure they thought I was Santa Claus. And maybe I was dressed the way I was and with red knit cap flitting about in the wind. Not sure what they thought about the oranges, but in sunny SoCal oranges are a typical Christmas gift whether to child or adult. I rolled the 32's throttle on fairly hard, pulled ahead of the Soccer Mom van and it was way back in the distance when I took the offramp for Newberry’s muffler shop. I parked, got out, watched the Soccer Mom go by, the kids were back in their seats and mom never did see me parked right out front with some of the hot rods and muscle cars you’d find at Newberrys. I gave Elroy, the muffler shop owner a lug of oranges and took off for the airport. Once in a while, usually during the Christmas season I think about cruising along Hwy 198, lookin’ like Santa Claus, a few presents and a lot of oranges on board the 32 and wonder if that one little guy in the van is driving a roadster nowadays. Seemed like he didn’t see Santa Claus, what he saw was a roadster and who knows? Maybe it was one of those watershed events in life that we all have now and then. Sometimes they affect your life and other times they’re simply a sweet memory. Even so, I’ll bet the little guy is driving a roadster now and I’ll further bet it’s a black one. I haven’t seen Rick in a long while, but somehow, I think he’ll approve.... Merry Christmas one and all. From a once upon a time Santa Claus who still carries Santa Claus in his heart....
That was cool of you to take the time and write that, Thanks. Ive had that "someday" when I was a kid.
C9- You write like I wish I could. Your someday, invisioning a *****in' little roadster with you behind the wheel. is me wishing that someday I'll have a book in print. Love your stories and endless wisdom. Thanx pal.
C9, Great story, I was one of those kids years ago riding in dads car. Now that I am older I feel lucky as you do. I dont have a '32 but have been blessed with some cool cars over the years. Thanks, for taking the time to share your story it brought a big smile to my face. Merry Christmas CBB
Great read. No doubt the chopped Merc I saw in Santa Barbara when I was a little kid started this whole thing for me. Thanks for taking the time to post...I remember reading some of your stories a while back and hoping to see more. Bryan
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