The rugs in the Mollenhour public playground needed shampooing. Guess who was elected? Of course when I rolled out unusually early Sunday morning and cast a quickie out the window at the weather, the sweet innocent little things didn't even suspect me. I casually strolled out the door like I was going to meet a street-car or something.
The sky was so blue when I arrived at the airport. Thermometers had sky-rocketed way up to 12 degrees above zero. The army air force has kindly loaned us an L-4 observation plane for our effort with the Civil Air Patrol during the last scrap. Bob Hogue, Silver Lake way, clothier Bud Case, photographer Jack Mowrey are all eligible to fly the over-grown Cub --but none by Mowrey, I guess saw that beautiful blue sky. Smart guy, he walked over to a Cessna and never even looked at the Cub.
Since it's free, I pulled the prop through a few times with visions of flying through that lovely sky instead of shampooing rugs. (More than my conscience hurts now).
The wicked thing refused to start. Wouldn't run. Its nose dripped gasoline and its twister twisted back viciously. but it wouldn't run.
Gene Beigh stroll over with a knowing look in his eye and a strong right arm. He wandered off 15 minutes later, with numb arms and his eyes glazed. (Try pulling a prop over for 15 minutes). George Hauck kindly kicked it in the nose for a few revolutions and left muttering something that sounded like "Bolshevik."
It was only the blue sky and the rugs that needed shampooing that kept me cranking. Say, did you ever own a Model T in the winter-time? Well, then, you know what I mean.
Johnny Noble pulled his big Farm Bureau truck up to the you-know-what. I wouldn't call it an airplane. Than cranked, primed, pulled, twisted, sweated. Gave up.
With a forlorn look at the blue sky, I decided to risk going home. After all a man can't just collapse in the street. Dragging quietly in, I pulled a Dagwood on the davenport. About the time the shampoo job was certain to come up, we were saved by the bell. The telephone bell. Of all times I've cussed that bell, I apologize now.
Our good friends, Mr. and Mrs. Howard Clark, of Valpo, had just flown into Municipal airport in their shiny new Luscombe. Howard, state aeronautics board member, said he had no trouble starting it at all. No trouble at all.
Well we had a great visit with the Clarks, which we appreciated no end--me especially. When I returned them to the airport, there was the L-4 and that wonderful blue sky. My, that sky was blue. (Did I mention how many rugs there are in our house?)
Bobby Keims, an unsuspecting victim, said he'd like to take a ride in it. "Why sure" sez I, "just help me turn her over a few times and we'll be right off." We were off all right, to even try it again..
Two and one-half hours later I left that confounded airplane parked there with a leer on its face.
What I mean, the air was blue? As I was saying, Mrs. Mollenhour is standing on those dirty rugs, rubbing liniment on my aching back. I don't think she appreciates the job. Being a pilot's wife. She'll learn to check the weather first.
Maybe I'll learn to pull the spark-plugs out and dry them first, too!
Another of the state aeronautics board members, Morrison Rockhill, was tucked in over the weekend with flue. I don't know why thinking of Morrison should remind me of politics, but I'll do a Drew Pearson and make a prediction:
Hobart Creighton, that big genial flying farmer and business man, pilot of his own airplane, will shortly announce his candidacy for the governorship of the great state of Indiana. I think, maybe.
Jack Harley of the Leesburg Harleys put on his parachute and passed his private pilot's examination Sunday afternoon with Joe Carlin flying as examiner. congratulations, Jack, you now belong to the best fraternity on earth. (P.S. Stay away from L-4 airplanes that don't have electric starters).
Warsaw Daily Times Mon. Jan. 19, 1948