Chapter 9

I left a note for me. I was 16 in 1991, but I was 18 in 1993 ... and when I was 18 I took a trip to 1932 and bought a 1932 Ford Model 18 three window coupe. The reason I bought it? Because I wanted one really bad when I was 16. I could pay for it with gold.

Next year, in 1933 I couldn't ... thank you very much, Mr. Franklin ... but it's 1932 ... gold is twenty dollars and sixty-nine cents an ounce so I needed two pounds of gold to pay for a Four hundred and ninety dollar car. That was the price from the dealer on the floor. The car came shipped from the factory in a nifty plywood box and dealer prep and profit was included in the four ninety. (Had I chose to go to 1950 I could have bought the same car from some farmers barn for fifty bucks ... except it would be rusty.)

I wanted the box. The car fit. I wanted the box. I wanted the car in the shipping crate with all the plugs and things Ford did to ready the car for shipment overseas. So...

I bought an acre of land in the bluffs south of town ... that was fifty dollars. I had a hole dig ... that was ten dollars. I paid the taxes in advance taking the mean average of taxes between 1932 and 1993 ... taxes were cheap in the hinterlands ... two hundred dollars and I got a signed promise that that was sufficient.

I paid more from 1932 to 1962 but I paid less from 1963 to 1993 ... it all worked out. The dealer had the car delivered to my hole ... free. After the crate was offloaded in the hole I wrapped it in the same plastic that they use to mothball ships and aircraft. That cost a hundred bucks. Filled in the hole by myself. Oh ... it cost fifteen dollars for a week at the motel.

In 1991 I uncovered a car with a clear unissued title, but with all the paperwork, that was worth thirty nine thousand dollars. Cost me fifteen dollars to get plates. Pretty good.

So when I said, "Mom, I want a car," I had just read the note I left me in a book in the boathouse. Sneaky, sneaky, sneaky. And I owned an acre of land in an area that was growing by leaps and bounds.

At 16, I wasn't adjusted enough to think ahead ... by 18 I was fine. And since I knew I was going to do it...

YEAH!!!

I really did want to learn to fly, but by the time I was legal the airport was a snowmobile race track ... and the FAA had made it expensive to learn and had damn near regulated the ownership of private planes out of existence. Just keeping track of what airport would be still in operation 1992 ... when I was seventeen ... was a serious chore.

We lined up at the gate. The Army was selling off it's L4's today and I was the third truck and trailer in line. There must have been fifty cars ahead of me. Guys were bringing girlfriends or wives ... or both ... to drive the car home while they flew. At $150 apiece they weren't a bargain like a two hundred dollar Mustang but a Mustang is no trainer and I wanted to take lessons. If I had my own plane I wouldn't have to rent one...

I kept moving up in line. This was going very fast. Guys handed in their money and drove over to the next plane in line ... checked the tanks and left. There were almost as many cars coming out as were going in. I wonder what was happening with the extra cars?

"Three please..."

"How do you plan to do that, sonny?" asked the Sergeant.

"I'm going to take off the inconvenient pieces and carry fuselages on my trailer ... one facing aft and two forward. The wings go underneath."

"Smart kid ... are you sure they'll fit?"

"Yes, Sir."

"I'm a Sergeant ... not a Sir. I work for a living. Three hundred bucks."

"I thought they were one fifty each?"

"They are if you fly them out like most everyone is doing. Drive over to that hangar ... you'll see."

So I drove over to the hangar. There were stacks of crated L4's. The crates were narrower than I figured. I suppose it was because the landing gear was off. That narrowed the crate. The wings fit one to each side of the fuselage. Three crates fit my eight foot wide trailer with room to spare. A private helped me load and tie them down.

"You know what you're doing, kid?" he asked.

"Nope. I was hoping to tear them down so I'd know how they go together."

He popped to the back of the hangar and brought out three sets of tools and three manuals. He tossed them in the back of the pickup.

"Here ya go, kid. Assembly instructions and the special tools it takes. You got some guts, kid." He paused, "Don't forget the tie wire ... there's a roll in each crate. The manual is designed for men that can barely read ... the pictures are self-explanatory. Hold on a minute."

He went to a little office to one side of the hangar and came out with a genuine Sir.

Having a guy four years older call me sonny is a little galling, but I can live with it.

"Johnson," he called to the private, "I see what you mean ... and we're just going to burn the leftovers ... they're not on inventory ... so. Sonny, you got room ... want some extra wings?"

"Yes, Sir!! I don't know how to fly and I suppose I'll need them learning."

"Johnson! Bring a few propellers and a couple of engine crates." He gave me a look..."Want some spare tires?"

The wings, in thin crates, went in-between the fuselage crates, and the rest went in the back of the pickup. I was seriously overloaded.

I pulled out of Selfridge Air Base and drove to M-59 and took it halfway across the state to M-43 in to Lansing and around to Franklins at the airport. Ben took charge of the crates and trailer. I paid and arranged for a yearly withdrawal from my bank.