Chapter 6

Teresa’s turn:

Family. It’s important. I grew up in a very near ideal family situation. Sociology classes tell me that we can’t call it ‘normal’ any more, but there we were, Dad, Mom, me, and my little brother, a year younger.

Dad is a guidance counselor in the local school system where Mom is a music teacher. Education was just naturally of value to us. So was music.

Dad plays guitar and banjo, mom’s a violinist. She probably could be in an orchestra, but she, her words, ‘got side-tracked by a charming but clueless Marine aviator’. I’m the happy result.

Well, kids – that’s me – grow up and flutter off into the big ol’ world, okay? Me, high school grad, I took a shot at emulating Mom’s musical capabilities and enrolled in the University of Alabama. Broke several people’s hearts because I suppose I was supposed to go to Auburn, but Dad says I always had Mom’s obstinate streak.

Oh, yeah ... double major, you know. Accounting and music. I don’t delude myself. Despite many people complimenting me on my voice, I’m not going into music as a career. I still sing in church, the choir, being raised a good Baptist girl, and the occasional solo, including a few weddings.

I moved out of my family home and into student housing. Okay, I’m not ignorant of the ways of the world, but wow! Total immersion. Sex, drugs, debauchery. I’m not a prude. I’m not defenseless. And I’m not easily swayed by the crowds. About two weeks of that noise and I tagged the youth minister of a local Baptist congregation recommended by my home pastor and wangled lodging with a local family, an older couple with an empty nest.

Life got better immediately. They didn’t mind me bringing over well-mannered friends, enjoyed our study groups. Met Mom and Dad. It’s like I adopted another set of parents.

You know who else goes around adopting parents and grandparents and such? Cindy Richards.

We keep in touch. I’ve gone down there to meet with MY folks, who came up, and we all added to the rich stew of music and fellowship at the Auburn community. Cindy and I and others have sung together there on the little stage. Why? Because it’s FUN.

I also keep track of my baby brother. I don’t know how I can be sad that he went from a rising star in the football program of Ditchwater U to a much-harried remedial math student at Auburn, but that’s Dad and Cindy’s doing.

Me? Clocking right along – grades running pretty tight against a four point oh. Music skills got me doing the National Anthem at a few sporting events. I can absolutely NAIL it. No enhancements. Just a picture of Dad in his Marine uniform, the one with him and Mom at their wedding.

Life is good.

Did I mention that my adopted family, Mister Glenn and Mizz Amy Minter, well, Mister Glenn’s a retired pilot. ‘Retired’, not because he’s that old, but because of deteriorating eyesight. Eyes are kind of important to pilots, you know.

Short version, he can’t give it up. Still has the itch. Still holds a private pilot license because it is less restrictive. Flies.

So one day I’m joining them for dinner and I bemoan the fact that my allowance from Mom and Dad is running low and I wish I could find some temporary work.

“Uh, lemme ask you, Tee,” he said. (He calls me ‘Tee’. “Teresa’s too many syllables.”)

“Yessir...”

“Are you willing to do some kind of nasty, drudge-type work?”

“As long as it’s not dangerous,” I said.

“Second question. It’s more work than one person can handle. The guy who needs it can either hire several, or he can take on a group all at once. Do any of those sisters of yours...”

“I know some of my sorority sisters would jump at the chance. What kind of work?”

“At the airport. A friend of mine is involved in refurbishing some older airplanes and they need cleaning, washing and waxing. Not very glamorous, but he’ll pay fifteen bucks an hour, cash, maybe more...”

I held a conference with some of my friends. “Saturday and Sunday.”

“You’ll miss CHURCH?!?” Doreen squeaked.

“God’ll forgive me. We’ll start the day with a prayer.” Doreen, like me, was a practicing Baptist.

“What do we have to do?” Laina asked.

“Wash airplanes.”

“Big ones? Like airliners?”

“Not what Mister Glenn said. Small ones.”

“I’m in,” Doreen said.

“Me too,” added Laina. The three of us turned to glare at Koley.

“I’m in too, then. I mean, it’s not slavery. If we don’t like it, we can leave.”

“Uh, know this, Little Miss Freedom. I’m giving my word that we’ll do a good day’s work for a pretty good day’s pay. So it’s time to man up.”

Koley got her exasperated look on. “How positively sexist. I probably need to report you...”

“Yeah, you just do that.” I know better.

So I met TWO men. Well, one of them, our new short-term boss, I remember from the weekend soirees at Auburn. That’s Mister Wally. He’s one of those ‘many hats’ guys – ag pilot, flight instructor, aircraft mechanic. And he’s using hangar space belonging to...

Don Matzke. Don’s a bit closer to Dad’s age than to mine. He’s a pilot and a businessman who runs a charter service for business jets out of the Birmingham airport.

Mister Glenn introduced us. Wally smiled. “I already KNOW you. Good to see you.”

“You’ll be working for Wally,” Mister Glenn said.

“And my office has restroom facilities. Depending on how messed up y’all are, you can use it for breaks, too, but it’s a receiving area for my charter clients, so...”

“He don’t want a bunch of dirty, drippy girls soiling his genteel accommodations,” Wally laughed. He shifted his voice to as exaggerated a redneck tenor as could be. “But y’all is all kollidge girls ‘n y’all know when yer too skungy for nice stuff, amirite?”

Koley was taken by the act. “Sisters, we need to help this ol’ boy out, ‘kay?”

Wally took us out to a pair of almost identical little airplanes.

“Ladies, these are Cessna 185s. They’re good ol’ airplanes. I need ‘em cleaned. Washed down. I yanked all the upholstery out of ‘em, so I need the insides vacuumed out. The standard I’m looking for is only a couple of steps back from surgically clean.”

We listened.

“Now, let me show you something.” He walked over to an airplane wing propped up against the wall of the hangar. “Airplanes look strong, but they’re thin pieces of aluminum all stuck together. Watch this.” He rapped the bent wing with a knuckle, leaving a dent. “You’re using ladders and hose nozzles and vacuums and your own hands and elbows and any of those can damage an airplane, so let’s be really tender around them, okay?”

“I had no idea,” Laina said.

“I did. Dad’s a pilot. I know a buncha pilots.” I noticed that Mister Don was looking at me.

Work to do. Wally’s staying close while we get started. He showed us the tools -- long-handled brushes, kind of soft, I thought, plastic buckets, a couple of cases of rags. More instruction.

“Under NO circumstances do you wash the windows or windscreen with anything but a little detergent, a lot of water, and your HAND. That’s not glass, it’s plastic, and it’ll scratch worse than it already is. We’re gonna polish it later.”

Koley kind of snorted. “I thought you’d have some kind of high-powered detergent. Mom uses this on dishes!”

“Dawn detergent. Great stuff. Wash dishes. Rescue oil-soaked birds. Wash airplanes. Two and a half gallon bucket, a cup of Dawn. Never use a dry brush. Makes for sloppy work, but we want to just kind of agitate the surface dirt and let the water carry it off.”

Wally said ‘old clothes’. He was correct in that.

Don Matzke was correct in NOT giving us the passenger lounge. By lunchtime, we were damp, smudged, disheveled, and Laina’s making ‘I quit’ noises.

“Fifteen bucks an hour, Laina,” I said.

Wally came by at a bit before lunch, looked at our work. “Eighteen bucks,” he said. “Great progress.”

“I made a stout mix of detergent and laid it on the belly,” I said. “Kept renewing it. That’s oily soot. Kinda sticky.”

“Very good. Now, what kinda pizza do you ladies want for lunch?” He raised a wry eyebrow. “I’m assuming you don’t wanna go off to a restaurant.”

I looked at my sisters. Nope, that’s not an option. We gave him a pizza order.

“What?!? No anchovies?”

“Ewwww!”

The pizzas showed up at Don’s office. He walked to the door, displayed one of his amazing talents, an ear-splitting whistle. “Pizza’s here!” he yelled.

He let us into the ‘conference room/pilot lounge’. Vinyl furniture. Semi-wet heinies won’t hurt. Stayed in to join us for pizza. I’m thinking, thirty-something (found out he’s forty) guy, a bunch of twenty-year-old college girls, let ‘im enjoy his moment. Can’t hurt, and no need to be rude unless somebody’s rude first.

So, conversation. “Uh, Mister Don, we’re working for Wally. Are those planes his?”

“Worse than that,” he said. “Belong to one of the owners of this company. Cindy Richards.”

“Cindy?” I squealed. “Doctor Cynthia Richards?!?”

“You know her?”

“Since we were in school together. When she was fourteen. Yes, I know her. My dad was her school counselor. We SING together! How do YOU know Cindy?”

“There’s a jet out there that’s not a hole in the Birmingham runway because of Cindy. She saved my plane, my pilot’s life, and the lives of four passengers. That’s how I know Cindy.”