Chapter 8

Dan 1.0’s turn:

Early in the morning. My first cup of ‘office coffee’ is half done. Phone buzzed. I punched the button. “Yes, Lanie...”

“A MIssus Barton on the phone asking for you or Cindy. You’re here...”

“Thank you, Lanie.” Lanie’s been with us a couple of years now, from part-time help/Beck’s intern to one of Beck’s crew. She multi-tasks from the front desk, fielding phone calls while she takes care of billing.

“Good morning. This is Dan Richards. How can I help you?”

“Mister Richards,” the female voice said with a quiver, “My Ray used to fly into your field on weekends...”

Ah-ha! ‘Barton’. Mister Barton with his happy old Aeronca. Hadn’t seen him in a couple of months. “Yes, ma’am,” I said. “We miss ‘im.”

“He always came back home from those things with a smile on his face. Mister Richards, he’s not doin’ good. He asked if I’d call you...”

“Yes, ma’am. Anything we can do...”

“Sir...”

“Mizz Barton, I’m just Dan. He was always Mister Barton, though.”

“He’s stuck in bed. I’m afraid he’s down for good. Cancer. He asked me to call you. Said he’d love to see y’all again. Said specifically to ask about Cindy and the Munchkins.”

“Can he have visitors?”

“We have him on home-care right now, Dan. Yes, that’s why he asked me to call. He’s sort of in and out of it, but he said he’d love to see his girls one more time...”

“Oh, gosh, Mizz Barton...”

“Hon, he’s eighty-one. He’s had a lot of good years, and I’ve been with ‘im for most of ‘em. I don’t like it, but it’s the way of us all. Please tell me you can visit.”

“Give me your address. We’ll be on the road...”

“Thank you, Dan.”

“Praying for you all, Mizz Barton.”

The phone clicked. I bowed my head for a quiet moment, then I punched up Cindy.

“Hey, babe!” my redhead chirped. “What’s up?”

“Mister Barton...”

“Oh no ... We haven’t seen in him the last few weekends...”

“Found out why. He’s ... bad way. His wife called us. He asked if you and the Munchkins...”

“Visit?”

“Yeah.”

“Drive. I’ll borrow Tina’s Suburban.”

“Gather the Clan,” I said. “Warn ‘em. This might not be pleasant.”

“You know the Munchkins,” I said. “They’re up to it. Done properly.”

Thirty minutes later I replaced Cindy as the driver of Tina’s big ‘Mom-mobile’. In the back were Vicki, Rachel and the pTerridactyl. We hit the road headed for the western edge of Georgia, the GPS providing directions.

They talked about Mister Barton, the common thread being that every one of them had multiple sorties as bombardier for our weekend flour-bombing contests and as ballast on the spot-landing contests.

Cindy had checked out in the Aeronca, adding to the repertoire in her expanding logbook and had put her buddy Mister Barton into the cockpit of her Stearman on one of his last visits.

Good friend to us all. Now it’s time for...

He was lucid when we got there.

Mizz Barton met us at the door. “I told ‘im y’all were coming. He said he was gonna hold off on the pain meds so he could talk with you.”

He got a handshake from me, kisses from Cindy and the Munchkin girls.

Soft words. I mean, what do you say? He talked about enjoying our company, we talked about enjoying his.

“Patty,” he said to his wife, “I need our lawyer to come by tomorrow. Cindy, there’s something I wanna do.”

“What’s that, Mister Barton?”

“I wanna give y’all my ol’ Air-knocker. (Auth. Note: ‘Air-knocker’ is the jocular derivative of ‘Aeronca’, itself a derivative of Aeronautical Corporation of America)

“Oh, Mister Bart...” Cindy said.

“Look, y’all,” he told us. “Y’all fly like we used to fly – more’n work. Y’all love it like I do. My sons’d sell that ol’ girl and Lord only knows what’d become of ‘er. I know that if I give ‘er to y’all, you’ll drag ‘er out in the sun an’ put in the air fer as long as she sticks together. She’s made seventy-odd years already, and I know y’all’ll keep ‘er going another seventy...”

“We will,” Cindy said. “You can bet on it...”

He coughed a chuckle. “Redhead,” he said, “I want you to win the spot-landing contest with ‘er. You allus beat me by a smidge...”

“We had fun, Mister Barton. All the time. So much fun.”

He winced. “Patty. Gonna need those stupid pills, baby ... Y’all, this knocks me out. I’m gonna have my lawyer do the transfer. He’ll send you stuff...”

“Mister Barton,” I said, “we truly appreciate the gift.”

“I’ll do my first solo in it when I get my student license,” Terri said.

“All of us,” Rachel added. “You’ve been our grandpa...”

“Thank you, sweetie. See, Patty? These’ve been my Alabama girls...”

She gave him the pills he asked for. We slid silently away as he dozed off.

Mizz Patty saw us to the door.

“Mizz Patty,” Cindy said, “if his giving us that plane’s gonna cause heartache...”

“Darlin’,” she said. “That old man’s been my husband for sixty years. I will do what he wishes and I know how he used to laugh about meeting with y’all. Consider it done.”

“Let us know...” I said.

“I will. Week. Maybe two...”

Back in the car, sad drive home. Cindy’s thinking. That, for the past seven years, has always been good for some interesting diversions.

“We put that old girl in a hangar, give Wally a blank check. I don’t want one of those primped show birds, but inspect and repair everything.”

“We do that AFTER we do an overflight for his funeral,” Terri said. “Sort of like...”

Cindy squealed. “God, yes! Perfect, Terri! Dan, we need to talk with Mizz Patty and see if she’ll buy into it, but I have a PLAN.”

“Bet I know,” Terri said. “Like the military does...”

“Wally says that Mister Barton was his mentor in ag aviation, so...”

“The way it should be,” Terri inserted. “Stearman. Air tractor...”

“TWO Stearmans,” Cindy said. “Wally’s big Air Tractor. Empty, that thing CLIMBS!”

Cindy got on her phone. “Hi, Haley!” Pause. “No, not the happiest of times.” She explained how our day was stacking up. “I hate to ask you this, but could you get your Stearman back here for a special mission?” Pause. “I knew you’d understand.” Pause. “Yes. First good day...”

Eight days later the inevitable happened. 3Sigma sent a huge flower arrangement, Cindy and I added our own.

We trekked a few cars over for the memorial service, but I, Wally, Cindy, Nikki, they found alternative transportation.

Word got out. When we got to the little country airfield that was home to Mister Barton’s flying life, there were, in addition to our two Stearmans and Wally’s Air Tractor, four more Air Tractors and a Grumman Ag-Cat.

I let Cindy and Wally do the flight briefing.

Wally said, “We’ve been practicing our vee formation for a week. We’ll lead...”

The Ag-Cat pilot said, “Wally, you know I only got three thousand hours of military time. You reckon I can add my Cat to your vee. Give us a proper ‘finger-four’?”

“DO it, Winton. DIdn’t want to impose...”

“Hell, boy! It’s Mister Barton. He’s daddy to ever’one in this bunch...”

One of Dan’s cameras was running on the ground at the graveside service. The quiet of the service was broken by the clatter of that old Aeronca flying over, evocative of Mister Bart’s lifelong love. It passed over, headed off, then an increasing roar from the east as the friends showed up.

In the front was the finger-four, Wally’s almost empty Air Tractor in the lead, two Stearmans and an Ag-Cat biplane arrayed beside him, then a loose cluster of planes.

Over the gravesite at a thousand feet, Wally rammed his power lever forward, pulled the nose of the Tractor skyward, clawing for the heavens.

Yes, when the Air Force does it, an F-15 can ACCELERATE while going vertical. We did the best we could with the tools of Mister Barton’s life...

I was in the western bunch’s Stearman, Cindy in ours. I mouthed a prayer for the soul of our departed friend as we headed back to the airfield.

Nikki was already there with the Aeronca. Tina showed up with her Suburban and the camera.

We set up a monitor in the open hangar, gathered the participants, showed them the video.

“We have some video editing software and a couple of people who can make it sing. This is hi-res raw video. When Sheldon and Megan get done with it, you’ll think we had Hollywood filming this,” Tina said. “I’m putting a table right here. Names and contact info. Email and that kind of thing. Or business cards. I’ll get you the finished version.”

“Folks, before we go ... we missed the graveside service. This is a special place for Mister Barton. Can we have a little moment for him?” Alan asked.

“I’ll lead, if you don’t mind,” a pilot from Mississippi said.

Heads nodded, then bowed. “Lord, we’re your children. We know we stray at times, but we’re still your children and we ask your grace on our brother who is with you now. And accept our confessions and protect us and those we love. In Jesus’ name ... Amen.”

“Amen,” the crowd repeated.

We exchanged departing wishes, handshakes, invitations, and the crowd started breaking up. The first of the Air Tractors soon roared off the ... taxi-way ... Ag pilots on uncontrolled airfields.

Cindy watched. Smiled. “Everything’s a runway with an Air Tractor...”

Wally saw it, too. “Can you imagine if the FAA had done ramp checks today?”

“Hrrr-hrrr,” a big ol’ Alabama pilot chuckled. “We’d’a had us a hangin’.”