Chapter 2

She intrigued me ... she was ... after-all, blonde, blue eyed, short and just entering in to that marvelous transition that girls make when hormones take over ... she was well on her way to womanhood.

‘Take me up?’ Should I? The leather Soviet flying cap attested to the fact that someone in her ancestry either collected obscure Communist regalia or had used it in the manner intended. ‘Take me up.’ Eh ... why not?

Well ... there were WAY more reasons to NOT than there were incentives to fly her around.

One ... she was absolutely under-age. Two ... she was trespassing. Three ... she had that georgous curly blonde head of flyaway hair ... no ... wait ... that’s one for the other list. So are the blue eyes ... and the promising ... yeah ... them ... and the way her jean shorts clung to her bubble butt and emphasized that short did not mean short legs.

I took her up. Yes. I handed her a handwritten check list and we spent several minutes hiking around the Polikarpov Po-2.

Then I took the list and we hiked a second lap, she doing and I reading. I prefered her leading and me reading ... cats in a sack ... cats in a sack. Those cheeks bobbing and cutting figure eights in tight blue ... WHOA! Just whoa, boy. She can’t be 13 ... but she was ... almost 18 ... almost.

Glory be! She paid attention the first time around and made ... well ... one or two mistakes when it was her turn in the barrel.

Satisfied, I offered a set of headphones ... showed her where to plug them in and DID NOT help her settle her harness. Nope ... not going anywhere near her interesting developments.

One of the many improvements daddy made was adding self starting. He explained what he did ... just not how he did it.

The Shvetsov M-11D series 5-cylinder air-cooled radial piston engine of 125 horsepower started and conversation from the rear ceased.

Did I make the supreme error? Nope ... I could talk to her ... she couldn’t talk back. At 70 mph, we fiddle - farted around my sky and she didn’t get sick

“Wow ... now I know what Grandmother is on about,” she said. She pinned me with ice blue eyes, “May I bring her here?”

“What?”

“You resort to that word too often ... find something new.”

“Huh?”

“Ah, you can be trained.”

“Eh What?”

“And like a puppy, you piss in the same corner again.” She shot me with an icy stare. “May I bring my grandmother to visit?”

“I don’t...”

“Некультурний, войовничий, американський. Я хочу привести свою бабусю перш ніж вона помре. вона літала на такому у Велику війну.” she said. (Uncivilized, militant, American. I want to bring my grandmother before she dies. She flew one in the Great War.)

And I, of course, didn’t understand a word. I’m an American ... we speak American. The push towards Spanish labels was just starting.

She translated, “I want to bring my grandmother before she dies. She flew one in the Great War.”

I had no idea she left part of the speach un-translated.

I acquiesced ... I even fetched. Grand mother was a revelation.

Grandmother loved the self-starter. Grandmother knew what the instruments were ... regardless of paper tags. Her English was ... spotty ... her flying was perfection.

Lisa stayed in the car as I walked grandmother to her retirement home door.

She thanked me ... and as she drew me down to kiss my cheek she said, “You will give me great-grand children ... and soon ... very soon. I never liked her boyfriends. You, I approve.”

WHAT?