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<p>By Nat Cassingham: In the 1950s, I was learning to fly from a small gravel 
  runway on the edge of town. Instruction was given in a Piper J-2 or J-3, Aeronca 
  Champ or a Taylorcraft. (None of us liked this plane. It had a wheel like a 
  car instead of a stick. It floated and drifted when trying to land.) The instructor 
  sometimes would fly to the large downtown commercial airport. We circled until 
  the tower shot us a green light. We landed, went to the cafe, had a cup of coffee 
  and a sweet roll. The instructor telephoned the tower and we taxied, got another 
  green light and took off. We were quite a sight in that yellow Cub. I looked 
  at TWA's DC3 and the Super G Connies loading passengers.</p>
<p>This tiny field had maybe twenty planes tied down. There were four or five 
  hangers. One was a doctor's. He had a new Tri-Pacer. It had doors that locked 
  with a key, plush seats, steerable nosewheel, flaps, a starter and lights. A 
  beauty. Once on a warm summer night we parked our cars facing the runway and 
  turned on our headlights so the doctor could take his girlfriend for a night 
  ride. He took me later and anyone else who used their cars for lighting. A quiet, 
  smooth, peaceful ride -- town lights twinkling in all colors. The scary part 
  was the landing. Spectacular.</p>
<p>Now and then we had visiting pilots. One had a Mooney M-18 Mite: single seat, 
  low wing, bicycle chain retractable gear, 65-hp Continental. It set so low, 
  the joke was the FBO had to kneel to prop the plane. Once a big 4-place Cessna 
  170 flew in: 185-hp Lycoming, all metal -- no fabric, bright polished aluminum 
  with some color accents. Fixed spring steel landing gear. Gorgeous, magnificant 
  machine. Bravely I asked the pilot if I could look in the cockpit. &quot;Naw, 
  kid, I don't allow anyone around my bird.&quot; Later, I watched it glisten 
  as it quickly took off into the sun. </p>
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