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     April of 1949 rolled around and, as we had experienced an unusually wet winter, 

the California hillsides were lush and green; instead of sporting their usual burnt-

brown yellow attire. 

     

     I remember it was a Saturday, because before my parents had gotten up I had 

been listening to Big Jon And Sparkie on the radio, whereby Sparkie had proclaimed: 

“It’s Saturday, boys and girls, and there’s no school today!” 

     When one was six years old in postwar America, that’s how one kept track of 

time; the radio shows: The Lone Ranger, Sergeant Preston Of The Yukon, The 

Shadow, The Cisco Kid, The Green Hornet, Sky King, etc.

      My pop, sporting his beaten up fedora, took me and Scraps out to one of the 

oilrigs he managed, as Tool Pusher for the Santa Maria Drilling Company. 

      It was a wildcat – an exploratory well – out in the boondocks and sat in a hollow 

next to a stand of trees. Scraps and I had bang-up fun, exploring the woods and 

playing Jungle Jim hunting tigers.

  

        Oil company Tool Pushers.

    

     The oil company regularly threw a BBQ – featuring the famous

     Santa Maria Tri-Tip steaks.  Oilmen really knew how to party.

     Later that afternoon we rode back to town in my dad’s company car; a 1947 Chevy 

Coupe with the backseat removed.  It was a Tool Pusher’s car - the back floor having 

been reinforced and covered with a rubberized mat - designed for carrying drill bits, 

fishing tools and core samples.  In fact we were bringing back a load of core 

samples, in gunnysacks, for analysis that day.

     This was perhaps one of the best times and memories I have of my old man.  

Dressed in jeans, black and white sneakers and a striped T-shirt, I was standing on 

the car’s front bench seat, with one arm round my dad, and the other encircling 

Scraps.  Pop was teaching me a song from the Great Depression - with a Camel 

cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth - that went something like this:

           “Don’t cry lady,

           I’ll buy your damned old violets,

           Don’t cry lady,

           I’ll buy your papers too,

           Don’t cry lady,

           Take off those damned old glasses,

           Well hello, Mother,

           I know’d it was you.”

     As Dad taught me more lyrics, Scraps suddenly joined in – tilting back his head 

and howling - resembling a wolf baying at the moon.  Pop and I continued singing,

but were consequently laughing so hard at Scrap’s “harmony” that tears began 

streaming down our cheeks.

     Please note, dear reader, the three of us are on the Chevy’s front seat, without 

benefit of seatbelts or airbags. Throughout this infantile period of my life, I never had 

to worry regarding being “forgotten” in the backseat – as over 3,000 children were, in 

2006, who died from heatstroke while strapped into their “kiddie seats.” Talk about 

being victims of our own technology.

     Without warning Dad slammed on the brakes!  His massive right arm – the one 

responsible for sixteen prizefighter knockouts – shot out and locked me and Scraps 

to the seat’s backrest.  Shoving his hat back, with cigarette clamped at the corner of 

his mouth, he stuck his head out the driver’s side window and looked straight up.  

“Jesus...” he muttered.  “That guy’s in trouble.”

     We were on a road that skirted between huge, emerald fields of alfalfa.  Pop 

downshifted into first, stomped the gas and popped the clutch – now we’re off like a 

rocket. Racing down one road, and then another, Dad kept his attention skyward and 

swore under his breath.  At this juncture I’m wondering where this “guy” is, who he 

is, and why is he in trouble? Because all I can see is deep blue sky with bright,

drifting white clouds. 

     Jamming on the brakes again, we slid to a halt.  Pop killed the ignition, grabbed a 

camera from the glove compartment and bailed out, as a cloud of dust caught up and 

engulfed us.  Scraps and I tumbled out after him; catching up to Dad at a barbed wire 

fence guarding an alfalfa field. Father pulled the second strand of wire up and 

stepped on the bottom strand – allowing me and Scraps to scoot through – then the 

three of us ran across the emerald alfalfa to the top of a gradual sloping hill.

     Upon cresting the hill, I abruptly discovered who the “guy” was and why he was 

in trouble.  Squatting halfway down the slope from us was a Cessna T-50 “Bobcat.” 

It had recently performed a wheels-up belly landing in the alfalfa.

     The Bobcat was a light twin – hauling a pilot and four passengers – with two 

Jacobs R-755-9 radial piston engines that gave it a cruising speed of 175 mph at 

22,000 feet.  The USAAF had used them during the war as a twin-engine, advanced 

trainer and light personnel transport; requiring Cessna to manufacture 4,600 

Bobcats.  As they were largely built from plywood, aluminum tubing and fabric, the 

pilots that flew them affectionately referred to it as the “Bamboo Bomber.”

     I’ll never forget how its yellow fuselage and wings gleamed under the afternoon 

sun.  This was the first aircraft I had ever come across up close and personal; totally 

hypnotized I stood there with my jaw down to my knees.  Somehow, in the bottom of 

my little, left tingling-testicle, I knew I had to be a part of this mystery: What made 

them go up?  What made them come down? 

     Scraps ran over to its yellow rudder, lifted his leg and took a leak on it; either 

marking his territory, if not his disdain, for it ending up here in an alfalfa field.

     My father was already checking out the cockpit.  The aircraft was empty; the 

occupants no doubt having left to hunt down a telephone at a farmhouse.  Dad 

turned and motioned for me to join him. As I came around the left wingtip he moved 

towards me, picked me up and placed me astride the radial engine; similar to a 

cowboy on a horse. The engine’s cowling was painted black and still felt warm. The 

metal, two-bladed propeller was curled at the tips – from high speed contact with the 

ground – and fascinated hell out of me.

     Pop yelled, “Smile!” I glanced over at him as he snapped a photo of me with his 

Kodak box camera; always kept in the Chevy’s glove compartment. 

     It had been one of those rare, perfect days with my old man.  Years later - as a 

teenager after my folks split up – I’d stumble across that black-and-white snapshot in 

the family album.  Causing me to remember those happier times, when we didn’t 

have much money. 

     I also recall that I had difficulty getting to sleep on that particular, perfect day, 

after my encounter with the Cessna Bobcat.  My head being filled with airplanes, 

flight, and white, gossamer clouds.

     And that, dear reader - although a most questionable introduction to aviation - 

was the day I was bitten in the ass by the “flying bug.”  Infected by a viral insanity 

that has never left me. 

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