*     *     *     *     *

     In the spring of 1963, Pop lost the Twin-Beech. He was bringing the plane back 

from Houston, and had to make a stop at Tucson for fuel.

     I wasn’t with him on this trip – he had me picking up a ’63 Caddy for him at Salt 

Lake City instead.

     It was a clear night, as Dad lined up on the runway, for a straight-in approach at 

ten miles out. However, he couldn’t get the landing gear down.  Pop tried the 

emergency procedure, for lowering the gear, again and again – nothing happened. So

he declared an “emergency,” orbited the airfield until he was almost out of fuel, to 

cut down on the risk of fire, then touched down on the runway wheels up.

        The Twin-Beech wheels up, on its belly, at Tucson.    

     There was no fire, except the propellers, engines and flaps were damaged, and of 

course something was critically wrong with the retractable landing gear.  Due to “old 

age” – remember this plane was war surplus – the Twin-Beech was written off.

     On top of that, my father’s business floundered; which it habitually did upon 

occasion.  Therefore I went back to work as a lineman - refueling, washing and 

waxing aircraft - for an FBO at the Van Nuys airport.  I also did this periodically to 

keep up my flight training.

     My scheme was quite simple, dear reader. I wanted to obtain my Single Engine, 

Multi-Engine, Instrument, Commercial and Flight Instructor’s ratings in airplanes. In 

that way I could get a job as a Flight Instructor, and pay my way through a decent 

aeronautics college. Upon finishing the required two years, I could then enlist in the

US Air Force as an officer candidate. Little did I know fate had other plans for me.

    So here I am, slaving away under a hot summer’s sun, for the Beechcraft Dealer, at 

the Van Nuys Airport, in the San Fernando Valley, California, when low and behold, I 

cross paths with comedian, actor and singer Danny Kaye!

       It turns out that Danny was also a pilot and the proud owner of a Beechcraft 

Queen Air.

   

          Danny in the cockpit of his Queen Air; which he kept at the Beechcraft dealer.

   

     There was a hit TV show at this time called “Have Gun Will Travel.”

  

     

     After cleaning Danny’s plane one day, as a reward, he gave me the business card 

from this hit TV show.

 

      

     I was rather puzzled by this, until he told me to turn the card over and see what’s 

on the back.  And he winked.

 

     So... I did and this is what I found:

      At last the curtain was raised, giving me a peek at the “real” Danny Kaye.

 

      

     In the fall of 1963, Dad’s business got back on its feet and he leased a 1956 Cessna

 310.  It wasn’t as large as the tail-dragger Twin-Beech – only holding five people.  

But it had retractable tricycle landing gear (easier to taxi), was faster at over 200 mph 

cruise, and was more economical to operate with its twin Continental flat-engines.

       For you, dear readers - who are radio and TV history buffs – this ’56 Cessna 310 

was similar to the “Songbird.” The aircraft flown on the popular radio and TV show 

“Sky King.”

     Sky King and Penny; plus the “Songbird” (Cessna 310).

     At this juncture I had my Single, Multi-Engine and Instrument Ratings; plus I was 

diligently working on my Commercial Rating and building flying time towards the FAA

check ride.  Additionally, with the arrival of the 310, I encountered a role reversal with 

my old man.  Pop now placed me in the left seat - as command pilot – whenever we 

went on trips.  It was totally my show. Usually he sat in the back – on a plush, bench 

seat that held three persons - with investors or his girlfriend and played gin rummy.  

He’d only sit up front, as my co-pilot, when we flew alone.  His confidence in me 

filled my heart with pride.   

     We became particularly close that last year flying together.  Allowing me to finally 

get a handle on what drove him so hard.  He was terrified of poverty; memories of the

Great Depression still haunted him. 

     At this stage of my life, flying was the opiate in my blood. I breathed it and ate it; I 

never wanted to come down. This is why the age of “free love” and “mind expanding 

drugs” passed me by.  Since I wouldn’t allow the possibility of a “knocked-up girl,” 

or a “mind altering drug,” to stand in the way of my flying.  I shit you not, dear 

reader, aviation was my Holy Grail.

            *     *     *     *     *

      From the moment my father turned 14...he smoked. And, when I think of him,

I see him with a Camel cigarette between his fingers, or at the corner of his mouth,

 along with the aroma of stale tobacco emanating from his body and clothes.  For 

years Mom nagged him to quit – it merely went in one ear and out the other.

     Would this lead to “Duke” losing a lung to cancer?

  On the other hand, Dad’s girlfriend, Judith, an extremely attractive redhead in her 

early forties, and a health food nut – having her own cable TV show – was a bit more 

clever when it came to getting my old man to stop smoking.

     Palm Springs Municipal Airport.

     Judith at my dad’s digs in Palm Springs.

    “RJ” Wagner.

     One weekend Judith arranged for them to have dinner at the Racquet Club, in 

Palm Springs, with a young doctor and his wife.  In order to have a game of tennis 

with the wife, Judith asked my father to pick up the doctor at his hospital before 

dinner.  It had all appeared very innocent; although afterwards Dad realized he’d 

been set up by Judith.

     When Pop arrived at the hospital, he found the doctor in the morgue completing a 

death certificate.  The doctor told Father to make himself at home while he finished 

the paperwork.  Previously, the doctor had laid everything out in preparation for my 

dad’s visit.

     As my father wandered around the morgue, he encountered a scales, atop a 

stainless steel table, holding a pair of pink organs.  Next to the scales, on a metal 

tray, was an identical set of organs – only grey in color.  Not familiar with these 

organs, he asked the doctor what they were.

     Looking up from his paperwork, the doctor replied, “They’re lungs.”

       Pop moved closer to examine them.  At length he asked, “Hey, Doc, what’s 

wrong with these pink ones on the scales?”

     Finishing his paperwork, the doctor moved over to where my dad stood, and 

answered, “Nothing.  That’s what your lungs are supposed to look like.”

     Pointing at the grey lungs on the tray, Father asked, “Okay...so why aren’t these 

lungs pink?”

     Slipping on rubber gloves, the doctor moved to the grey lungs and responded, 

“Oh...that’s because this guy was a smoker.  Check this out...”  The doctor then took 

a rubber finger and gouged one of the grey lung’s black veins – bringing away a 

gluey glob of black residue - and said, “This is the nicotine and tar that collects in a 

smoker’s lungs.”

     Two events occurred, at that precise instant, with my dad.

     Firstly: he turned white as a brick of lard. 

     Secondly: he threw the smoking switch inside his brain from “On” to “Off.”

     During the following year, I virtually didn’t recognize my pop, dear reader.  I never 

saw him with a cigarette again, he seldom drank, he ate healthier, lost weight and 

smelled and looked like a million bucks. I was convinced he was

going to live forever. 

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