The Wind Beneath My Wings - Part Two

In the spring of 1977, we were back in southern Illinois and I was flying again for Triangle Air Service. We bought a house in Noble, Illinois. By now I had well over the 1,200 hours required to fly IFR Part 135 Air Taxi, aka “charter” flights, and I stayed plenty busy flying for Earl Smith at Triangle Air Service.

Air taxi, air ambulance, low-level pipeline patrol, flight instruction, you name it, we did it. It was not unusual to log one hundred hours a month flying for Earl. In fact, if you didn’t, he would say that you were “sloughing off”.

Just because Earl and I had buried the hatchet and I returned to work for him again didn’t make me exempt from future ass-chewings. One morning, right at dawn, I was to take a couple of passengers to St. Louis to make an airline connection. We taxied the Cherokee Archer out to the run-up pad and when I did my magneto check, the engine coughed and sputtered and sounded like it was about to quit. I taxied back in and we switched airplanes – this time a Piper Arrow. I selected that airplane because it had a retractable gear and the extra speed would help make up some of the time we had already lost due to the plane swap.

When I got back, Earl jumped all over me, accusing me of taking the Arrow because I just wanted to fly it instead of the Archer. He went on about how much more expensive it was to operate the Arrow. He was foaming at the mouth. His son, Ed, had been squirrel hunting in the woods next to the airport that morning and tried to tell Earl that he had heard the engine running rough, and that I did the right thing, but Earl wouldn’t listen.

If I quit every job every time a boss ever made me mad, chewed me out, or otherwise treated me unfairly, I would be perpetually unemployed. After so many times, you just develop a thick skin and, in some ways, it is liberating. Once you get to the point that you no longer care what they think or say, you take their power away from them.

Still, after another two years, I felt the urge to move on . . . yet again. I was offered a job as a car salesman at the Ford dealership in Olney, Illinois. Thinking I could make more money and still fly part time for Earl, I took the job. At the same exact time, there was a fuel crisis, and the automobile industry took a major hit. The only cars selling were Pintos, and all we had on the lot were big gas guzzlers like Lincolns and Thunderbirds. I didn’t last long. After a few months, I was working with my dad as a salesman for Advertising Ideas. I probably should have been more grateful to Dad, but for whatever reason, I wasn’t. I didn’t waste any time starting a search for another flying job.

Through it all, Marsha was there for me. Not just moral support and encouragement. She worked at a retail store in town, putting in long hours and bringing in much-needed income.

It took a while, but eventually I was hired by a businessman, Jack Graham, in Effingham, Illinois. Mr. Graham was a no-nonsense sort of fellow, a B24 Liberator pilot. You can read of his wartime exploits in another of my blog posts:

Like my dad, and like Earl Smith, Mr. Graham was a master at the art of chewing ass. Usually, it was over failures to properly communicate. After working for these three men – all of whom I respected and admired when I wasn’t angry with them – nobody else since has been able to rattle me much. One of these days I will write a blog post dedicated to the ass-chewings for those of you just starting your flying careers.

Jack Graham kept new, well-maintained airplanes, but I was on call 24/7/365 and the pay was not good at all. While there I flew BE58 Barons, a BE60 Duke, and a Cessna Conquest II turboprop. All were good for acquiring the kind of experience I would later need for future jobs, but at the time, I probably would have been inclined to stay if the pay and schedule had been (a lot) better. While we were in Effingham, Marsha worked a couple of different jobs to help make ends meet, and she also was invited to accompany us on some nice trips like Sarasota where we once stayed on Mr. Graham’s yacht, and went to some nice restaurants and beaches.

After tiring of being on call 24/7 and living on dirt wages, and getting my ass chewed out one or two times too many, I thought I would test the waters, see if I could get hired as an airline pilot. I was interviewed by a small airline, Midwest Express, a DC9 operator out of Appleton, Wisconsin. If hired I would get the opportunity to fly jets, most likely domiciled out of Milwaukee. I made the mistake of telling Jack Graham my intentions so that I could get the time off for the interview. I was still naïve enough to believe he would want what was best for me.

The interview went well, but they took forever getting back to me. In the meantime, Mr. Graham was pressuring me to let him know if I was staying or leaving.

Then, American Airlines invited me to come to Dallas for an interview on July 29th, 1985. I made a HUGE mistake in telling Mr. Graham about that I needed a couple of days off in order to go to yet another interview, this one in Dallas. He responded by saying, “You’re telling me that you’re leaving. Let’s just say that two weeks from now, you’re gone.”

I couldn’t believe my ears. I said, “So, you’re telling me after six years to hit the bricks just because I’m looking for a job that will let me make more money and have more time off?”

It was the first time I ever stood up to the old man. Not that it made any difference. I had a trip in the Conquest later that afternoon to take the president of the Petty Company – one of Mr. Graham’s business interests –  to White Plains, New York and drop him off. It didn’t even occur to me until much later that I could have or maybe even should have told Jack Graham to find someone else to fly his airplane that day.

My tail between my legs, I went back to the airport to get ready for my trip. The hangar telephone rang. It was Marsha,

“Wayne, are you sitting down?”

“No.”

“I’ve got some really big news! You need to sit down.”

I was thinking that Midwest Express had called to offer me a job, not a minute too soon. Hoping that it was true I said, “Just tell me what it is!” After the afternoon I’d had, I wasn’t in the mood.

“You have to sit down.”

“Alright! I’m sitting! Now tell me!”

“We got a baby!”

Sound of crickets. “What?”

“We got a baby!”

Timing is everything. Marsha and I had been trying for years to adopt. Now, within an hour’s time, I had just lost my job and become a father. I told Marsha that I would postpone my interview with American, but Marsha persuaded me not to do that, considering that I would need a job if I was going to support our new arrival. It meant waiting a few extra days to meet our daughter, but I agreed it was the thing to do.

I traveled to Dallas on a Sunday, spent the night, and interviewed the following day. We were herded around like cattle all day long. The lady who conducted my interview was bored and yawning while we talked. I felt like asking her if she hadn’t slept the night before, or if my resume was really that boring. But I didn’t.

Every airline has its own unique, sometimes weird, way of selecting the pilots. American conducted a physical examination and sent us home with what looked a lot like a stick from an ice cream bar. At home, we were to use the stick to take a sample from our feces and mail it to them. Weird.

I flew home and the next day, we drove to Springfield, Illinois to meet our daughter. We already had her name picked out. Angela Marie Baker. I’ll never forget the first time I laid eyes on her. She was only twelve days old. I know that she was too young to smile, but I swear she did. I melted into a big puddle right there. When I got the chance to take her in my arms for the first time, I was scared to death that I would break her. She was so tiny, so delicate. I swear that I love her now just as much as I did that first day. She was and is the joy of my life. Today, that joy is increased by the addition of Angi’s children, Annika (aka “Ace”), Penny, Flo, and Hazel. I love and cherish them more than the air I breathe.

After bringing Angi home to a large gathering of relatives who came to Effingham to welcome her into the family, it was time to figure out what I was going to do for money. I had in effect fired me for wanting to better myself. I guess I can see Mr. Graham’s point, but what did he think I was supposed to do? Keep working for bottom of the industry pay until he decided he no longer needed an airplane and then we’d be out on the street, out of money, out of work, out of options, out of luck, and out of ideas?

I knew that nothing was going to come from the American interview, and Midwest Express still had not told me yes or no. Marsha was concerned, I’m sure, but most of her attention was now on caring for our baby.