The Time Machine.

I was walking away from a little country pilot lounge
this evening, with the Sun just a fraction above the horizon.
I heard a shout, and an old man appeared.

He introduced himself as the airport manager - lived in a double wide
right there - and he had trouble hearing that someone was calling
the unicom - though he said he had his hearing aids turned on.

He was old - he would grab and pause for the words, that skittered away
out of his grasp - just like you have done once or twice - with him it
was every word. And he told me had four planes he needed to sell.
I asked the obvious - and he said yes: they all had annuals - pointing
to the FBO hangar right next door where he had them done. A Bellanca, a
Beechcraft, two other small volume types. How much? He said not too much
compared with two years ago.

He went well with the pilot lounge - a vintage photo montage of
previous pilots there, and a wall of solo shirts - magazines and a coke
machine with a leather sofa or two warming in the setting Sun.
Still, I cut it off, realizing the short 40 mile hop would conclude in
darkness. A GPS makes that kind of landfall drama-free.

But it was pleasant flying hands-off into a deep blue warm stillness.
Seeing the beacon - last remnant of the airway beacons of long ago.
And the PAPIs - reds n whites. What a lovely evening!

If you get a chance, go visit Quanah, Texas, close on the Red River
bordering Oklahoma. He might have a bargain for you....

Brian W