It’s a book that was first recommended by my good friend Michael Werner, CEO of InfoSource Learning. Because of his recommendation, Christine O’Kelly of Self Made Chick got herself a copy, which inspired her to write a fabulous post called Lies I Told Myself That Kept Me Broke and Lazy. When I read that, I immediately ordered it on Amazon because it made me curious about what lies I might have told myself over the years! I might even do a post on it – stay tuned!

Before I leave for a major trip, I usually like doing an assortment of errands, putting my affairs in order, if you will, including things like laundry, tiding up my office, ironing a couple of shirts and straightening out my files. Nerdy, huh?

This afternoon, I was sitting out on the porch, straightening some files and enjoying the warm weather when I came across something I printed off the Internet almost ten years ago. I claim no credit for the story I’m about to share with you but I also don’t know who wrote it. Everytime I read it though, I enjoy a hearty chuckle – you probably will too.

But before we get into the story, the Part II interview with Wendy Piersall of sparkplugging has already been scheduled to air automatically on Wednesday, the day I’ll be flying back from Las Vegas (thank heavens for WordPress features!). I think you’re going to enjoy the second part as much as the first.

Okay, ready for a chuckle now?

Author: Unknown

A minister dies and is waiting in line at the Pearly Gates. Ahead of him is a guy who’s dressed in sunglasses, a loud shirt, leather jacket and jeans. (Photo: oh estelle)

Saint Peter addresses this guy, “Who are you, so that I may know whether or not to admit you to the Kingdom of Heaven?”

The guy replies, “I’m Joe Cohen, taxi-driver, of Noo Yawk City.”

Saint Peter consults his list. He smiles and says to the taxi-driver, “Take this silken robe and golden staff and enter the Kingdom of Heaven.”

The taxi-driver goes into Heaven with his robe and staff, and it’s the minister’s turn.

He stands erect and booms out, “I am Joseph Kelly, pastor of Saint Mary’s for the last forty-three years.”

Saint Peter consults his list. He says to the minister, “Take this cotton robe and wooden staff and enter the Kingdom of Heaven.”

“Just a minute,” says the minister. “That man was a taxi-driver and he gets a silken robe and a golden staff. How could this be?”

“Up here, we work by results,” says Saint Peter. “While you preached, people slept; while he drove, people prayed.”

Moohahahahaha, wasn’t that funny or what? I haven’t seen this around lately so I hope it’s “new” to you.

Talk to you when I get back with lots of pictures! God Bless.

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If you are viewing this article via email subscription or RSS, please click on the title of this article to be led back to the blog so you can see the video:

Next time you think you have problems, remain calm and be thankful you’re not as crazy as you think you might be!

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http://www.toilette-humor.com/home_building/your_home.shtml

I have several new posts coming up, many of which will involve my trademark short stories at Adversity University. One of them will chronicle a flight that almost cut my life short. It will be called “The Flight That Almost Killed Me.” It’s about what happened when I rented a small plane and flew myself back to Michigan after spending the Christmas holidays with my family in upstate New York. If you’ve liked my writing style up to this point, I think you’ll like this one too.

If you’re new to AU and don’t yet have a subscription to this blog, go ahead and check out the archives on the top right side of the page for articles from the past or better yet, why not browse through the categories and randomly pick something that attracts you.

If you like what you read, you are invited to sign up for a free subscription to Adversity University either via email or RSS feed so you won’t miss the above mentioned story and many more!

Until the next time, have a great one!

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Here is another story that played out several years earlier while in college. This time I was actually wearing them.

I was as junior at Marist College, a private liberal arts school that was situated comfortably in the Hudson Valley, located halfway between Albany, New York and New York City. My dorm was a 9-story building overlooking the Hudson River, which made for a nice view for those whose rooms faced west. They were blessed almost every night with a most gorgeous orange sunset — I was one of those lucky students. Every night after dinner in the cafeteria, I would rush back to my dorm in time to see the sun disappear behind the valley.

On my way to class one day, I stepped into an empty elevator and pressed “G,” anxious to get to class on time. I was running a little late for I had overslept that morning. It was a relief to have the elevator all to myself. Don’t you hate it when people squeeze themselves in an elevator like sardines in a can and collectively stare at the flashing numbers overhead….in dead silence?

The elevator began its journey to the ground floor when I sensed it slowing down already.

Oh no.

I looked at my watch. Five minutes before class!

The elevator doors cranked open on the eighth floor and a plump girl resembling Monica Lewinsky bounced inside. The elevator dipped considerably.

“Good morning,” she said cheerily. She pressed “G” repeatedly.

“Ugh, good morning.” I replied, smiling back at her. My eyes automatically turned upward at the flashing overhead panel.

At one point, somewhere between the 6th and 5th floors, I noticed out of the corner of my eye that “Monica” appeared to be agitated. She was looking around the elevator, mumbling something. I turned to look at her.

“What’s that funny noise?” she said, with a hint of panic across her face.

Not again.

I knew exactly what was happening. The noise had nothing to do with the elevator.

Should I reassure her that everything was fine or should I have a little fun with this?

The little kid in me decided to have fun.

Feigning a look of great concern, I said to her in a soothing voice, “What’s wrong madam?”

“I am hearing a weird whistling sound, I think something is wrong with this elevator!”

Pretending to gasp in horror, I said, “Really, oh yes, my God, I think you are right!”

“Monica” immediately wrapped her arm around mine, holding on tightly. She stared at the flashing numbers as if that would make the elevator go down faster.

When “G” finally lit up, “Monica” broke free and lunged forward in an attempt to pry open the doors. Rather than waiting for them to open all the way, she hurriedly squeezed herself through and bolted out of sight.

For a moment, I was too shocked to react because I hadn’t expected such excitement!

It wasn’t too long afterwards when I started to feel a little guilty about it so I made a mental note to seek her out and make amends.

The next day I had an opportunity to do just that. I spotted her sitting on the bench under a large Weeping Willow tree, reading a book. I approached cautiously.

“Hey, there, do you have a sec?” I said.

“Sure.” Her jet black hair swayed with the wind, partially obscuring her face. With two fingers, she expertly pulled away the last strands of hair and parked it behind both ears.

“Remember yesterday when you heard that funny sound in the elevator?”

“Oh how could I not! Did you hear it too?”

“Well, not exactly. I have a confession to make.”

Her eyebrows shot up.

Moistening my lips, I said, “First of all, I’m totally deaf. Secondly, that noise you heard had nothing to do with the elevator. It came from me.”

“What!?? What do you mean?” She uncrossed her legs, set aside the book she was reading and gave me her full attention.

“Well, it’s like this. You see the hearing aid I’m wearing in my right ear?” I turned my head to show her.

She nodded, “Hmmmm…”

“When you stepped in the elevator, I smiled back at you and that caused the noise you heard.”

Scratching her head, she cocked her head like a puppy, not quite understanding.

Pointing to the empty space on the bench, I said, “May I?”

She slid over.

Pulling my hearing aid out, I showed her the inside piece, which was made of plastic molding that was made to exact specifications for the right ear.

“When this molding was first made, it sealed the ear quite nicely. But over time, both the shape of my ear canal and this little piece changed its configuration. When that happens, it creates the possibility for air to sneak its way inside the ear, causing feedback. The problem is made worse when the user smiles or laughs.”

She frowned, still not getting it.

“Okay, do me a favor. Smile or laugh but while you’re doing that, put your hand over your ear and tell me what what happens.”

“My ear moves back every time I smile!”

“Exactly! If the plastic piece is shrinking and the inner ear canal is in different shape, that would mean the hearing aid piece won’t fit as snugly as it once did, right?”

I continued further, “when the user smiles or laughs, it creates an even bigger air pocket, because the mold doesn’t quite fit like before.”

“OH I GET IT NOW.” She smiled for the first time.

Then she turned serious for a moment and said, “So you were playing games with me that day?”

“Yes,” I said sheepishly. “Sorry about that.”

She threw her head back and gave a throaty laugh like Marilyn Monroe. Then she smiled. I smiled back.

“So you forgive me?” I asked hopefully.

Wagging her finger at me, she replied, “Yes, but you’re one very naughty boy!”

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Sometime during the late eighties, I was at a midnight birthday party in New York City. I could tell the music was at full blast because each of the four strategically-placed stereo speakers appeared to be alive with a giant pulsating heart. The party was just starting to warm up, thanks to a few people who had the nerve to herk and jerk their hips like Elaine from Seinfeld:

There I was, holding a freshly refilled glass of white wine, surveying the crowd and looking for a place to fit in somewhere. Within a few minutes, I spied a group of articulate-looking people chatting incessantly with the birthday boy across the room. They were passing dirty jokes back and forth.

“Hmmm…this looks promising,” I thought to myself. Taking a deep breath, I promptly made my way over to join them.

Imagine my shock when I discovered they were babbling away 500 miles an hour, like that guy from the famous Federal Express TV commercials. Remember those?

Not wanting to slink away so soon and possibly draw attention to myself, I stood there, pretending to understand every word he was saying. Sipping my cocktail, I nodded, winked and even laughed at all the right moments. I was an expert at this kind of stuff.

But like a Cheshire cat poised to pounce on its prey, I waited for the birthday boy to say something, ANYTHING, that remotely resembled English so that I could at least have something to respond to.

Luckily I didn’t have to wait very long.

“I’m going to buy some condos downtown……..”

AH! I GOTCHA!

Springing into action, I brazenly cut him off and practically screamed, “Yeah, I know where to go for that. Have you heard of a cute little shop down in the village called ‘Condoms Around the World’?’ Oh, you gotta go check it out!!”

Dang, I was so damn proud of myself – I had done it. I had made my mark that night.

What I didn’t know was that just before I opened my big mouth, someone had turned the stereo down for reasons I’ll never know.

At first, a look of surprise registered on people’s faces. Then as if someone flicked on the switch, everyone degenerated into a cacophony of hoots, cackles, and wails, holding on to their stomachs for dear life. Some were repeatedly banging on the coffee table in a desperate attempt to catch their breath while others were giving each other high fives. Shocked and confused that I could be so profoundly funny over such an innocent comment, but not wanting to be left out, I joined in the chorus of laughter.

My best friend, who happened to be within arm’s length, knew better than to think I understood what had just happened. He decided to be helpful.

Instead of grabbing my arm and towing me to the other room where we could talk privately, he waved at me to get my attention and then said, “Hey, that wasn’t what the birthday boy said. The dude was talking about condos not condoms!”

Some friend he was, yeah.

For the first time in my life, I actually felt like I was having a hot flash if that were possible. Never before did I hope the Lord would magically float down to that living room and beam me out of there!

Food for thought: Bluffing your way through life ain’t the way to live!

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But then the more I thought about it, the more I realized it could be traced back to my parents but not in the way you might think.

Before I go any further, I want you to know that my Dad is a faithful reader and subscriber of this blog. He is quite comfortable with the context of the story I am about to share with you because he tells complete strangers about it every chance he gets. Dad knows how he played a powerful hand in shaping me to become the person I am today, even though his methods might have been the opposite of what you would expect, given the success I currently enjoy.

When I became old enough to get a job during the mid-seventies, I wanted to work at the Sipperly Brothers gas station, a stone’s throw from my house. One day, I excitedly told Dad of my intentions.

“Steve, they aren’t going to hire you. You’re deaf, remember?” He was trying to protect me from the rejection that would surely come at the heels of my job application.

Somehow I had the courage and went for it anyway, completely ignoring his advice. To everyone’s surprise (including my own), I ended up getting hired on the spot. I couldn’t wait to tell Dad the good news. Every night he would ask me how it was going to which I would reply, “GREAT!”

Unfortunately my stint in the world of work was rather short-lived. On more than one occasion, the owner’s son and I were caught behind the gas station drinking coke, playing a game of marbles or otherwise bantering around without a care in the world. Thinking I was bad influence around his son, Mr. Sipperly ended up firing me, Donald Trump style.

Embarrassed over what happened, I pretended that I was going to work for one whole week after that. I didn’t want to give my father ammunition to say, I told you so!

So how did I pull it off?

Would you believe I hid in the woods until it was time to go home for supper?

Mom and Dad never had a clue but I knew I couldn’t keep up this charade much longer. It was only a matter of time before I would get caught. It was time to come clean.

My chance arrived one night at the supper table but it came sooner than I wanted.

“Hey, Steve, how’s your job going at Sipperly’s?” said Dad. He was smiling.

Caught off guard, I stopped chewing my food and stared at him. A single thread of spaghetti hung rather unattractively over my lower lip.

Snapping back to reality, I quickly slurped the macaroni between my two front teeth, gingerly set the fork down and subconsciously began rubbing my hands across the top of my summer shorts.

“Mom and Dad……”

Taking a deep breath, I continued, “Um, I got fired.”

“Why, when, how?!?” They were tripping over each other like those actors on “MAD, MAD TV.”

“A-a-a-a couple weeks ago. Uh, Kenny (the boss’s son) and I were caught goofing off a couple of times. Yeah.”

Bracing myself for the inevitable reprimand, I sat rigidly in my chair and waited for the explosion.

It never came.

Like a cool cat, Dad said, “And where were you all this time when you were supposedly at work?”

“In the woods,” I replied sheepishly.

Mom and Dad exchanged amused looks, trying to suppress a laugh. They were thinking, “Aww, how cute!”

My father turned to me and said with a straight face, “Okay, after supper, I want you to go to your room and think about what just happened and don’t come out until you’ve thought about it all the way through.”

Hurriedly mopping off the last of remnants of supper with Mom’s homemade bread, I made a beeline straight to my bedroom where I stayed the rest of the night.

A couple of weeks later, I decided to give myself another shot at getting a job someplace else. This time it was a busy pizza parlor at the local shopping mall.

Of course, I told Dad of my intentions, hoping to get his approval. Once again, he tried to discourage me but I could tell he seemed a little less resistant than before.

That was all I needed.

Encouraged and defiant, I went to the pizza parlor and got myself hired. It didn’t matter that I was there to clean up instead of actually making the pizza. You never saw a more proud pimply teenage boy with shiny braces!

This ended up becoming a pattern throughout the rest of my teenage years. I went on to work at other fast food places, got myself a lawn mowing job at an elderly lady’s house and worked for my aunt up at her place of business.

Over time, I gradually chipped away Dad’s maternal need to “protect me.” He was learning too. He saw that once I set my mind on achieving something, there wasn’t much anyone could do about it. I was going for it, come high hell or water. This would later prepare me for years on Wall Street.

His reluctance to encourage me actually ended up being one of his greatest gifts. Think about this for a second. While we all need emotional support for the things we want to achieve in life, from a cosmic point of view, we also need people who try and stop us because they are the ones who help us build our character, give us more courage and strengthen our risk-taking muscles.

Bottom line? Dad’s mission was to play the tough guy. By carrying it out flawlessly, he unwittingly helped me become an award-winning Wall Street stockbroker, motivational speaker, author and the first deaf pilot in the world to get an instrument rating. So, hats off to you Dad!

By the way, nowadays when I tell him about my future dreams including but not limited to being the first deaf pilot to fly a small jet, appear as a guest on Oprah, write a best-seller, speak all over the world, he now knows that it is a near certainty, given my track record!

Now, let’s talk about my mother for a moment. Her role was similar yet different. I’ll never forget how she handled herself one sunny morning during the school week. I was in third grade at the time.

Among the usual cluster of neighborhood kids waiting for the school bus was Patty, a tough little tyke with a rather sordid reputation. Twice my size, she walked around with a “don’t mess with me” kind of attitude.

For some reason, I was made a target on that particular morning. She teased me relentlessly and tried to provoke me. Rather than fighting back, I ran back down the steep hill to my house, wailing at the top of my lungs. It was my first brush with a school bully who happened to be a girl.

Good God, what in the world……!

Arriving at the front door, I pounded against it with all my might, calling for my mother.

Seconds later she appeared from behind the screen door, wearing an apron and yellow gloves. She must have been baking a pie or something.

Concern was etched across her pretty movie star face, betraying her normal sense of calm. Perhaps her little boy had just gotten hit by a car or something.

Blubbering incoherently, I cried, “Patty’s picking on me.”

As soon as those words tumbled out of my mouth, I somehow knew the front door was not opening up anytime soon. Her eyes quickly changed from wide to narrow slits. Slowly folding her arms across her bosom, she said in the sternest voice she could muster, “Stephen, you get your ass back up there and go to school, RIGHT NOW!”

I had expected her to step outside, put her arms around me and sympathetically ask what in the world Patty was doing to her precious little boy.

“NOOOO,” I pleaded with her. “Come with me and tell Patty to leave me alone!!”

My mother would have none of it. She stood there defiantly, with an outstretched arm like Hilter, pointing to the school bus stop up the hill.

I later learned that it was one of the hardest things she ever had to do. She desperately wanted kneel down and slobber kisses all over her little boy’s face and march right up the hill to teach that young lady a lesson or two. But she knew better.

Realizing she meant business, I turned around and marched angrily back to the bus stop, muttering a string of ugly expletives.

Of course, I was too young to understand what she was trying to do. In fact, I thought she was the meanest mother on the planet that day. But you and I know differently – her gift to me was that she planted a powerful seed of independence. You were right on the mark that day, Mom! Hats off to you too!

So, there you have it. My motivation originally came from a wonderful Mom and Dad long before Mrs. Jordan, my fifth grade teacher, made a divine appearance on the stage of my life with three most famous words, “That’s right, Stephen!”

Food for thought: Where do you think you get your motivation from? Whether you believe it or not, you have it in there somewhere. Go and tell!

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Next to the door at the bottom of the tower was the intercom. This didn’t faze me in the least. Long ago, I learned a neat trick in New York City where almost everyone lived in apartment buildings with an intercom system. All I had to do was press the button and simultaneously pull on the door handle until the person upstairs buzzed me in. I did it again that morning.

Closing the heavy vault-like door behind me, I saw before me a long, winding staircase that forever spiraled upward. The steps were muddy and the walls were murky brown, giving off a dark, ominous feel to it. I was immediately transported to a windowless medieval castle from the Middle Ages. Taking a deep breath, I began the long ascend.

A slender 5′ 8″ man with a fast receding hairline was waiting for me at the top. Clipped to the pocket of his polyester shirt was a government-issued badge with a badly outdated photo. He had looked a lot younger with gobs of hair back then. Glancing beneath the photo, it read, “Shift Supervisor.” He was alone – the others would probably be arriving shortly.

Although uncertain and somewhat apprehensive at having been summoned to the tower, I bravely offered my hand to thank him for the light gun landing.

To my surprise, he laughed heartily and said, “No problem. Very happy to help.” In a split-second, the energy in the air seemed to shift from negative to positive. Maybe I wasn’t in trouble after all. But I still I wasn’t sure.

Then I noticed a huge red welt across his forehead. Curious and concerned, I decided to ask him about it.

“Sir, what happened to your forehead?”

With an air of self-depreciating humor, he said, “You know how it took forever to give you the green light?”

“Oh yes!”

“Well, see that table over there in the corner? I had to climb on it to get the light gun off the ceiling. The problem was, I didn’t know how to unlatch it. When I finally figured it out, the darn thing came crashing down on me!”

“Suddenly feeling sorry for him, I stammered, “Oh my gosh, I didn’t mean to put you through all that trouble sir!”

“Not a problem at all. Please enjoy your breakfast downstairs. When you’re ready for takeoff, you will use Runway 32 on the other side. Just call us like you did this morning and we’ll take care of you. ”

Glad that I really wasn’t getting a verbal reprimand for my mid-morning adventure, I enthusiastically replied, “Well, thank you sir, I’ll do just that!”

Going down the narrow staircase was a tad trickier than coming up. It was much steeper than it first looked – it seemed to spiral straight down into the abyss.

It was a relief to finally push the heavy door open and step outside into the bright sunlight. Wiping the sweat off my forehead, I found the restaurant next door. It was moderately busy but there were plenty of tables to choose from. I took one by the window with a full view of the airport.

A perky waitress quickly appeared out of thin air, magically extracted a pen from the back of her head, dabbed it on the tip her tongue and took my order. I decided to splurge and ordered a ham and cheese omelet with extra bacon, whole wheat toast and coffee. After downing two cups of coffee and mopping the plate clean, I paid the bill and went back out to the plane.

While conducting the pre-takeoff inspection, I kept glancing up at the tower to see if my new-found friend was watching. He wasn’t. Perhaps he was busy tending to traffic.

Finished with the preflight, I climbed in the aircraft, pressed the start button and the engine roared to life. Switching on the radios, I put in a call for permission to taxi. A flashing green light came right away. I couldn’t tell if it was from the same controller or not.

Upon arriving at the run-up area, the plane was turned around to face the tower so that when it came time to request permission for takeoff, I could see the light signal without having to crane my neck like Linda Blair in “The Exorcist.”

In a matter of minutes, I was ready to go.

“Jackson Tower, Piper 455H, request takeoff clearance, Runway 32.”

A moment later, huge, gigantic blinders that covered the entire southeast side of the tower rose up majestically. It was like watching the curtains go up at a Broadway show.

They had a surprise in store for me. Rather than getting a solid green light like I expected, I received a flashing green signal instead. It took a second to realize they were giving me clearance to taxi to the runway and hold for release.

I soon understood why. A corporate jet was taking off from an adjacent runway. As if in a trance, I sat awestruck in the middle of Runway 32 and watched the sleek jet climb two thousand feet a minute while its landing gear folded gracefully underneath. It had a hypnotic affect on me.

After it was a mere speck in the sky, I snapped back to reality and turned to focus at the tower.

As soon my eyes adjusted, a solid green light appeared. My heart leapt with joy.

Thrusting the throttles wide open for maximum take-off power, the Piper Archer rose effortlessly into the pretty blue sky. When the plane reached a thousand feet, I put her in a gentle climbing turn to the right – the direction of my home airport.

As we climbed, I reached for the radio one last time and bid farewell to the controller. In my imagination, he was smiling back at me.

When I got back home, I learned it was a good thing I did not try to fly home the night before. Apparently, someone had a gear-up landing accident, causing my home airport to shut down for several hours. Imagine the consequences had I not listened to my intuition and made my first maiden night flight!

Food for thought: Have fun, be adventurous and be sure to act on your intuition, for it may safe your life. Helen Keller once said, “Life is either a great adventure or nothing.”

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I was smiling because I was struck with the idea of having breakfast at the Jackson County Airport (KJXN), a mere 33 miles away. With mounting excitement, I entered the new airport identifier into the GPS and punched the “Direct To” button. It indicated that I would be there in about 20 minutes in the Piper Archer.

Glancing at the Detroit chart in front of me, I found the airport was encircled by broken blue lines with the number 35 enclosed in brackets. That meant pilots could not enter Jackson County’s airspace between the ground up to and including 3500 feet without first establishing radio contact and then obtaining a clearance to land.

“As long as I am at least 1,000 feet or more ABOVE this ceiling when I get there, I’ll be fine.” I said to myself.

To comply with FAA recommended cruising altitudes, I climbed to 5,500 feet, giving me a nice 2,000 foot buffer above Jackson’s airspace. I was going to have to descend almost four thousand feet in a hurry once I got permission to land but I would worry about that later.

The next thing was to get in touch with the controller and give him the surprise of a lifetime.

“Jackson Tower, this a deaf pilot in Piper Archer 455H, 30 miles southwest, will be requesting light gun landing for Runway 14.”

Every tower has a light gun to guide pilots with malfunctioning radios (or no radios at all—they still exist today, believe it or not). A light gun functions like a manually controlled traffic light for airports with towers except that there is one headlight capable of producing red, white or green colors.

I decided to let my first radio call sink in, assuming the controller on duty was still waking up and enjoying his first cup of coffee.

The red light on my radio stack immediately flickered to life. Someone was talking on this frequency. I sure hoped it wasn’t the controller responding back to me! If it was, maybe he didn’t hear the “deaf pilot” part!

Ten miles later, I had a Freudian slip of the tongue when I checked in again.

“Jackson Tower, repeating that I’m a very hungry deaf pilot er, er, in Piper Archer 455H, now 20 miles southwest, er, er, will request light gun landing, er, er Runway 14.”

My face was probably red as a beet but I pressed on, hoping for the best. I wasn’t violating anything. After all, you only live once!

With 15 miles to go, I spotted the large sprawling metropolitan airport up ahead. This time I had my radio act together.

“Jackson Tower, deaf pilot in Piper Archer 455H, 15 miles southwest, will circle above airport at 5,500 to receive light gun signal for Runway 14.”

After two more calls at the ten and five mile waypoints, I was finally on top of them. Putting the airplane in a 20 degree bank to the left, so that the tower was in my line of sight at all times, I began to circle like a hawk, watching and waiting.

As I was making my first round, I didn’t see anything come from the tower.

I double checked the frequency – 120.7. It was the right one.

Puzzled, I made contact once again: “Jackson Tower, deaf pilot in Piper Archer 455H, now circling above you for light gun landing, Runway 14.”

On the second trip around the bend, they still hadn’t given me what I wanted.

Something weird was going on.

It shouldn’t take this long, especially so early in the morning with hardly any other traffic.

Entering the holding pattern a third time, if I did not get permission to land after this one, I decided I would simply go home. No harm would be done – at least I had fun trying.

Upon completing the last circle, I was about to break off and head home when a miracle happened. They finally aimed their light gun right at me with the strongest beam of green light I had ever seen!

Beside myself with joy, my response was rapid-fire, “Jackson Tower, Piper Archer 455H, I see the green light, thank you. Will make downwind entry, left base approach for Runway 14.”

Since I was now cleared to land, I immediately began the descend and headed southeast, away from the airport, so that I could have enough room to turn around and come back for landing at the proper altitude.

After descending almost a thousand feet per minute and turning towards the airport, I landed a few minutes later and took the second exit off the runway. The tower gave me a flashing green light almost immediately, giving me permission to taxi across an active runway towards the restaurant (which happened to be next to the tower).

Parking by the restaurant, I climbed out and glanced up. Someone from the tower was looking down at me. Feeling real proud for having made a landing at a towered airport all by myself for the very first time, eagerly gave him two thumbs up.

He responded by curling his finger back and forth as if inviting me upstairs. The reflecting sun off the glass made it hard for me to see his face clearly so I couldn’t tell if he was smiling or not.

Suddenly feeling like a child guilty of committing a naughty act, I pointed at myself, “Me??”

The man gestured to the bottom left to indicate where the entrance was.

“Oh my God! Did I do something wrong?”

To be continued………

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Making my way across the inky black ramp to the airplane, a gust of cold air blew across the landscape, causing me to shiver involuntarily. Goose bumps spread like wildfire causing me to rub my arms vigorously. A cold front was passing through.

Opening the door to the luggage compartment, I hurriedly rifled through my duffle bags, not remembering whether I had packed a sweatshirt. All I had that was remotely useful was a lightweight Gore-Tex jacket. In the far corner, I noticed something clumpy. Thinking that it was a blanket, my hope surged and then went flat in one fell swoop when it turned out to be a bunch of oily rags.

Shit.

Crestfallen for not being more prepared for something like this, I climbed into the cockpit, eased the door shut and clicked the lock into place with a resounding snap.

Sliding into the co-pilot seat, I surveyed the makeshift hotel. Paris Hilton would certainly not have approved. And a contortionist I was not, my expanding waist saw to that. But it will do.

First, I stretched across the two front seats, curling into a fetal position but when protruding seatbelt buckles poked out menacingly, I tried lying on my back, then on my stomach. It went like this all night. With each new position, my legs were forcibly crammed into very unnatural positions.

Oh my.

This was actually the least of my problems. Not only was I shivering uncontrollably but I had the sheer audacity to park right by the rotating beacon, which kept waking me up every 60 seconds. It reminded me of those prisoner-of-war movies where powerful spotlights swept across the prison yard, spilling light in and out of dark bungalows along the way.

Somehow I got the hang of it and fell asleep from sheer exhaustion.

At daybreak, I sleepily looked outside the cockpit. What I saw made me think I had died and gone to heaven.

The entire airport was completely fogged in!

The fog swallowed up everything in sight, including the wings of the airplane. I knew I wasn’t leaving anytime soon.

For three hours, I bumbled around the airport, watching the rising sun cut swaths through the fog. It was beginning working its magic because the surrounding tree line, completely shrouded earlier, was now becoming visible with each passing minute. Glancing at my watch, it was 9 am. In another hour, I would take the plane up for a “look-see” by circling directly above the airport and survey the surrounding area. If it was still foggy in the outlying areas, I would come right back down and wait some more.

At exactly 10 am, the “look-see” plan swung into action. Advancing the throttle wide open, the plane roared happily and lifted into the morning air with nary a bump. During the climb out, I scanned left to right. Aside from occasional wisps of fog, almost all of it was gone. Relieved, I punched my home airport identifier (KVLL-formerly known as 7D2) into the GPS and turned to the correct heading.

Within five minutes, my stomach was growling, reminding me that I hadn’t eaten breakfast yet.

“I’ll be home in another forty-five minutes, you can wait,” I told my stomach.

It growled louder in defiance.

It was then I remembered there was an airport along the way that had a restaurant right on the field. I had been there many times and the food was pretty good. Why not stop there?

There was one problem.

This airport had a control tower.

“How would I, a deaf pilot, get in?” I thought.

As I was pondering this, I remembered something someone had told me at the Kansas fly-in. This person told me that by making special arrangements with the tower supervisor the day before or day of departure, that he was able to fly in and out of controlled airports with no problems.

How he did this was by contacting the supervisor via a special phone service (from home or the home airport) and asking if it was possible for him to make a landing via a light gun signal (used nowadays in cases of radio failures). If the controller was willing to accommodate him, a date, approximate time of arrival and runway of use would be agreed upon. When the deaf pilot was within the vicinity of the airport, the tower would flash a powerful beam of green light, giving him permission to land. (There are other lights that mean different things but a green light is what deaf pilots want to see).

As I was recalling this conversation, I realized I hadn’t made any such arrangements.

“Oh well, there’s always another time.”

The moment I thought that, a crazy idea was born. I smiled for the first time since that morning.

To be continued……..

a

Five and a half hours later, I arrived in Kansas, tired but elated. A handful of deaf pilots were on hand at the airport to welcome me. I felt right at home.

Throughout the week, we flew to different locations, including Amelia Earhart’s birthplace. On most of those flights, one or two passengers was usually on board to share in the cost of flying the airplane. Although Kansas is well known for its thunderstorms during the summer, we were mercifully spared and got to do almost everything that was on the schedule.

Everyone had a great time and the week flew by all too quickly. Soon it was time to go separate ways and return home.

Fortunately, I would be getting a little tailwind on the day of departure and because of that, I decided I had enough time to make a stop in Illinois to visit with a fellow pilot before continuing the rest of the way.

After flying for about two hours, my friend greeted me at the Illinois airport. We spent the afternoon catching up and ate a delicious lunch at his house. At one point, I glanced at the clock and realized it was getting late. It was almost 5 pm. I still had another 3 hours of flying before arriving at my home airport and I wanted to get there before sunset. At that time, I was not yet comfortable flying at night. I was still a relatively new pilot and was not ready to stretch my comfort zone.

My friend quickly took me back to the airport and dropped me off. After refueling and getting a weather update, I was back in the air, climbing to 7,500 feet, heading east. I dodged low-level clouds here and there and motored on for two and a half hours, enjoying the scenery below me.

Based on the GPS, I could see that I was not going to make my home airport before sunset. I began making preparations to land somewhere for the night. Looking through my list of alternate airports, I picked one that was only 45 minutes away from my final destination. I keyed in the airport identification (KOEB) into the GPS and punched the “Direct To” button.

Thirty minutes later, I saw the green and white rotating beacon of that airport. The sun was just about to dip below the horizon, plunging the entire area into darkness. I knew I made a good choice to land there.

Circling above the airport to check the position of the windsock (to determine the direction of the wind), I made an uneventful landing on the appropriate runway. After landing, I taxied over to the terminal building, looking for a place to park for the night. My intention was to go into the airport lounge to sleep on the couch and then fly the rest of the way home the next morning.

But the problem was I couldn’t decide whether to stay put or continue my flight. I was having an argument with myself over this. After all, I reasoned, it’s only another 45 minutes to my home airport and I have to make a night flight sometime – why not tonight? The weather was gorgeous with clear, calm skies.

It was very tempting but something told me not to push it. Reluctantly, I picked a spot by the terminal building and shut down. I would later find out it was not the best place to park.

Stepping out of the airplane, I noticed it was eerily still in the cool, damp air. Not a single soul was around. It was a weird feeling being by myself at such an unfamiliar place.

Most small airports have a combination lock on their buildings to prevent unauthorized people from entering after-hours. Only pilots had access to the combination because they knew where to look for it (the airport facility directory). That way they could stop in for a vending-machine snack or catch a quick nap before continuing on with their flights.

As I approached the building, I was shocked to see it did not have a combination lock. I could have sworn the airport facility directory mentioned this place had one. Upon closer inspection, I could see the door was bolted from inside! Perhaps I was mistaken.

A million thoughts ran through my head, “How am I going to get in?” “Where am I going to sleep tonight?”

My first reaction was to check the front entrance to see if it had a combination lock.

No such luck.

Taking a deep breath, I surveyed the area. The gravel parking lot was illuminated by the moonlight yet completely devoid. The road that ran alongside the airport was pitch black, overshadowed by towering pine trees on both sides. There was nothing for miles around. I was the only breathing soul there.

I decided to try one more time to get in the building and made my way to the back door again. Aggressively rattling the doorknob, twisting and pulling, it would not budge. Peering inside, I could see the faint outline of a couch. How I wanted to get in there!

Slowly turning around, I stared at the small airplane.

It was going to be a long night.

To be continued……….

a