Sky King and Popeye the Sailor Man

Built by the Boys

     I have difficulty understanding contemporary kids when they say "I'm bored." I don't remember ever being bored as a kid. We didn't have electricity, TV, computers, or many toys.  We did, however, have books and I was a voracious reader and I played catch or softball or cowboys and Indians (oh, I’m sorry – First Nations Peoples) with my friends.  In addition, there were many natural things with which to play, for example grasshoppers, snakes, gopher and magpie traps, various plants and animal bones.  We built little corrals in the dirt and used the bones from horse’s hooves for livestock.  There were also many places to explore and we would take hikes over the hill to Cherry Coulee along the Red Deer River or pester the elevator operator across the road, fascinated by the operation of the systems, especially the huge stationery engine that he would start for us, explaining how the governor worked, and watching us carefully lest we attempt to use the elevator to the top which would have had fatal results.  Following in Dad’s footsteps, there was usually a balsa and tissue model airplane under construction, sometimes blood spotted by lacerated fingers until X-Acto knives replaced so-called safety razor blades!  I have tried to imbue my sons with model airplane skills and we built a few when they were kids.

     The one concession to the “modern” era was a battery powered radio, a huge monstrosity sitting in the living room.  It was powered by large, heavy batteries, which, because they were expensive, resulted in our parents rationing our listening time.  There were great programs broadcast from Watrous, Saskatchewan, 55 on the radio dial, the only station we could receive, and sometimes with plenty of static at that.  I did make a crystal radio from a 15 cent crystal and a safety pin for a "cat’s whisker" and an old earphone set I found in the house, so that allowed me a bit more listening time.

     What “kid” can forget “Maggie Muggens” accompanied by Fitzgerald Field Mouse and Mr. McGarrity, the all-knowing gardener who always seemed to be leaning on his red handled hoe and passing on pearls of wisdom to Maggie! Or how about “Bobby Benson of the B bar B extoling his B bar B pancakes and always saving the day! Then there was “Tom Corbett, Space Cadet” and “Space Patrol” -  or maybe those two were a bit later.  
 
Sky King

     My all-time favorite radio program, perhaps due to its aeronautical theme, was “Sky King.”  Sky King was a heroic pilot who, flying his twin engine Cessna, Songbird,  rescued damsels in distress, found lost hikers, and trapped Nazi and Communist spies, etc.  ( Incidentally, according to Wikipedia, the series was probably based on a true-life person, Jack Cones, the Flying Constable of 29 Palms during the 1930s).  Here is an excerpt from the Sky King website:
 
Out of the clear blue of the western sky comes Sky King, a WWII naval aviator-turned rancher, who flies his twin-engine Cessna high above the Arizona plains. Accompanying Sky on his adventures are his nephew, Clipper and his teen niece, Penny.
                                     http://www.skyking.com/

The episodes always began with the awe inspiring guttural roar of an airplane and the following introduction:  "From out of the clear blue of the western sky comes - Sky King."  And my attention would be riveted to the radio for the 15 or so minutes of the program.

     Like many programs of that era, there were various souvenirs that could be ordered through the mail:  “Just send two box-tops from whatever and 15 cents and we’ll send you a super-duper something.”  Well, Sky King had a promotion that no true budding aviation enthusiast could resist – a “ Genuine Sky King Ring with a miniature model Songbird that really flew.”  I choked down two boxes of whatever, perhaps some sort of cereal, as rapidly as I could and mailed in my 15 cents along with the box tops and awaited the arrival of my Genuine Sky King Ring with breathless anticipation.  Living in the country, it was necessary to remain breathless for what seemed like an eternity – almost every day I would haunt the post office (the mail came in on the weekly train) to see if my Genuine Sky King Ring had somehow magically arrived.

     At long last (six weeks later), the little box containing the Genuine Sky King Ring with the model Songbird that really flew finally arrived.  I ran home as quickly as I could down the dusty path and sprinted into the living room where, with adrenaline induced trembling hands, I opened the package.  I peered wide-eyed into the box and discovered a silver ring equipped with a spring powered launcher and a tiny black plastic twin engine Cessna with a one-half inch wingspan.  Controlling my shaking hands the best I could, I placed the ring on my finger, pressed the airplane onto the launcher whereupon I pressed the trigger and my little black Songbird took off at warp speed, never to be seen again!

     Every few years, I drive through Bindloss and, as I pass the house, which is now derelict and crumbling, I wonder if my little black Songbird is in there somewhere. I resist the urge to clamber over the barbed wire fence, wade through the thigh high, snake infested weeds and break into the old abandoned house to mount still another of the thousands of searches that I had mustered as a heartbroken little boy, for my precious airplane.  I soon lost interest in the ring  with the spring loaded, but vacant launcher, but maybe if I had it now it would console me and ameliorate my unspoken grief.  Perhaps my little black Songbird is still flying somewhere, rescuing damsels in distress, locating lost hikers and trapping Nazi and Communist spies.  I can only hope so.

 
Yachting (or something like that) in Bindloss

My first yachting uniform - age 2

     I love everything that moves: planes, cars, trains, rockets, motorcycles and boats, etc.  And my introduction to boating, sailing, yachting, or whatever you wish to call it, began at a very early age.  About halfway between our house and Bindloss, not far from the well, was a slough, prairie parlance for a pond.  Every spring, the slough would be filled to the brim with water from the freshly melting snow and various life cycles would begin.  There would be frog’s eggs, pollywogs and wigglers (mosquito larvae) to catch and display in pickle jar aquariums and the banks would come alive with the sights and sounds of songbirds like the red-winged blackbirds, sparrows, and numerous other bird species that built their nests in the high grasses surrounding the banks.
  

Prairie Slough

     In the slough was moored a questionably seaworthy raft that someone, I have no idea who, had cobbled together from fence posts.  This was definitely out of bounds as far as my mom and dad were concerned.  I was absolutely forbidden, verboten, from going anywhere near the slough, let alone the raft.  I had surreptitiously copped a couple of excursions on this poor excuse for a boat and actually became fairly confident about my seamanship.  I realized, for example, that when first stepping on the vessel, it would sink a couple of inches for a short time due to the waterlogged condition of the fence posts.
       
     One day, my friend, Harvey, wanted to accompany me on one of my pirate voyages and I agreed to allow him to step aboard the raft.  The vessel immediately began its usual submarine - like antics, submerging a couple of inches.  Harvey panicked, diving off into the pollywog infested sea.  The raft was positioned directly over a part of the pond that legend had it that there was a bottomless hole right in that spot and that some sort of little boy eating sea monster might be dwelling in the depths (perhaps the rumor was started by adults to dissuade us from approaching the slough.)  I thought that Harvey might be lost forever, perhaps being devoured by the creature or surfacing in China, but, as I anxiously waited, he surfaced, covered in “seaweed.” Sputtering as he thrashed his way to the shore, he swore that his pirating days were over!  I could not contain my mirth at this blatant act of cowardice unbefitting a pirate, which angered him considerably, and his face turned redder than his carrot hued hair and even his freckles seemed anemic by comparison to the surrounding skin, which only heightened my enjoyment of the situation.  Through my tears of laughter, I asked him if he had seen any frogs down there and still sputtering, he departed for the safety of his home. 

     I guess that Harvey had to explain to his parents why his clothes were wet and why there was seaweed in his hair and, having spilled the beans, the event was relayed to my parents who had already prohibited me from being anywhere near the slough.  With very little convincing by the Hawthorne brush, I swore to myself that my pirating days were over too.  I have lost track of Harvey. Perhaps he is in China.

     My grandparents used to occasionally visit from Medicine Hat and they would always bring gifts for Kristine and me.  Well you can guess what they brought for me a few days after the above incident;  you got it – a pair of shiny black rubber boots and a sailor’s hat!!!  Well, my reluctance to endure any further wrath from my parents (and the brush), was overwhelmed by a combination of my Viking and pirate blood and the shiny black rubber boots and, especially, the sailor’s hat.  So I sneaked away, under the delusion that I was avoiding my elder’s attention and proudly boarded my ship, as any experienced seaman would do, and set sail for distant shores (really about 30 feet away)!  I soon heard a foghorn;  no, wait a minute! - it was shouting that emanated from my parents and my grandparents as they rushed to the slough, thinking that I would surely drown and require rescue from this perilous body of water. I poled confidently to shore, proudly beaming from ear to ear as I demonstrated my prowess at handling a ship, but they would not accept that I had acquired sufficient proficiency in seamanship that I would avoid a “prison term” even though I was wearing shiny black rubber boots and, especially, the sailor’s hat.

Inside our last "raft" c. 1990

     I was forced to stay indoors, confined to barracks, for a few days, unable to sit comfortably, and I visited with my grandparents, read a book about pirates and built a model airplane while pondering over whether or not to pursue a nautical career.

     There are many other things to tell you about like my first pocket knife, six guns, Meccano Sets, Black Widow spiders, more venomous creatures, horses, pets, dust devils, ghosts, books, cars, motorcycles, airplanes and other things.  I will talk to you later about these and then get into flying, aircraft accident investigation, travel and family, etc.  But this is enough for now.

A pessimist sees the difficulty in every opportunity; an optimist sees the opportunity in every difficulty.

Winston Churchill