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In the grand tradition of Mike Agranoff‘s Ballad of the Sandman, here’s Fingers in the Airport Fence Entwined (The Ballad of Jimmy Short). Every part of the aviation community has some person who is ubiquitous, who is always there marshaling aircraft or hauling Porta-Johns around at fly-ins, and/or generally making things work and never expecting a word of thanks. They do it for the love of the community and of aviation.

This is the story of just such a guy. And the story of the send-off that we all wish people like that would receive when they finally hang up their headsets.

The full text of the piece follows this brief announcement . . .

You’ve heard me talking about the upcoming Airspeed book for months now and, in fact, it’s been a week or two away from publication for at least two months. But it’s done! It’s out! And just in time for holiday giving!

It’s called Airspeed – The First Two Years Aloft. 200 pages, more or less, of essays, rants, ruminations, and the Big Dream from the first two years of the show. It’s in paperback with a nice-looking black cover with Tim Reed’s highly-Photoshopped picture of Gene Soucy performing at Battle Creek in 2006 and a a shot out the front window of a Cessna 172 taken while cruiting just above a beautiful overcast layer.

There are black and white pictures throughout the book, some new just for the book.

The book includes most of the highlights of the last two years, including some interviews transcribed for the first time. And it also includes the full text of several of the most popular episodes, such as First Solo and Why I Fly. There’s also additional explanatory material in several of the chapters.

Chapters include:

Intro Flights
Ballistic Recovery Parachutes
BFR Complete – On to the Instrument Rating!
Steely-Eyed Missile Man John Aaron
Take Your Kids to the Airport
So You Want to Be an Astronaut – Part 1: Qualification
So You Want to Be an Astronaut – Part 2: Selection
So You Want to Be an Astronaut – Part 3: Ruminations
GA IS No Threat
Steely-Eyed Missile Man Captain REFSMMAT
A Ride with the US Army Golden Knights
The Canadian Forces Snowbirds
Test Pilot: You
Balloon Ride with Dave Emmert
So Long, One-Eight!
The Technicolor Yawn and You
First Solo
Hey, Don!
Upside Down with My Hair on Fire
Why I Fly
Fingers in the Airport Fence Entwined

The book is perfect for any fan of the podcast (and I realize that I flatter myself here) and it’s also a great gift for any aviator or would-be aviator or anyone who loves flight.

Pick up your copy at http://www.lulu.com/stupper or http://www.lulu.com/content/1389586. You can also just click the link on the right-hand side of the website home page or just search for “Airspeed” at http://www.lulu.com/. Only $15.95 plus shipping!

Lulu says that the following deadlines apply for orders for delivery by December 25. Bear in mind that these are Lulu’s deadlines and I have little to do with them. I’ve ordered two copies in succession to proofread and they’ve each shipped by the next day after I ordered them, but Lulu gets really busy around the holidays, so order early and often!

USPS Priority – 12/12/2007
UPS Ground – 12/14/2007
2nd Day Air – 12/18/2007
Next Day Air – 12/18/2007
SuperFast – 12/19/2007
SuperMegaFast – 12/20/2007

I’m happy to sign copies if I may be so presumptuous as to think that someone might want a signed copy. Being that I’m publishing using Print-on-Demand (which means that no copy gets printed until you order it and then it gets shipped directly from the print facility), but, if you want to forward your copy to me for signing with a SASE, I’ll turn it around as quickly as I can. My snail mail address is in my profile on the website at http://www.airspeedonline.com/. Make sure that you include your e-mail address or telephone number with the book you want signed in case I have any questions.

If I may further flatter myself by thinking that anyone might want a signed copy for Christmas giving, please drop me an e-mail and I’ll see what I can do about ordering a copy directly and then forwarding it on to you. Bear in mind that that would be a great way to turn this into a $50 book by the time you pay for all of the shipping but if you’re game, I’m game as long as I’m not carrying anything more than a house payment (or Jack Hodgson’s heating bill) in float. (Again, I flatter myself.)

On to Fingers in the Airport Fence Entwined (The Ballad of Jimmy Short)!

__________________________________

Harper’s Field is smallish strip a mile from the edge of town,
Parallel to the section lines with farm fields all around.
An FBO, two dozen Tees ‘mid green alfalfa hay,
And a battered sign on the county road: “Airplane rides this way.”

Sometimes, when I was back from school, I’d drive down to the field,
And park the car in the gravel lot to see what the sky might yield.
I’d stand there by the airport fence with a Coke or a Huber beer,
And while away the afternoon at the sky and ground’s frontier.

It doesn’t happen often, though there’re some who say it should,
That we get a glimpse of a fleeting thing that we thought was gone for good.
When zephyrs of the atmosphere meet dreamers on the ground,
And magic, love, and science merge in a roar of deaf’ning sound.

I’d watch them make their takeoff runs; their Continentals whined,
Standing with my fingers in the airport fence entwined.

* * * * *

Jimmy Short arrived in town in 1952.
He’d served in South Korea, but his fighting days were through.
He got a job and the stamping plant and married a local girl,
And made a home and family and his corner of the world.

Sometime in the spring of ‘56 a friend from his platoon,
Called to say he was passing through and might Jim have a room?
Jim met him down at Harper’s Field when he pulled up to the ramp,
And got his very first airplane ride in his friend’s Aeronca Champ.

Jim kept his friend up half the night and talked ‘bout how to fly,
Got another ride in the morning before they said goodbye,
And when his buddy dropped him off and taxied off to go,
Jim turned around and followed the fence line down to the FBO.

So Jim began his training with a crusty world war vet.
They’d stay aloft on weekday nights ‘til the sun began to set.
And Saturdays and Sundays he’d be at the field at dawn.
His preflight done and the oil topped off; by seven, they were gone.

When the shift let out and the bars filled up, he was at the field instead,
And mowers moved across the hay as he soloed overhead.
And by the time the leaves had turned from green to fiery gold,
His private chit was in his in his hands and twenty hours old.

Jim bought the Cub that winter, though it wasn’t much to see.
The tires were flat and the fabric slack and it sat there in the Tee.
The engine was in baskets, too, but Jimmy wasn’t fazed.
The A&P who signed it off could only stand amazed,

As the gorgeous Cub that Jim pulled out in the second week of May.
That winter in the hangar, Jimmy working night and day,
Had made a bond ‘tween man and plane, both glowed there in the sun,
As Jimmy swing her ‘round and poised to make his takeoff run.

Harper’s field was younger then and, just like Jim, it changed.
Its spirit kept the beat of time but scenery rearranged.
They paved it back in seventy-six and stretched three thousand feet,
And added in an NDB just past the white concrete.

In ‘85, the airspace changed and, though Harper’s Field was “G,”
They added on a speed ring and an overhead of “C.”
You had to stay three thousand or get on the radio,
But Harper’s pilots didn’t mind. They liked to keep it low.

* * * * *

The first time I met Jimmy Short was twenty years ago,
By the fence at Harper’s Field when he stopped to say hello.
He was in his fifties and I was twenty-three,
But that didn’t seem to matter when he stopped to talk to me.

“I’ve seen you here all summer, son, just standing where you are,
Sipping on your Coke and standing, watching from afar.
There’s more to this than what you see when you stand the parking lot.
There’s a view, you know, there that gives you more perspective than this spot.”

“And what might that be?” I asked, and stood somewhat beguiled.
He hooked his thumb toward the ramp and turned, and then he smiled.
He said, “My name is Jimmy Short and I fly the yellow Cub.
It’s time to stop just standing here. It’s time to get you up.”

I followed him down the fenceline and he waved me through the gate.
I helped him pull the Cub out and he asked about my weight.
Some scrib’ling on an envelope, a finger in the wind,
Then he waved me to the front seat and he helped to strap me in.

And so, that day, I saw where I had stood there by the fence.
But I saw it from a thousand feet and I had a different sense,
Of where I stood in other ways and what I really wanted,
I knew that it would challenge me, but I set my teeth undaunted.

And when the Cub came back to earth (and later, so did I),
I turned around, asked Jimmy Short “Where do I learn to fly?”
He chuckled and took off his hat, ran his hand through his thinning hair.
“The next step’s at the FBO and, son, it’s over there.”

It seems I didn’t sleep much through the summer and the fall.
There were groceries to bag and lawns to mow and clippings left to haul.
And every cent I took to the FBO to rent the plane;
A beat-up C-150 but a perfect ship to train.

And, as I flew and talked to folks, before too long, I found,
That the name of the pilot Jimmy Short was known for miles around.
No job to small, he volunteered at every county show,
And went to every fly-in where the Cub would let him go.

You could put him on the flight line or in the parking lot,
And Jim would see that every camper pulled into its slot.
You’d see him folding tables and hauling Porta-Johns,
And many a warbird was marshaled with a wave of Jim’s batons.

You’d see him flipping pancakes and you’d see him cleaning up,
Or smiling as he showed the folks his yellow Piper Cub.
His dues were current in the EAA and when they called the roll,
Jimmy was a captain In the Civil Air Patrol.

And I found that my ride on that summer day wasn’t Jimmy’s first.
Many a pilot had Jim to thank for giving them the thirst.
For the smell of hundred low-lead and the sound of the takeoff run,
Or the landing on two-seven in a setting summer sun.

It doesn’t happen often, though there’re some who say it should,
That we get a glimpse of a fleeting thing that we thought was gone for good.
When zephyrs of the atmosphere meet dreamers on the ground,
And magic, love, and science merge in a love that’s newly found.

I’d sometimes watch as he gave a kid his very first airplane ride.
Standing with my fingers in the airport fence entwined.

* * * * *

Like I said, it’s been 20 years and I’ve flown for all that time.
I’m based right there at Harper’s Field and Six-Five-Six is mine.
I still saw Jim most weekends and we’d talk and hangar-fly,
And jaw about the weather as we watched the summer sky.

Until the day I saw him at his hangar, moving slow.
I gave him a wave, but he turned away and shuffled off to go.
The bounce was gone from Jimmy’s step and I stopped to look at him.
Then walked two down to his hangar door; called, “Hey, what ails you, Jim?”

“My medical’s been touch-and-go for years and now, you see,
I’m creaky and my eyesight just ain’t what it used to be.
The family doc says I could go again and try my luck,
But I’ll never make it by this time. It’s time to hang ‘em up.

“So I put the Cub in Trade-a-Plane and I got a call last week.
And the buyer’s A&P came by and said he’d take a peek.
And now we’ve done the haggling and it’s time to sell the Cub,
They’re coming in tomorrow and they’re going to pick her up.”

He saw the look that stole across my face and said, “It’s fine.
I’ve flown her nearly forty years and, man, I’ve had my time.
I’d give an arm and a leg or two for another summer’s flight
But it’s time for me to pass her on. I think it’s only right.”

I departed on the downwind and I dialed one-two-two-eight,
And listened to the traffic at Big Bear and Applegate.
I cruised around the countryside with nowhere planned to go,
Just listening to the engine and the traffic down below.

Now and then, I’d hear a voice I knew and key the mic,
And make a little small talk and ask about their flight,
But my heart just wasn’t in it, and soon enough I’d say:
“Jimmy Short has hung ‘em up. He’s going to sell the plane.”

Their thoughts were all the same as mine and somber grew the talk,
As word began to reach the general aviation flock.
I heard it on each CTAF and each rural UNICOM,
The sad refrain from plane to plane that “Jimmy’s moving on.”

And in the air that carried Jim in summers long gone by,
There grew a song of the mournful news that rose and filled the sky,
From two-two-eight to two-zero-five and up and down the dial,
Across the fields and lakes and on for mile on airy mile.

* * * * *

The morning dawned on Harper’s Field and the sky was clear and bright.
I was there to see the sunrise; only restless sleep that night.
For I couldn’t help but think of Jimmy Short as there I lay,
And figured I’d be near in case he needed me that day.

By nine o’clock, I’d finished cleaning my Tee for the second time,
And a Cessna 182 pulled to parking on the line.
Three men got out of the Cessna and walked to Jimmy’s Tee,
And the door rolled back and Jim stood there and waved to greet the three.

The all shook hands, then pulled the doors of the hangar open wide,
And then, a moment later, rolled Jimmy’s Cub outside.
One circled the Cub with a practiced eye ‘til his preflight was complete,
And, smiling, gave a nod to Jim; laid the papers on the seat.

Each of them in turn leaned in and signed, then passed the pen,
And stood aside to let the next in line lean in and sign again,
‘Til all was done. Jim shook their h